Mac drove away and the store was open for business, with the boys hanging about curiously, fingering the stock and getting into Bush’s way as he waited on customers. The big cool room was lined with shelves full of folded overalls and canned goods and coloured handkerchiefs and sheepskins and harness and cooking pots and candy. Three or four Navajos, who had been lounging on the doorstep when the store was first opened, now lounged on the hay-box and showed no signs either of buying or of going away. When other Indians came in they greeted them, then went on with the business of staring at the stock, or whittling little pieces of wood.
A short fat woman came in with a sack under her arm and two children dragging at her skirt. She plumped the burlap down on the counter and tugged at it until she had uncovered a blanket of a rough weave, which she displayed to Bush’s apathetic gaze. He picked up the blanket and looked at it, then put it on the scales and weighed it. After a moment’s figuring he named a price, and by her silence she seemed to assent. Blake, chewing cookies, watched her in fascination.
Bush wrote down on a small paper bag, $6.20. Blake read it upside down. The woman looked thoughtfully at the shelves and directed Bush, who put down on the counter a small bag of flour and wrote the price on the bag. After that she went into a deep silence, while the bystanders blinked at the flies and Bush contemplated his toes, chewing gum. She ordered a can of baking-powder and asked how much of the money was left. At the answer she pondered suspiciously, but did not argue. Then she bought ten cents’ worth of candy, asked the reckoning again, and left the store with her sack full of supplies, the children trotting at her heels. Bush wrote the transaction down in a big black book and started to rearrange the stock.
Another Navajo rode up on a horse, driving two other horses ahead of him. All three he tied to a post, where they shied at every wandering breeze and kept their noses raised, straining at the ropes. Dusty and cheerful, he strode in and ordered soda-pop and a box of crackers, slamming his money down proudly. He swallowed half the soda at one pull, with his eyes fixed on Blake. “Where you from?” he said.
“Santa Fé,” said Blake.
“Yo-to. Good roads?”
“Awful,” said Blake. “Terrible from here to Shiprock.”
The Indian shook his head. “No, good roads. I came over them yesterday.”
“Sure they’re good,” said Bush. “They’re all right, kid. You don’t know this country or you wouldn’t be complaining aboutthoseroads.”
“They have fine roads at Yo-to,” said the Indian. “I was at Yo-to. I was there seven years.”
“Where?” Teddy leaned across the counter.
“Yo-to. Santa Fé, that is. I was in the penitentiary for seven years.” He seemed very cheerful about it.
“What?” Blake said, in a gasp.
“Yes. I was pretty mad then, but not any more. It is all right now.”
He put down the empty soda bottle and bit into a cracker, chatting with his friends in Navajo.
“Why did he go to jail?” Teddy asked Bush.
“I dunno. It was before my time. Probably he helped burn a witch; they always get seven years for that. One of you boys can ride over with me to the well, if you want.”
Madden went, and Blake wandered around the house to the back porch, where he was unwillingly drawn into conversation with Mrs. Bush. He had felt awkward with her; she was so silent. But this morning she seemed more talkative. He sat down on the step and listened vaguely, feeling drowsy in the heat. He felt like brooding over the decoration he had found on the wall of his room; a piece of burnt-leather with a picture enameled on it of a ruddy desert mathematically arrayed beneath a setting sun, rays outstretched in all directions. Underneath was a verse burnt in big dancing letters, and he had memorized it:
Welcome to ArizonaWhere the beauteous cactus growsAnd what was once the desertNow is blooming like the rose.
Welcome to ArizonaWhere the beauteous cactus growsAnd what was once the desertNow is blooming like the rose.
Welcome to Arizona
Where the beauteous cactus grows
And what was once the desert
Now is blooming like the rose.
Teddy had been disgusted, horrified, and humourless about it, but there was something——
“There’s a lot of things we don’t understand in this world,” said Mrs. Bush, and moved the pan in her lap to a more level position to catch the potato-peelings. “I ain’t saying that the Mormons are always right, though. I’m not Mormon myself: Mr. Bush is. Anyway, I always think there must be some reason for it all.”
“I guess so,” said Blake.
“When I was young,” she continued, “I laughed at all that, myself. Junior’ll go through the same stage, most likely. But I’ve seen things.” She paused and selected another potato. “Mind you, it don’t prove anything. But it was queer. It was when I was a girl at home. Mamma and Dad and me had gone to a camp-meeting.”
“Camp-meeting?”
“Yes. Not here; I’m from the South originally. Arkansas. We drove over to the meeting-grounds in a wagon and afterwards, coming back, we slept out. It was my idea: I blame myself. It was low country and I should of known better. Mom and Dad were getting along: they were too old to act like that.
“Well, we got back home all right and then we was all sick. Malaria, I guess it was, or typhoid. I’ve always been as strong as a horse and in a little while I was up and around. But Dad didn’t pick up the way he ought to and they took him to hospital. We thought Mom was all right. She just slept all the time.” She shook her head and remained silent a moment.
“I didn’t worry about Mamma. I ought to of. But I didn’t know any better. We were all busy fretting over Dad. Then one night they said he was better and I gave Mom her medicine and went to bed. She told me she felt better too, on account of Dad. I went to bed. I don’t excuse myself. There must have been something I could of done.
“Anyway when I woke up it was early morning and Mom was breathing real loud. I called the doctor in a hurry and he came running and took one look and sent her to hospital. He told me not to worry. He said it was a little relapse. I said, ‘Yes, but what makes Mamma look so queer?’ What it was, she was dying, and I didn’t know.”
She looked at Blake with wet, horrified eyes, and he waited.
“I went back to bed—I’ll never forgive myself, but I wasn’t in my right senses yet. The fever kept coming back. I didn’t sleep very well, I-willsay that for myself. Even when I didn’t know how bad it was I was worried. I dreamed I was running up the steps of a big building, a funny sort of building I hadn’t ever noticed before, and it had big pillars along the front. All the time I was running—I remember it as plain as you are sitting here now——”
And a lot plainer, Blake thought.
“I kept thinking I must hold on to myself and try to expect something nice that was waiting for me in the building. I can’t quite say what it was like. As if I was fooling myself in my dream and knew it. I kept running and running and feeling worse.”
She picked up another potato, but held it in her hand without beginning to peel it.
“Then they woke me up and said it was morning and time to go to hospital. I went over and hurried right up to her room. And there——” she paused and stared at the henhouse. Then she started again. “There was her bed and the mark of somebody, but she wasn’t there. My legs just gave out. I yelled, I guess, and a nurse came andIsaid ‘Where is Mamma?’ and the nurse said, ‘Well, miss, we’re crowded so we sent her away.’ I said, ‘Where to?’ Even then I didn’t understand. She looked at me queer and said, ‘To the morgue.’
“That’s how I was told.... Well, I started out and I met my brother Tom, and he said, 'Are you all right, Silvy?’
“I said, ‘Yes, I’m all right.’
“He said—he’s the sweetest thing in the world, Tom is, if heismy brother and I oughtn’t to say it—‘You sure you can walk?’
“I said, ‘Yes, I can walk. Where’s the morgue?’
“So we went over there together, and when I saw it——”
“It was that building with the pillars?” asked Blake.
“The very one,” said Mrs. Bush. “And then Dad died too.”
She put her hands down among the potato peelings and thought about it for a minute.
“But it worries me, what she must think of me,” she said. “If I had only known she was dying. Dying, in front of my eyes, and me not doing anything about it. I wish she’d let me tell her. Lots of times I feel people I used to know around me, listening to me when I’m talking to them. The way you do in your head. But I never have that feeling about her. If she’d only let me tell her.”
Blake said, “Oh, she knows.”
“How doyouknow?” cried Mrs. Bush, savagely.
The screen-door slammed once, and Girt looked up hopefully, but decided it was a breeze. She should have known better, for there had been no breeze in Santa Fé for a week. But she was deep in the latest copy of “Screenland” and could spare time only for the paper bag of chocolates next to her.
The door slammed three times, and Teddy called out indignantly, “Anybody home?”
“Teddy!” she squealed joyfully, and jumped up. “I was just wondering when you’d come back. Come in and tell me about it. Where did you go and what happened? You’ve got a swell sunburn.”
He stepped inside and kissed her perfunctorily. “I want some lemonade,” he said. “Have you got any? If you haven’t I’m going down to the plaza, and I wish you’d tell Blake when he comes——”
“I can make some in a minute,” she said. “Sit down and cool off. How did you know I wasn’t out of town?”
“Passed by La Fonda and Margaret told me. Where are the cigarettes?”
“On the mantel,” she called from the kitchen, and began to chop ice vigorously. “Now tell me about the Navajo country. What happened?”
“Not much. Blake can tell you when he comes: I’m meeting him here. We got home late last night—Mrs. Saville-Sanders wanted to stop overnight in Albuquerque and they were having the Masonic Convention and all the hotels were full. You should have seen her!” He giggled. “She stood up and insisted on having rooms for all of us, and it didn’t do the slightest bit of good, naturally. So then she was crushed and wouldn’t speak for two hours on the way up, and we were all very tactful and didn’t say anything.” She could hear him roaming about the room, stopping here and there to pick things up and put them down again. When she came back with a pitcher and glasses, he was staring disgustedly at a small oil painting on the wall.
“Why do you keep that kind of stuff around?” he asked.
“It’s Flo, and she said it’s worth a lot of money. Here’s your lemonade.”
“Well, here’s to luck.”
“Is there any left for me?” Blake came in and sat down, panting from the heat. He held out his hand pleadingly for a glass.
“Did you like it?” Gin asked him. “The Reservation, I mean.”
“It was grand,” said Teddy. “We took a private jaunt into the country and learned how to trade. We made plans to take out a license and start a post of our own. Oh, but the really important plan....”
“Look here,” Blake interrupted, “you’renotgoing around talking about that, are you?”
“Gin’s safe,” Teddy argued.
“She’s not. Nobody’s safe. Are you trying to ruin it? We promised we weren’t going to speak of it at all, to anyone. He’s been in town four hours,” he added despairingly to Gin, “and everybody has heard all about it!”
“No, they haven’t. I swear they haven’t, Blake,” Teddy said. “Don’t get all worked up. I just thought she’d be interested: she’s perfectly safe, honestly.”
“Go on, Blake,” said Gin. “I won’t tell. I never tell anything.”
Sulkily, he answered, “Well, it isn’t very much. We’re running away.”
She had a sudden pang of fear. “Running away? Where? When?”
“We’re not sure about anything: it’s all very nebulous,” Teddy explained. “That’s why we’re not telling. It will probably be after Fiesta, just before Blake has to go back to school. We’re aiming for Mexico, and of course Mrs. Lennard mustn’t have any idea of it. You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Certainly I will. But....” She hesitated, her mind struggling against despair. “You make me sick. What’ll I do without you?”
“Come along,” Teddy said easily. “The more the merrier.”
“Madden!” Blake was outraged again. “You don’t really take it seriously at all. I don’t think you mean to come.”
She leaned forward eagerly. “But why can’t I come? I’d be useful, really I would. I’d do the cooking for you. I’ll try to save up something before we start. Please! Honest, Blake, I’m serious. I am. Couldn’t I come? Would it really spoil it all if I came?”
“It’s all right withme,” said Teddy. “Why not, Blake?”
“Because....”
“Oh, you don’t want me,” she cried. “Youareafraid I’ll spoil it. Let me come. If it looks as if I’ll spoil it, I’ll take the next train back. But let me try.Please. If you don’t, I’ll get up another expedition by myself, and I’ll probably be killed. Go on, Blake. Say yes.”
“Oh,” he said, relenting, “I guess it doesn’t make much difference if we keep it down to three. You’re not joking?” He searched her face seriously, and she tried to look as intense as possible. “All right,” he decided, “we’ll all go. But remember if anyone hears about it it’s all off.”
“I promise faithfully,” she said.
Teddy stood up and reached for his racket. “It’s time we’re shoving off. Coming along, Gin? You can watch us play.”
“Not this trip. Don’t you want another round of lemonade to pledge the business?”
“I’m full up,” Blake said, and Teddy added, “Better not; we’ll splash when we play. Never mind.”
“Well then, we’ll just shake on it.”
They clasped hands and she watched them from the side windows as they drove away. After they were out of sight she stood there, staring at a most uninteresting house across the street and thinking so deeply that she didn’t hear Flo come in. “What on earth are you looking at?” Flo said in her ear, and she jumped.
“Are you here already? It must be late.”
“No, I’m early. Oh, goody. Lemonade! You’re an angel. Did anyone call me?”
“Call? Well, let’s see if I can remember....”
“You imbecile,” Flo said pleasantly. “Did Russell call?”
“Oh, Russell. Of course he did, constantly, all the time, perpetually.Iwish you’d tell him to phone the office instead. I get all excited when the phone rings, and it’s always Russell for you.”
“Why not?” Flo went over to the mirror and started to comb her hair. “Don’t you like him?”
“Oh, he’s all right, I guess. Are you going to marry him?”
“I don’t know. What do you think about it?” She sat down on the couch and put her arms around her knees. “I guess I could if I tried. He’s doing pretty well at the office. What do you think?”
Gin said promptly, “Oh, marry him. You said you wanted to be married. I don’t know why, but you said so.”
“All right. I’ll marry him.” Flo laughed suddenly and picked up the phone. “I’ll tell him now.” Just then it rang, and she picked up the receiver. “Hello. Just a minute, I’ll see.” Covering the transmitter with her hand, she whispered to Gin, “It’s for you; it sounds like Harvey. What’ll I say?”
“Let me talk to him.... Hello!”
“Hello, Gin. Say, listen....”
“How are you, Harvey?”
“I’m all right. Listen, can’t we talk this thing over? I miss you a lot. Let’s have dinner tonight.”
Suddenly, happily indifferent to all quarrels that had any connection with Santa Fé, she answered, “All right. Come along at six-thirty.”
“Well,” Flo cried, “When did all this happen?”
“Just now.” She handed the phone over. “Now call your Russell.” She went into the kitchen and started to clean up, throwing away the lemon-peels. She sang loudly and happily, until her roommate called through the door in protest.
“Sing me a song of a lad that is gone:Say, could that lad be I?...”
“Sing me a song of a lad that is gone:Say, could that lad be I?...”
“Sing me a song of a lad that is gone:
Say, could that lad be I?...”
On a sudden impulse, she shouted to Flo, “When you get married would you want this apartment?”
“Me? I’m not really getting married. Did you take me seriously?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d like to keep it.” She emptied a plate into the garbage pail, clattering it cheerfully.
“Russell can’t get married yet anyway: he hasn’t enough money. Why do you ask? Are you thinking of moving anywhere?”
“Not at all,” Gin said, and threw the dish-towel against its hook on the wall. “Not in theleast.”
The car couldn’t quite make the hill. Blake shifted gears carelessly, so that they made a terrifying noise and his teeth hurt. Then he settled down again behind the wheel and resumed his gloomy thoughts. The little twists and turns in the road had become second nature to him and nothing interfered with his meditations. He was occupied with a premature regret for a beautiful day which was really just started. For him it was over. He had hurried with his breakfast, very cheerful and making plans in his mind to go right down to the plaza afterwards and see what was going on in town. Probably there would be nothing, but at least he could spend a pleasant morning talking to someone, lounging in front of the Capitol Drug Store and having a Coca-Cola now and then. Besides, who knows? Someone new and exciting might happen along.
Then Mary spoiled it all. He could not blame her as much as he wished, for after all it was simply another morning and she would have been sure to act the same way some other day if she had postponed it this time. It was just one of those conversations. And yet once again he was overwhelmed with that sense of the world outside of him, expecting him to rise up and act in some preposterous worthwhile manner. The world of the adult was perilously close. He hated to be reminded of it.
“Blake darling,” she had said, “are you doing anything this morning?” Harmless enough as far as it went. He answered without suspecting anything.
“Nothing special. Can I help you?”
“If you would. I haven’t anyone to send up to Sunmount with some flowers I promised to Mrs. Meriwether, because Paul is busy over at the garage overhauling the Packard, and I’ll need it this afternoon. I did promise Mrs. Meriwether, and the poor thing’s so ill. Could youpossibly——”
“Certainly. I’ll take them over now, if you like.” He stood up and pushed back his chair.
“Wait a minute, dear. It isn’t so important that it can’t wait a little. I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”
He hesitated, badly frightened at her tone. Something was going to happen; something unpleasant.
“It’s about school.”
He sat down again slowly and hopelessly. “I knew it,” he said. “What about it?”
“Well.... Here’s a letter from the people in California. They’re willing to take you for the next year; isn’t that nice?”
“No, it isn’t.” He mused bitterly and added, “How do you know they’re willing? They haven’t even seen me.”
“Well, I pointed out to them that there wasn’t much time for preparation. I explained about your last school——”
“Did you have to?” he asked quickly.
“Yes, darling. I was very fair to you, I think. I said that I understood that they had a modern viewpoint, and I said I was sure they’d agree that the preliminary meeting was a formality that wasn’t really important. I must say that they sound extremely reasonable. They seem to agree to everything I say. In fact, I’m sure it will turn out very well.”
He tried to answer her, but at his expression she laughed. “Oh, darling, don’t look so miserable! What a baby you are!”
“Listen,” he said desperately. “I’ve been talking about this place to Phyllis and she says it’s terrible.”
“Does she? I’m surprised at Phyllis. Her mother said that she was very happy there.”
“She doesn’t know how terrible it is: she’s too dumb. But I could tell from what she said. She says they understand the kids.” He spoke in deep loathing.
“Well? Why do you object to that?”
“Oh, what’s the use?” he cried.
“Blake! What do you propose to do with yourself if you don’t go to school? You can’t go on like this.”
“Why not?” he asked, without any real hope.
“Besides, when you grow up you won’t be satisfied with yourself. You’re just a baby, really. I know you don’t think of yourself that way, but you are. An ignorant little child. I can’t let you grow up without learning any more, can I? How will you ever get into college?”
He answered quickly, “But I keep telling you, I don’t want to go to college. I won’t go.”
“You’ll change your mind when the time comes,” she said benevolently.
He drew pictures on the tablecloth with a fork, and tried hard to think of what he could say. He would feel his way.
“Listen. Why can’t I go away somewhere and have a private education? Lots of people send their sons abroad with tutors. Couldn’t you do that? Why can’t I go to a foreign country and study languages? If I studied a language I would be learning something. Let me go to Europe or China or——”
“That wouldn’t be possible. Not at your age.”
“What has my age got to do with it?”
“Darling, I couldn’t think of letting you go away alone.”
“But if someone should go with me?”
She stood up and gathered her letters. “Let’s not argue, dear.Iwouldn’t think of it. You’re too young to be that far away from your family; the Ashton boy got into a lot of trouble in Paris and I don’t want to see it happen to you. You won’t understand: I can’t expect you to understand, but you must take my word for it. Hadn’t you better get the flowers and go to the sanatorium?”
Now as he left the car in the shade of a cottonwood he reflected that it was a good thing he hadn’t told her about Mexico. He had almost said something about it, but she had interrupted. At any rate—he rang the bell at the white stuccoed gate—one thing was certain: he would run away in spite of any objection that Teddy might raise at the last minute. He trusted Teddy to come along if it should get too hot for them in town, but he would need a little managing to crash through promptly. Teddy or no Teddy, however, he must get out of all this or before he knew it he would be on the train with all his text-books packed into the baggage-car. He thought of the new school. A horrible place most likely, with the walls as white as the gate here, whitewashed and lined with dreadful grinning scientific instructors, all understanding him. Understanding him! That was the limit.
He held out the flowers to the assistant and gave the name of his mother’s friend.
“She’s a little better,” the assistant said. “You may see her if you care to.”
“No thanks. I—I’m too busy.” He hurried out again and climbed into the car. The place always made him nervous, and he could not even remember which of his mother’s sick friends was Mrs. Meriwether. He could not face the idea of following a nurse down the corridor to find out. He was afraid of the place; all the quiet little white rooms with windows opening on the green patio. He had spent many hours here and there, sitting on little straight-backed chairs while his mother visited people. Which was Mrs. Meriwether? There was one woman who was thinner every time they came: she always wore pink or blue voile bed-jackets and her hands were skinny and very clean, with shining red fingernails. She kept talking about her fingernails and her lotions and the doctors who were in love with her. Some of the patients were in love with her too, she said. Mary was always very gentle about her afterwards, and never said much on the way home.
Perhaps that was Mrs. Meriwether, or perhaps she was the other one, the jolly one with red hair whose room always smelled sickeningly of ether.
He looked around and found that he had driven all the way down town, and he hadn’t intended to take the car down. He started around the plaza, meaning to go back. As he passed the Cathedral he heard an unfamiliar voice calling; it sounded like his name. There it was again—“Blake! Blake!”
He stopped suddenly and the Oklahoma Ford that had been plodding along behind him turned out so sharply that the fenders kissed and made a ringing noise.
“Damn fool!” called the driver from Oklahoma. Blake looked after him nervously and then turned to see who had called. There was a line of cars parked at the kerb, but he could see no one. Exasperated, he backed and looked closely.
“Blake! Here! It was me.” A girl leaned from one of the autos, waving at him. He brought the car up next to hers, but could not recognize her. It was very confusing because she undoubtedly knew him very well.
He tried to hide his hesitation. “Oh, hello,” he said feebly. “I couldn’t see you. How have you been?”
“I’m fine. Where were you going in such a hurry?”
She must know him, but who was she?
“Nowhere. Nowhere special. Would you like to come for a ride?” It was a long shot, but there seemed to be nothing else to do.
She obviously wanted to, but——
“Do you think I’d better?” She glanced over her shoulder at the church. “I’m waiting for my mother and father. They are at mass. I didn’t want to go in and they told me to wait for them.”
“I’m sorry.” He stepped on the starter, but she said quickly,
“Just a minute. I think it will be all right, just a little ride. You will get me back soon?” Without waiting for an answer she climbed over the side of the battered door and stepped into his car next to him. This activity exposed a good deal of black cotton stocking(wherehad he known her?) and she giggled and jerked her skirt down.
“I don’t know if we can go very far,” he said doubtfully. “How long will they be in there? Where should we drive?”
“Let’s go out to the Albuquerque road. I must be back in ten minutes. It is safer there, because no one will see us.”
“Why shouldn’t they see us?” he asked wonderingly.
She laughed excitedly and glanced at him with black eyes that looked like kitten’s. Where on earth could they have known each other? There was certainly something about her that seemed familiar, but who was she? Had she ever been at the house? Perhaps she had, but if so when? And yet he had a memory that her name was Maria. Certainly, that much he knew—Maria.
“I have not seen you for a long time,” she told him. “I think it has been a month.”
This was even more mystifying. He answered, “I know, I’ve been busy.”
“So have we,” she said. “We have been very busy because Mr. Lyons has started a beautiful big picture. I work very hard with him.”
Suddenly he knew. She was the little girl who posed for Tommy Lyons when he did his Mexican murals. Maria Martinez: Mrs. Lyons was very fond of her and treated her like a daughter. He’d been up at Lyons’ one day with Mary, trying to prevent her buying a picture from Tommy, and Maria had been posing with a jar on her shoulder. That was all. He was glad that he knew, though.
“How is Teddy?” she was asking. “I never see him any more. I ask Revelita why he is never at home, but she says nothing about him. I cannot make her talk.”
“Revelita? Who is that?”
“She works for Meester Stuart. You know—Revelita. Teddy was much in love with her.”
“No, he wasn’t,” said Blake angrily. “You’re crazy.”
Maria stuck her nose up in the air. “You ask him,” she said. “Ask him about Revelita and see how he looks.”
Slightly worried, Blake did not argue with her. He had an instinct about it: if he stopped talking about it perhaps he could forget. Maria waited for more conversation, and when it was not forthcoming she changed the subject.
“I see you with Teddy all the time. Every afternoon, nearly, you pass the window when you go to play tennis. I am working every day now in the afternoon. Mr. Lyons is very nice, I think. Mrs. Lyons too, she is a nice lady. She says she will find work for me with the other artists when it is time for them to go away in the fall.”
“That would be fine,” Blake said absently. Teddy had never even mentioned Revelita.
“But my mother will not let me. Mr. Lyons she says is all right for me to work for, but all the other artists are too young, she says. My mother is very particular.”
She paused sadly, and he said, “That’s too bad. That’s a shame.”
“Yes, it is,” she sighed. “I must go back to the convent in the fall, she says.”
“You too? That’s a shame.”
“It is silly. My mother thinks that the artists might want me to take off my clothes. She has read about it. I do not want to go back to school.”
“I know,” he said eagerly. “I know just how you feel.”
“I could make so much money by my posing. It is not everyone who can pose. Mrs. Lyons says so. She says I am a good type. What does she mean by that? Does she mean that I am pretty? Blake, you are not listening.”
“I am too,” he protested. “She means you’re strange-looking: your eyes are strange.”
“Oh, no! You mean—” her voice was hurt “you mean I am ugly. I know!”
“No, no. You’re pretty.” He blurted it out, then blushed.
“Oh. Well, my mother thinks that artists are bad and always make love to models. It is not true. Mr. Lyons does not make love to me.”
“Of course he doesn’t. People don’t make love.” He hit the railroad tracks with a great bump, and slowed down. “I say, hasn’t it been ten minutes?” he asked, uneasily. He hoped that he could go back.
“Not yet surely. Are you afraid? It is nothing to you, is it? Must you go home?”
“No, no.” He speeded up again. It didn’t matter: he couldn’t ask Teddy about it anyway. There must be some mistake. Revelita? No. It was a mistake.
“I think,” she said, “that you tell all the girls that you meet that they are pretty. Do you?”
“Me? Of course not.”
“I think you do,” she said. “I think we are driving too far. Let’s stop for a minute and then go back.”
“We ought to go back now,” he said.
“In a minute. I want to smoke.”
“I haven’t any cigarettes,” he said. “I don’t smoke, I’m afraid.”
“You are a very nice little boy,” said Maria.
“Little? I’m older than you are.”
“I think not. I am fifteen.”
“I am sixteen,” he said loftily. “I think it is time.”
“What do you do all day in Santa Fé?” she asked. “Do you play tennis?”
“Most of the time, or ride. This is vacation. What else would I do?”
She sighed and looked at the mountains. “It must be so nice, playing tennis. Don’t you have a girl? My brother has a girl. He told me. He comes home so late at night that my father is always angry with him. It is not fair. I must go to bed every night at ten. Sometimes I think it is even better at the convent.”
“Are they very strict with you there?” asked Blake.
Her exclamation was an indrawn breath. “It is terrible. It is a prison.”
“That must be awful.”
“It is terrible. My mother says that they must not know that I pose for artists. I do not think it is bad, but she says they will think that the artists always make love. That is silly: my father would kill anyone who makes love to me. He says so. He would——”
Suddenly, with no warning at all, she threw her arms around his neck fervently and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
Blake did not move noticeably, but his blood froze and his muscles stiffened. He was petrified with shock. His mind registered a vague scent of hair, black and rather oily. It tickled his cheek. He waited for a long time, hoping that she would release him, but she did not even relax. At last, his resistance broken by waiting, he shifted a little and put an arm around her tentatively. He stopped again and waited to see what it felt like. There was no change in his emotions: he simply noticed that she felt very thin. What could he do? What should he do? He thought of someone coming around the corner, and he grew more and more afraid.
“Oh, Blake,” said Maria at last in a high voice, “we are being bad.” She lifted her head and he thought that her face looked very odd at close view. She was waiting for something. Oh, yes. He struggled with the conviction that she was waiting for him to kiss her. Would she let go? He kissed her with a sudden little peck at her lips, and she let go.
“You’re going to be awfully late,” he said.
“Yes, we must go.”
He turned the car and started back, going as fast as he dared. He was shaking, and so flustered that he almost ran into a tree. He wanted to get home. He wanted to put her out as soon as possible and get home. Was this what she meant about Revelita? Now he couldn’t possibly ask Madden anything about it: some day, perhaps——
“You’re not very fast, are you?” she asked him, breaking the silence for the first time.
“Well, I could go faster, but I’m afraid of the traffic cop,” he explained.
“That is not what I mean.”
A sudden scream rang out from the sidewalk, and Maria clutched his arm. He pulled on the brake and looked over.
“Maria!” someone was yelling, very stridently. There was a large crowd on the pavement, made of children and a woman. No, there was a little man too, standing behind the woman and pulling feebly at her dress. She was making all the noise, and oddly enough she seemed to be angry at him, at Blake. He blinked and looked at her again.
As he stared, terrified, she came over to the car and jerked Maria out by the arm. She shrieked at him in Spanish, then translated in a louder tone than ever.
“But Mamma....” said Maria, and was forced to stop while Mamma screamed. “Mamma,” she wailed at last, “it was all right! It was all right! It was all right!”
The little man approached and tried again to soothe Mamma. She swept him aside and cried to Blake,
“You have taken my little girl riding! She is only fifteen! I will tell the police. I will have you put in jail. I will——”
“It was all right, Mamma. I tell you we were gone only ten minutes. It was all right.”
Maria turned to Blake and added softly, “Go away, quick!”
“Her father will kill you,” said Mamma loudly. “He will kill you.” She turned and seized the little man by the arm.
Maria stamped her heel in the dust. “Goaway,” she repeated.
Blake went.
The unexpected boon of a full afternoon holiday during Fiesta left Gin somewhat embarrassed. She had nothing to do. The afternoon could have been spent sleeping, for she had had little sleep the night before, what with dancing in the streets around a bonfire; but she was too excited to feel sleepy. Time for sleep when Santa Fé had stopped playing and the town had taken off its costume and gaiety; plenty of time for sleep when the carpenters would begin to tear down the platform in the corner of the plaza, and the crepe paper ribbons would hang stretched and faded from the trees. Now the platform was gay with flags and strewn with confetti; last night had been a tango contest before the bonfire-dance, and they were to use it again today for impromptu theatricals—Spanish songs and Indian dances. All the shops were closed today; all the little shopgirls, dressed in skimpy shawls and old family combs, filled the streets to watch the parade. It was Pasatiempo, the day of the Pageant.
Gin strolled through the streets where she could and paused where she must. She watched the parade of the Conquerors; tried to listen to the oration but had to give it up because of inadequate Spanish, and looked on for a long time at the burlesque polo game that the young bloods were playing with burros, spurring the unhappy little beasts towards a huge striped beach ball and catching themselves up on the long mallets. Afterwards she wandered towards the apartment, half planning to bring out her own cherished shawl before the evening, when it was to be worn at the Ball. She thought somewhat of dressing up now, to vie with the others; she wanted to paint her lips and walk around the plaza, round and round, while the boys walked the other way and picked out their maidens for the evening. But she knew that she was tired of standing and weary of the plaza. She would go riding alone and look down at Santa Fé from a mountain top.
She telephoned the stable. Tom was there, but, as he explained, he was leaving to join the celebration.
“I didn’t count on no trade today,” he explained. “I’m meeting a boy down at the Capitol, but I’ll tell you what we can do. I’ll leave your saddle in the hay-box in case you come around here: if not there’ll be no harm done. You catch yourself a horse. Take oats to ’em—Blanco or the paint will come a-running for oats. Don’t let the fence down; just pick your pony.”
“Thanks, Tom,” she said. “I’ll be along.”
She changed quickly and walked over to the stable, avoiding the plaza with its crowd. Blanco fell for the oats: she led him out and tied him up while she went for the saddle. It was heavy: she had to rest twice while she carried it back to him. She slung the saddle over his back, cinched it up and then cinched it tighter as he let his breath out, and adjusted the bridle. The street had a more than Sunday quiet as she rode out toward Sunmount: everyone was downtown playing.
Following the trail up Ferdinand, she raced with the shadow of a cloud. There was a long smooth stretch that led up imperceptibly: she ran in the shadow until Blanco looked warm, then she took it easy for a while. The trail grew steeper and led through trees. She stopped to breathe the horse, turning him and looking back. Already they were far up and Santa Fé had begun to mark itself out in squares. She saw autos and trucks hurrying towards the centre of town to be lost among the higher buildings. Under the sun her face felt warm and salty; it was nice to be up here alone.
She pulled the rein: Blanco ducked obediently and started to climb again, stepping carefully in the loose rock. She stopped at intervals that grew shorter as Blanco breathed louder: the horse smell increased and so did the balsam scent. She let the reins fall slack, twisted around the horn of the saddle, while she tied her necktie around her hair to keep it from falling down. The air grew more clear and Blanco’s footsteps sounded doggedly musical. It was lovely.
At the really steep part of the ascent she paused and looked at her watch. It was too late to go on: already she had been out an hour and the sun was starting to fall. She knew that sun and how it gained momentum. She dismounted and lay down on the grass, holding Blanco’s bridle and looking up at the sky. Long ago the cloud she had raced had won and gone sailing away, but there were more. Their shadows crossed her face and went on. Behind them the sky was a deep blue that had lost its noon ferocity and mellowed. She stirred and rolled her head farther back until Blanco’s head appeared grotesquely in the way, calm and cowlike as he munched grass. A dribble of green froth barely missed her head. She rolled away.
“You pig.”
Blanco stamped and leaned down for another mouthful, nosing her shoulder out of his way.
“You’re a darling,” she said idly and comfortably. “Aren’t you an old darling?” He blinked a huge eye and went on chewing.
“We’ve got to go. Do you know that?” she asked. She stood up and looked down at the valley for a moment. It was streaked with yellow; patches of yellow flowers that were much more glaring now in the slanting light, unbleached. The sun was deepening to orange: Santa Fé was almost too small to be noticed except as part of a great scheme of colour. A breeze stirred the pine-branches and lifted her hair-ribbon. It smelled almost salty, as if those misty stretches beyond Jemez were indeed the sea.
“Oh, it’s lovely.” She threw her arms around Blanco’s neck: he was nearer than any tree, and as unprotesting. She slapped him on the flank, climbed up, and dug him in the ribs to start him down the slope, jouncing uncomfortably.
It was quite dark when she trotted into the stable yard. The streets were quiet and lifeless. She tied up the horse and unsaddled him, then turned him into the corral, where he shook himself and walked over to the other side with a dignified, heavy gait. There was a light in the living-room, so she stepped up to the screen door and peered in. Tom was sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up when she knocked. Somewhat mystified, she called him and he raised his head.
“Come in,” he said, as if he did not recognize her.
It was very queer. Her clear sense of health and content evaporated. She stepped in and glanced around, at the bottle on the table and the glass on the floor next to his feet. Usually when Tom drank he grew jovial. Was he sick?
“Have a drink?” he said, dutifully.
“Not now, thanks. Not just before dinner.” Unbidden, she sat down in a hide chair and watched him curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well?”
“Me? I’m all right.” He leaned over and took the bottle by the neck. “I’m all right. I just got some private news, bad news, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help?”
He shook his head. “Somebody’s dead.”
“Why? Do I know them?”
“No.” Holding the glass near the floor, he poured out most of the contents of the bottle. “He was long before your time, Betty.”
“It’s not Betty,” she said. “It’s Gin.”
“Gin? I beg your pardon. I surely beg your pardon.” He added in a dull tone, “Ginny, Wally’s dead.”
“What?” Her hand went up to her mouth. “Wally? Wally’s dead? You’re kidding me.” He drooped his head again and she jumped up and shook his arm. “Tom! Please answer me. Did you say that Wally was dead?”
“Sure he’s dead.” He looked at her with red-shot eyes. “He was shot. Them damned Indians in Mexico must a done it. Down at the border: he was missing a couple of days and his horse came home without the saddle. They went out looking and found a Yaqui with his outfit—saddle and gun and all. They couldn’t get anything out of him. He claimed he bought it. Wally’s dead all right, and buried.”
“God.” Her eyes filled with tears, mechanical reactions. Inside her head she did not feel ready for tears. She was only shocked and stunned; she was inadequate. “I can’t believe it,” she said truthfully. “He can’t be dead. Why, I knew him!”
“Why not? He had a good outfit and he was American.” He slumped down to the cot again and sat in an attitude of maudlin grief, almost theatrical. “Three weeks ago, I gave him hell for leaving Pinto tied by a rope in his mouth. He was always forgetful. I said I’d skin him alive if he did it again while I was anywheres around. Now he’s dead and buried.”
Gin stood motionless, seeing Wally outlined in clay like the prehistoric skeletons at the Museum. Fragments of coffin strewed the ground around him and he lay stiff, with one arm above his head and his sunken eyes closed and withered. She thought of his arms again. They were huge arms that had often caught her as she jumped off her horse, they smelled of horses and perspiration, and he was fond of a certain checked shirt that he often wore. It was that same shirt that he was wearing now, buried in the clay. No, he would not be wearing his shirt. The checked shirt was in a Yaqui’s bundle now, flung into the corner of a hut in Mexico, with a bloody hole in it. Wally was naked and dead and buried. Buried.
Tom had slipped down to the table; his head, clutched in his arms, was sideways on the table and his eyes were closed. Asleep? She poured a drink out for herself and swallowed it. She patted his head.
“You go to sleep,” she said. “I’m going home.”
It was only after she had walked three blocks that she began to know Wally was dead; dead as everyone was dead that she read about in the newspapers. It was not a new thing, after all. Wally was dead and Mother was dead and Billy the Kid was dead. All of them, all dead and buried. The weight of horror lifted a little and she began to think that she would miss Wally. She could cry in earnest.
She reached the apartment: the door was locked and she had forgotten the key. Sobbing with increasing vigour, she lifted the screen from the front window, raised the sash, and climbed in. She found the sofa in the dark and lay down.
Outside in the street an automobile passed, swishing by the wall. Someone was carrying a Victrola in it and playing a record. She remembered the Ball tonight and sat up, with her head throbbing. What time was it? Had Harvey called before she got home? No, it couldn’t be that late. She leaped up and turned on the light. Eight o’clock, and the room was in a mess of cigarette stubs and clothes flung over all the chairs. Flo must have put on her costume in a hurry.
The ’phone suddenly began to ring, and she picked it up.
“Gin?” It was Harvey. “I’ve been calling for hours: they said at the office you were in town all afternoon. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, I went riding.”
“Well, gosh, I thought you’d run out on me. Are you ready?”
“Listen, Harvey, I can’t go.” She paused, then repeated, “I can’t.”
“What? Why not? Are you sick? You sound sick. What——”
“No, but something terrible has happened.”
“What is it?”
“Wally’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Wally, down at the stable.”
“Oh, that’s a darned shame. That’s too bad. What killed him?”
“The Indians.”
“What?Come off!”
“No, the Mexican Indians. Yaquis or something. They shot him for his horse and saddle, and he’s dead.”
“That’s certainly a darned shame. I don’t think I ever knew him, but——Well, why can’t you come out tonight, anyway?”
“Why, Harvey. I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t go.”
“No, I don’t see.” He sounded very irritated. “You mean because this cowboy is dead? What’s that got to do with you? Were you crazy about this bird?”
“No, but....” she hesitated. It was hard to express. “Don’t you see, he’s dead and buried and all that. I can’t go on a party. I knew him. I used to go riding with him, and now he’s——”
“Say,” he said flatly, “I don’t see that at all. You’re just worked up over nothing. You’re alone down there, aren’t you?”
“Ye-es.” Her voice was uncertain.
“Now I tell you what you’d better do. You wash your face and get ready and I’ll be right down, as soon as I get dressed. I’ve got to shave. Is there anything to drink down there?”
“I don’t know.” She spoke humbly. She was beginning to feel very foolish and useless.
“Well, you fix a drink and take it. That’ll help you. You’ve just got the blues, that’s all. It’s a shame he’s dead, but you better take a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He was very comforting, but she wished that he hadn’t called just then. She looked dolefully into the bathroom mirror, at her swollen streaked face. Why did she always have to act so dramatic? She rubbed cold cream into her cheeks and felt the tank. There was enough hot water for a bath.
Harvey came before she was ready and she shouted through the door that he must come in and wait. When she came out, wrapped in a bathrobe, he was standing at the window with his pipe in his mouth, looking masculine.
“I’m sorry I was so cuckoo,” she murmured, sincerely.
“That’s all right. I brought something over.” He waved towards the couch, on which there were parcels—sandwiches and candy and a bunch of red roses.
“Oh, Harvey: you’re a darling. I’ve been so nasty to you.”
She made him eat some chocolate and put a rose in his buttonhole. He was not in costume, except that he had wrapped a red sash around his waist.
“Now you make me feel that I’d better not get dressed up,” she said. “We’d look funny all different.”
“No, you go ahead. These affairs are given for the girls anyway. Go on: I’ll wait.”
She dressed in the kitchen—bouffant black skirt and purple fringed shawl, with a high comb and a mantilla. He was pleased with her when she came out.
“You look swell,” he said. “Regular Señorita. Give us a kiss.”
She held up her face.
“That’s the kid,” he said. “Not sore at me any more?”
“No, You’ve been awfully sweet.”
They drove over to the theatre and although it was half an hour late, nothing had started. A crowd of costumed people were in the lobby. Gin paused at the door and looked around for Flo. She was over in the corner with Russell and a party of friends.
“Wait a minute,” she told Harvey. “I’ve got to talk to Flo.”
Holding her roses carefully, she wedged a way through the crowd to Russell and plucked at her roommate’s arm.
Russell turned and greeted her. “Golly, who’s your beau?” he asked. “Flo, look at the flowers.”
Gin pulled Flo off a little way. “I’ve been dying to find you,” she said. What was it she had to tell? Then she remembered Wally. Even now, soon as it was after the catastrophe, she was shamedly conscious of a sort of pleasant anticipation, the prospect of causing a sensation with her news, the expression that she could foresee on Flo’s brightly interested face.
“I heard about something this afternoon,” she went on. Again she was swamped by the calamity and carried out of herself. The truth of it hit her again, as it had on the road home.
Dead and buried. She pictured to herself his closed eyes and the clay.
She stopped smiling. The corners of her mouth dulled and her eyes grew wide.
“You know Wally....”