by Gwen Moffat
The speedometer said she was doing fifty and yet she had little sensation of movement unless she glanced at the vegetation streaming past. She found that comforting, an indication that time existed and her world had limits, that she did not stand still in space. But she watched the verge for too long and found herself bumping between tar and sand. She pulled out and dropped her speed, her spine wet with perspiration against the back of the seat.
The two specks drew level and separated again. The first resolved itself into a car, the second an enormous juggernaut pulling two containers on wheels. The drivers lifted their hands to her. She rocked in the slipstream of the juggernaut.
The sun was now half-left, clear of the visor and blinding her. She stopped on the tar, turned off the ignition and climbed out into the brilliant silent world. The wind had dropped and not even a twig moved. No animal stirred in the vast wilderness, no bird called. Then she heard a faint familiar sound and saw a vapour trail pushing across the roof of the sky. She opened the boot and retrieved a faded denim hat from her rucksack. ‘A lot of good you’ll be,’ she said wryly and looked round, frightened by the sound of her own voice.
She continued, the inadequate hat-brim pulled over one eye. She climbed to another pass, crossing mountains which, said the map, were the Superstition Range. She registered, without surprise, the next desert, thought grimly that a fourth dimension could be like this—wandering forever across interminable plains—then she stiffened. In the middle of this one was an irregular smudge with pale crumbs about it.
Half an hour passed and the smudge retained its nebulous quality until she reached some arbitrary point when she was suddenly aware that she could distinguish the shapes of trees, that the crumbs had assumed regular angles and pastel shades.
The first buildings were widely scattered: small square cabins of what looked like concrete, with flat roofs; one door and one window to each. A few had stove pipes protruding from the roofs but there were no power poles and not a sign of water. Half were shuttered, some had sagging doors and broken windows, a few were ugly ruins, one had been gutted by fire. All looked abandoned. A tattered curtain drooped to the ground, shards of glass glinted wickedly; there were stained mattresses, bottles, plastic caught on bushes. Miss Pink sighed and drifted into Molten. What had Seale been thinking of, to send her here?
It was indeed a wide place in the road. The tarmac was of regulation width but the houses were set at the back of twenty yards of verge. The screens of doors and windows were tightly closed and the only trees stood at the far end of the street. One small building had a brilliant red and black sign in the window: yes, we’re open. Painted in fading letters on the false front was the legend ‘Vi’s Souveneers. Crafts. Rocks.’ A battered car stood outside.
Farther along, a plastic sign read Motel and there was a low L-shaped building round a dusty court with a lean yellow dog asleep in the shade of an overflowing skip.
At the end of the street a barn-like construction was half store, half garage, and behind it stood a neat bungalow shaded by the solitary clump of trees. At this point the highway curved north but a track took off westward into the desert. Miss Pink stopped, climbed out and approached the open front of the garage. Inside, a man was working on a car. He straightened and turned to her: a tall fellow with a black beard and warm eyes. He was well-built but carried no spare flesh.
‘Help you, ma’am?’
‘Can you tell me what the road to Sweetwater is like?’
He studied her for a moment. ‘It’s rough. Take it easy. Do they know you’re coming?’ It was an odd question and she wondered if he were smiling under the beard but the eyes weren’t amused.
‘They know.’
‘So you shouldn’t have any trouble. What kind of car do you have?’ He was moving to the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. Miss Pink regarded him covertly and wondered what such a fine figure of a man was doing in a place which appeared to be dying on its feet. He looked at her Toyota and now he was definitely amused.
‘You got trouble already.’
One of her rear wheels was resting on its rim. Her shoulders slumped. She was tired and hot.
‘I can’t do it tonight,’ he went on. ‘I’m working on my own car and my wife’s in a hurry to get to town. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’
Miss Pink accepted the inevitable and said in that case she must spend the night at Molten.
‘Well now, ma’am, there’s nowhere for you to stay.’
‘I passed a motel.’
‘I—think she’s closed.’
A thickset woman came round the corner of the building. She had a heavy jaw and brooding eyes, and she wore a shiny blue dress. She nodded to Miss Pink and looked at the man expectantly, then at the flat tyre. She frowned.
‘It’s six o’clock.’
‘I’m about ready. This lady’s going to Sweetwater. Where will she stay the night?’
The woman inhaled deeply. ‘At the motel.’ She made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice. ‘I’m ready and waiting,’ she told him and walked away painfully in her tight town shoes. Miss Pink moved to her car and he followed.
‘Can I carry anything for you?’
She had picked up her bag. ‘I’m going to inquire if there’s a room available. There’s no point in taking my luggage until I know.’
‘There’s room. It’s not what you’d be used to. Why don’t you call Sweetwater? They’d send a car up.’
‘It’s more convenient to take my own with me when you’ve repaired the puncture.’
That was not true, but Jack Nielsen had done quite enough for her already. She would be independent.
The yellow dog raised its head as she passed then dropped back in the dust. The sun had sunk behind the hills but evidently he was too comatose to care.
She opened the door marked ‘Office’ and stepped into a tiny space occupied by two women. Behind a counter stood an elderly person with narrow eyes and a thin mouth. It was a face that had seen a lot of suffering and had not been affected by it: observant, detached, a face that would always get the rent.
The girl leaning against the counter was in blue levis and a low ruffled blouse that exposed tanned shoulders. She wore gold evening sandals with high scuffed heels. Her toe nails were painted bright red and the varnish was chipped. She had a mane of dark chestnut hair, green eyes and a full mouth. She smiled broadly at Miss Pink who asked for a room.
‘For one?’ The tone was too flat to be bored. ‘Just one night?’ It appeared unlikely that tourists stayed in Molten for two nights. A pad of forms was pushed across the counter and Miss Pink started to write, pausing at her car’s registration.
‘I’ll complete that later.’
‘Twenty dollars.’
She calculated. ‘Very well.’ And turned away.
‘You pay now.’
She checked in surprise. ‘One pays on registration?’
She looked from the stony face to the girl, who grinned cheerfully. ‘It’s the same everywhere,’ she said. ‘Not in hotels, of course. There’s nothing personal, is there, Mrs Webber?’
There was no response. Miss Pink separated a twenty from the sheaf of almost identical greenbacks, aware that they were observing her closely. She asked for a receipt which was made out, but reluctantly, and handed over with a key. The girl stalked out under the woman’s watchful eyes.
‘Are you very busy?’ Miss Pink asked, wondering what kind of reply that would elicit.
Mrs Webber sniffed. ‘We don’t make enough to keep a gopher alive.’
Small wonder, she thought, unlocking the door of her room. The place was stifling with heat and dust. It contained a double bed, a card table, two chairs—one that belonged in a poor kitchen, the other upholstered in brown plastic—a bedside table with a reading lamp, the shade scorched in two places, and an alcove with a rod to which were attached three coat hangers.
Plaster crumbled in the shower stall and the wash basin was cracked. Miss
Pink peeled back the candlewick bedspread and sighed with relief to find that the cotton sheets were clean. She opened the window and stood the door ajar to clear the air. As she unpacked her overnight gear she caught a fine meaty smell and realized that she was ravenously hungry. Lunch had been a handful of cookies. She washed, combed her hair and picked up her bag.
A shadow darkened the room. The girl in the gold sandals stared in curiously.
‘Hi. You’ll have this place full of flies if you leave the door open.’
‘There’s no screen door.’
‘You’re right. There’s been one though; you can see the marks. Jeez, in this dump they steal the stuff even when it’s screwed down. Don’t tell me you’re going out. Where are you going?’
The curiosity was sincere and Miss Pink could not take offence. ‘I’m going to find somewhere to eat.’
‘In Molten! Excuse me, but you have to be joking. You mean, you haven’t got any food? Nothing?’
‘I have some cookies.’
‘That’s too bad. But you can get something at the store.’ She looked across the court. ‘No, I guess not; Orville Fraser took off for Calcine so the store’ll be closed. Tell you what—hey, Bunny! She can’t hear. Wait there. I’ll be back.’
Miss Pink stood in the doorway admiring the afterglow spread across the west like cosmic fire. The girl came clipping back.
‘You come to our place. Bunny says there’s a heap to spare. Come on—’ as Miss Pink hesitated, ‘Bunny loves to show off her cooking. I’m Donna.’
‘I’m Melinda Pink.’
‘Nice to meet you, Melinda.’ She was guiding Miss Pink along the barrack-like row to an open door. ‘You come in and sit down.… Bunny, what a mess this place is in! Look, we got nowhere for a visitor to sit down.…’ She flung clothes from an easy chair to the bed. The plump girl in the corner turned, a tablespoon in her hand.
‘Hi,’ she said absently. ‘Come in and sit down.’
‘I’m trying to make room for her!’
‘Well,’ Miss Pink breathed, subsiding in the easy chair, looking round at the clutter of two girls living together. ‘This is just like home.’
‘Oh no! You can’t be as bad as us.’ The pair spluttered with laughter.
‘It looks homely,’ Miss Pink persisted.
‘We got nowhere else,’ Bunny said.
Miss Pink saw that she was very young, probably no more than eighteen; the fat was puppy fat. Her face was rounded, with a pert nose and big eyes which could have been blue or grey; it was difficult to tell in the shadows. Her blonde hair was twisted in a knot on top of her head. She wore a loose pink frock, sleeveless, and no shoes. Her feet were not very clean.
‘You look like a slut,’ Donna said amiably. ‘Put some shoes on, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I can’t find them.’
‘Oh, sh—— Excuse me.’ Donna rummaged in the bottom of the alcove and tossed out a pair of black pumps.
‘I can’t get into your shoes,’ Bunny said.
‘You go barefooted if you’re more comfortable,’ Miss Pink put in. ‘I did at your age when I had the chance.’
Donna stared at her in amazement. ‘I had to,’ Bunny said.
‘She’s from the sticks—’ it was said with affection, ‘—Kentucky. They don’t wear shoes in Kentucky. Me, I’m from—’ she stopped, then went on smoothly: ‘Los Angeles.’
‘I was there yesterday,’ Miss Pink said.
‘Oh yes.’ It was polite and flat.
‘Have you been here long?’ Miss Pink was equally polite.
‘Not so long,’ Donna said, but there was a faint murmur from Bunny: ‘Too long.’
‘Do you like wine?’ Donna asked.
‘Not very much.’ She had seen the label on the bottle.
Donna’s eyes wandered as she fought to ease a sudden tension. ‘You wouldn’t care for a beer?’
‘I would indeed.’
She drank a light German beer from a plastic toothmug. Donna splashed wine in big tumblers and asked her where she came from. London, she told them mendaciously, and elaborated. They were enthralled.
They ate Bunny’s stew: a concoction of beef and onions and beans cooked in the wine, and delicious. Miss Pink did most of the talking, answering questions and refraining from putting any of her own. Towards the end of the meal a heavy vehicle drew up on the roadway with a hiss of air brakes. The girls glanced at each other and Donna stood up.
‘Excuse me, I think that’s someone I know.’
‘That was an excellent supper,’ Miss Pink told Bunny when they were alone. ‘The beef was as tender as anything I’ve tasted.’
‘It was top sirloin.’
‘You stewed sirloin!’
‘We only got a ring.’ Bunny gestured to the ‘stove’ which was nothing more than a solitary gas ring.
‘How do you get gas out here?’
‘It’s propane. Donna’s got two rings but we don’t use her room for living in. Just this one.’
Miss Pink absorbed this in silence. ‘I do no cooking myself,’ she went on chattily, ‘but I do appreciate good food.’
‘Who does your cooking?’
‘A lady called Chrissie. She has a delicate hand with pastry.’
‘Hey, that’s neat! “She has a delicate hand—” Wait till I tell Donna that.’ Bunny stared at the gas ring and became wistful. She was a little drunk. ‘At home we had a wood stove. I baked bread.’
‘Your mother must appreciate that.’
‘She passed away two years back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘My step mother don’t care for it. She likes store bread. My kid brothers though, and my dad, they like my bread. She says it’s always hard. That’s not true.’ Bunny filled her glass and stared moodily at the level of the wine. ‘Old cow,’ she said.
‘Step mothers are often jealous.’
‘You can say that again.’
The eyes were unfocused. They were blue, Miss Pink saw, and became aware that they were wet as well. She looked away.
‘I’m going to Sweetwater Ranch tomorrow.’ Her tone was smooth. ‘Is the road rough?’
The brimming eyes fastened on her in astonishment. ‘Sweetwater! You’re going to Sweetwater? So why are you stopping here?’
‘My car’s broken down.’
‘Yeah, I forgot. But why—No, there’s no place else to go. My! Imagine that. You going to Sweetwater, and stopping over here. Mr Nielsen’s a millionaire.’
‘But you cook very well.’ Bunny was puzzled. Miss Pink was innocent. ‘A clean bed, good food; what more do you need?’
‘He’s not going to like it: you stopping over at this place.’
‘What’s wrong with Molten?’
Bunny thought about this and shrugged. ‘It’s a dump.’
‘Then what’s wrong with Sweetwater?’
‘I dunno. I never been there.’ She considered again. ‘They’re rich.… And Molten’s poor, I guess.’
‘You’re staying here.’
‘We got no choice.’ She raised sad eyes. ‘We’re poor too.’
‘Oh, come. Sirloin steak?’
‘That was a gift. I got one pair of shoes.’ She grinned suddenly and looked round the cluttered room. ‘Someone’s stole those unless they got thrown out with the trash. We got a car is falling apart. The only way we can get a new one is go play the tables in Vegas or somewheres. Donna says she might do that: find a new car, take off again, go to L.A. or Frisco, get out of this dump, buy us some new clothes, rent an apartment in a swank neighbourhood with a telephone. Gotta have a telephone.’
‘You could get to L.A. in the old car.’
‘Not yet, we gotta wait a while, Donna says, gotta wait till the heat’s off … don’ wanna leave Donna, she’s smart.… I’m not smart, gotta make the best of myself, eat the right stuff … we never got much to eat after Mom passed over …’ The slurring tones trailed away. Bunny looked at the bed.
‘Wait till the
heat’s off,’ Miss Pink murmured.
‘They’re not after me, but I won’t leave Donna. She’s all I’ve got. Excuse me.’
She lurched to her feet, rocking the table. Miss Pink steadied it and, seeing what was toward, rose and swept a space clear on the bed.
‘Why, thank you,’ Bunny said in a child’s voice, dropping on the coverlet and closing her eyes. Miss Pink picked up her bag and returned to her room. Out on the highway she glimpsed the cab of a towering truck, its parking lights glowing softly.
Before she fell asleep she heard a stealthy bustle outside: the click of a screen, a footfall on gravel, the chock of a closed cab door. An engine woke and purred, roared arrogantly, and faded slowly in the desert night. Sharp heels clicked on cement. There was a hiatus and they went clicking back. Miss Pink frowned in the darkness, passing no conventional judgement but thinking they were too young and far too vulnerable to have to wait in Molten until the heat was off. She hadn’t liked that.
Chapter 2
She was woken by voices. It was dim in the westward facing room with the curtains drawn. One voice was raised in exasperation — Donna’s: ‘That’s a lie! You said thirty bucks, the two of us.’ There was an indistinct murmur. ‘I tell you—’ Donna was almost shouting, ‘—he didn’t stay the night! What difference does it make—’ The murmur again. ‘Who cares? Who’s there to wake up in this dump anyway? You only got three rooms let and we’re steady.… So what? We pay when we got it: we always paid, didn’t we?’
‘You owe a hundred and sixty,’ came Mrs Webber’s voice quite clearly. ‘You want I should call the police?’
‘A hundred and sixty! What’s with the sixty? A hundred and fifty.’
‘Sixty. He woke the town.’
‘Jeez!’ A door banged. There was the sound of a knob being turned. Mrs Webber spoke again but Miss Pink could not catch the words. A man’s voice asked roughly, ‘You got a problem, Mrs Webber?’
Miss Pink slipped out of bed and moved to a crack at the side of the curtain. A heavy man in a stained baseball cap was standing in the forecourt facing Bunny’s door. Mrs Webber stepped into view. The words ‘Rent’ and ‘Police’ were audible. The man lit a cigarette and smoked it stolidly, staring over Mrs Webber’s head. At the reiteration of the word ‘police’, distinguished perhaps because it was familiar and this was the kind of situation where both the word and the threat might be expected, Mrs Webber stopped talking and the man’s eyes returned to her. He said something quietly and moved forward out of Miss Pink’s line of sight, evidently entering Bunny’s room. Mrs Webber walked smartly to the office, her posture suggesting neither triumph nor defeat. An impasse was indicated. Miss Pink crossed the room to the shower stall and discovered that there was no water.
