He was ready in less time than that, the straps of his case of canvasses checked with care, his clothes and few personal belongings stuffed into a single suitcase.
“Did you see anyone you knew on your way here?” he asked Butch.
“Don’t remember none.”
“What about the man at the desk downstairs?”
“I ain’t never seen him afore to-night,” Butch told him stolidly, and then, slowly beginning to realize the purpose behind this interrogation, added, for further clarification, “I don’t never come here at night.”
“Good. Now you go down the back stairs—they’re on the left at the end of the corridor—and out the service entrance to the parking space. You’ll find my car there, a black Buick, license number 4DB624. It isn’t locked. Get in, and wait for me while I check out.”
These were the kind of concise instructions which Butch had been used to receiving and carrying out in a dim and distant past, and, rather than resenting the curt manner in which they were delivered, he was reassured. Almost but not quite saluting as he left the room, he lumbered down the corridor, curiously comforted.
Nick, meanwhile, overlooking no way in which he could protect himself in so far as was possible, went down to the lobby to play, with some flair, the part of an inebriated artist intent on searching out the morning in its lair, and this without delay.
When he left, staggering very slightly, he was quite satisfied that the smirking young man behind the desk would not, if subsequently questioned, in any way connect his abrupt departure with Psyche’s flight from the shack.
He arrived with Butch at the shack a half-hour later, having left the Buick parked beside the highway close to a red convertible that had caused him to raise his eyebrows and whistle softly under his breath.
They found Mag alone with the owner of the red car. Although still prostrate, he was showing signs of returning consciousness, groaning and stirring restlessly under the blanket which had been laid over him.
Nick looked around the room. “Where is she?”
Mag nodded toward one of the two limp curtains at the back of the shack. “She’s layin’ down. She’s been sick.”
“She’s better now?”
“Yeah she’ll be okay. It done her good, really. You goin’ to take the kid?”
Nick went over to the man on the floor, looked at him for a moment, felt his pulse, and then turned to Mag, and said quietly, “Yes. And we’d better leave at once. This man is going to come to soon. It’s important that he doesn’t see me. Are her things packed?”
Silently Mag pointed to a cardboard carton, tied with oddments of string, which stood beside the door.
Butch cleared his throat. “You better go get the kid, Mag,” he said thickly.
Mag’s hand was already on the curtain when she said, “You understand that the kid can’t never come back?”
Nick nodded. “I understand.”
A terrible, urgent appeal appeared in the big woman’s voice and eyes. “You’ll treat her decent, won’t you? She’s—she’s a good kid.”
Nick nodded again, and because he believed what he was saying for at least as long as it took him to say it, there was both sincerity and conviction in his reply. “I’ll take good care of her.”
“God bless you,” Mag whispered, and went into the little storeroom to her kid for the last time.
4
THE long night drive through darkness into a grey dawn was, although neither nick nor psyche knew it, not unlike a film being run in reverse. For psyche was going back to the city in which she had been born, following a road, again by night, and again in haste, over which she had travelled for the first time nearly fifteen years earlier.
Nick drove, as he did everything else that he enjoyed doing, with a concentration that allowed no unnecessary distractions. Lean brown hands close together on top of the wheel, intent eyes never wavering from the outer rim of the white path cut by the headlights, he kept the speedometer needle hovering just under eighty on the straightaway, and took the curves for the most part without dropping below fifty. The small towns through which they passed were silent, deserted islands, apparently as untenanted as the black oceans of forest that surrounded them on all sides —forests that began to give way reluctantly to the greyer darkness of fields and pastureland only after they had been on the road for something over three hours.
During the earlier stages of the journey Psyche, a waxen figure with a waxen face, sat rigidly clutching the tattered portion of the ancient Bible that Mag had at the last moment thrust into her hands. Her sole tangible link with the shack, she held on to it as if she never meant to let go of it again. Yet, as mile after mile dropped away behind them, with darkness producing only further darkness, the tight fingers gradually relaxed their frantic grip, and the golden head began to loll and jerk with the motion of the fast-moving car.
For a time fatigue blotted out all thought, conscious or unconscious, and her awkward sleep was that of utter exhaustion.
Her nightmare began as a pleasant dream. Warm and happy, she drifted through space in a bed encircled by white bars which, rather than imprisoning, gave a wonderful sense of security. And just out of sight someone was singing a song whose words would not come through clearly to her, but whose musical cadences were achingly familiar.
“Mmmm—Mmmm—” she murmured.
Nick, glancing sideways, and seeing that she slept, did not disturb her.
Below her there spread away, it seemed to infinity, a great field of pale-blue grass, while above her she could see a cloudless pink sky. Slowly, the pink sky began to darken; a chill wind whined between bars no longer white but black as the slag at night; and the soft blue blanket, under which she lay, began to creep of its own volition over her face, a stifling weight forcing the breath back into a throat choked with screams that died before they found utterance. Wildly, hopelessly, she thrashed out at a faceless, formless horror that attacked her now in a chaotic, bruising turmoil of darkness.
Nick was caught completely off guard by her piercing scream. The car swerved dangerously. Then he had it under control again, and slowed to a stop at the side of the empty highway.
When he was free to turn to her, she was awake, her eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty. “Nick—what was it? I heard somethin’—I dunno what.”
He laid a hand over both of hers, and finding them ice-cold, began to chafe them. “You cried out, Venus. That’s all. You were asleep, and must have been dreaming. Don’t you remember now?”
Psyche shook her head. She did not want to remember. “I remember nothin’.”
“We’ve just passed over a very rough piece of road. I’ll fix you up on the back seat and you can sleep properly.”
“I don’t think I want to sleep no more.”
“You need it. You can at least try.”
He rolled up his trench-coat as a pillow for her, made her take off her scuffed shoes, and wrapped her in a motor-rug.
As he was closing the door, Psyche lifted her head from the improvised pillow. “You’re bein’ very good to me, Nick.”
“You didn’t expect that?”
“Not for sure.”
When he saw no need for pretense, Nick attempted none. “We are, at the moment, a mutual-benefit society, Venus. It would be stupid not to protect each other’s interests with as much grace as the situation allows.”
It was a different brand of honesty from Psyche’s own, but it was, nevertheless, honesty, and as such more reassuring than any gentle evasion. It established in words, and without equivocation, the only possible relationship that could for long be satisfactory to both of them.
They had moved out of the storm area, and Psyche, as the car again travelled southwards, lay watching an ever-changing pattern of stars and tree-tops. After the static horizons of the world in which she had lived for so long, this simple night-time panorama held a breathless fascination for her. Knowing that at last she had been caught up in the current of a mov
ing stream, conscious of a deep, wordless satisfaction that this should be so, she went tranquilly to sleep.
They stopped for breakfast, with more than five hundred miles of highway unrolled behind them, on the outskirts of a large city; a city whose widening spokes reached out from a lakeside hub still eleven miles distant.
It was scarcely eight o’clock, but the restaurant was almost full. Nick led Psyche past the crowded confusion of the counter to an empty booth at the back. Amongst a clientele at that hour composed mainly of truckers they passed unnoticed, the tall, shabby girl, and the poised man in the paint-stained flannels and leather windbreaker.
Nick ordered orange juice, eggs, and coffee, and when they were served they ate in silence, occupied with thoughts they had no wish to communicate to one another.
Nick was concerned with purely practical problems. Situated as the studio was, he saw no real reason why Psyche’s presence there should become known. He had at no time encouraged visitors, and moreover was expected to remain in the north country until Alice’s return and the reopening of the city house in the fall. If he could contrive to do the necessary shopping on his own, and did not, by some foul chance, run into anyone he knew, he would spare himself endless complications and a tedious tissue of lies. The buying of food would be relatively simple. Clothes for Psyche presented greater difficulties, but she could not be left in her present disreputable state.
“What size are you?” he asked.
Psyche looked at him in surprise, as she answered automatically, “Fourteen, Tall.”
“You don’t know your exact measurements, do you?”
All the clothes she had ever owned had been bought by mail, and so she did know. She told him.
“The Greeks had a word for it,” Nick murmured, and without further comment or explanation retired again into silent preoccupation.
Psyche, meanwhile, had been realizing with painful clarity how entirely dependent she was on a virtual stranger, and how little claim she had on him. In the isolation of the slag she had thought of him as an old friend. She knew now that this was not true. Studying, unobserved, the sharp, well-modelled planes of his face, the thin mobile mouth, high intelligent forehead beneath curling grey hair, and startling hazel eyes, she knew that she could safely depend on this man only for as long as she was of real use to him. From what she already knew of him, it seemed to her highly unlikely that he would make any personal demands on her, but in every other way he would probably expect absolute compliance with his wishes. His work, his hours, and his habits would control all her waking hours. Any consideration she received from him would be in direct proportion to her willingness to work with and for him. That she was valuable to him, he had proved. Until she could determine exactly how great that value was, she saw that she would be very foolish to display any initiative, to ask for anything he did not offer voluntarily. To be looked upon in the light in which he obviously regarded her, as a more or less mindless chattel, both irritated and dismayed her, but it really frightened her to think of what her situation might have been without him.
She broke the silence with a single question. “I can’t never go back, can I?”
“No, Venus, one can’t ever go back. One always has to go on. That’s life.”
It was the answer she had expected, and she accepted it without argument. It would be a long time before it would be safe for her to return to the shack. During that time the space which she had occupied would close over, would cease to exist. They would miss her at first, Butch and Mag, in a multitude of ways, as she— tears pricking her eyelids—already missed them. Later on they would, if not forget her, at least accept her absence without active regret, for in spite of their affection for her they had never had any real need of her, and her need of them existed only for as long as she dwelt with them. Dimly she caught a glimpse of the beautiful, elemental simplicity of her long relationship with them; the caring for the young and weak by the mature and strong until, but only until, the young could stand alone. She had left them too suddenly, but it had been time to leave.
Nick was right. She could never go back to the shack. But he was not entirely right, for she was going back somewhere else, somewhere she could not even remember. This she neither could nor would doubt.
“Are you ready to move on?” Nick asked.
“I’m ready.”
The tumult of sound and confusion of movement that assailed her as they drove into the city proper were, at first, almost more than she could bear. Before long, however, excitement and curiosity overcame her initial recoil, and she began to besiege the artist with questions.
He stood it as long as he could, displaying a patience which those who knew him well would have found it difficult to credit. He told her how street-cars were operated. He explained the use of traffic signals. He concurred in her belief that the parks were attractive. He did not agree with her that the people were also attractive. He said, yes, the street lights were left on all night. He told her that there were more than a million inhabitants of this city. He commented on the number of denominations represented by what were, to her, a surprising number of churches, and told her cynically that if she counted the movie houses she would find there were even more of them. He explained that dogs were kept on leads so that they would neither get lost nor bite people.
“Do they often bite people here, Nick?”
“For God’s sake, Venus, shut up! I can’t drive in heavy traffic and talk at the same time.”
Psyche thoughtfully regarded the crowds thronging a main intersection at which they had stopped for a red light. Morning sunlight flooded brick canyons across whose concrete floors there flowed an unceasing tide of humanity.
“It must be awful tough to be alone here,” she said slowly. “I mean with perhaps nowhere to go, with no folks like.” Almost as if she had a premonition of her own future, she continued, with real urgency: “A person wouldn’t rightly know what to do, Nick, what would a person do if they was alone here?”
The light turned green, and they shot forward on the crest of a mechanized wave. Nick, absorbed with the problem of a present, rather than a future survival, did not reply.
They made three stops, and each time he parked on a side street and left Psyche in the car. Content to wait for him, once for nearly an hour, she watched a parade that was to her a department-store catalogue come to life. Here were the wonderful clothes, the matching shoes and handbags, the feathered hats and white gloves, that she had always so much admired. And, if they had all been smiling, even the painted faces might have been lifted complete from those glossy, much-thumbed pages. The absence of the never-failing smiles disturbed her profoundly.
That these fortunate mortals should not be as carefree as she had always supposed them to be necessitated a rescaling of values that upset most of her preconceived notions. Watching the expressions of the passers-by she found them shuttered, possessed of a studied indifference to others both chilling and new to her. Did one have to look like this? she wondered. Was this expression something one put on for the street along with suitable clothes, or did it go deeper, representing an actual indifference to everything outside of purely private concerns? Could she, Psyche, look this way, if she chose to?
Reaching up, she turned the rear-view mirror to an angle where she could regard her own reflection. Her eyes betrayed her. But when she lowered her long lashes until her eyes were shadowed, partially hidden, she saw a self as cool and apparently uninterested as any she had seen that morning.
She returned the mirror to the precise position in which it had been, and let her glance travel downward over her cheap, creased blouse, threadbare coat, and long-unpolished shoes, and knew that she was ashamed of them not because they were old and worn, but because they were not clean. Catching sight of her dirty, ragged nails, she felt her face go hot, and thrust them out of sight beneath the folds of her coat.
Once more watching the people walking past, her regard was now subjective instead of object
ive, prepared to discard for the moment anything that could not be turned to a useful personal application.
It was nearly noon before Nick headed the big car towards the northern suburbs again.
Pysche rarely suffered from headaches, but her forehead was throbbing painfully by the time she realized, with unqualified relief, that their eventual destination was to be outside the city.
Although she was to know every tree, every bush, almost every blade of grass in the gentle valley surrounding the converted barn, she never forgot her first sight of it. If she had entered into paradise itself, she could not have been more enchanted.
Here was a place in its own way as remote from the world as the shack had been; but this was a soft seclusion without harshness of any kind, a seclusion protected and tranquil, with no memory of past upheaval or threat of future dissolution. The valley was composed of an immense field thickly sown with wild flowers, its lush green grass patterned with the shadows of a few tall elms, its boundaries wooded hills sloping gradually backward toward the calm inverted bowl of the summer sky. The barn, approached only by a footpath, stood in the middle of the field, its weathered brown timbers, red roof faded by many summer suns, and solid field-stone foundations as integral a part of the landscape as the pines and maples on the hillsides.
The car in low gear, they wound slowly down the steep gradient of a narrow, rutted track that disappeared entirely where long grass and woods met to give way one to another. Here Nick turned the car, backed it under the shelter of a huge maple, and cut the ignition.
Gazing upon such beauty as she had previously only dreamed about, Psyche gave a deep sigh. “The flowers,” she said softly. “They’s so beautiful.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re beautiful,” Psyche repeated, unconscious that she had been corrected, or that she had accepted the correction. “They yours, Nick?”
“They’re anybody’s. They’re wild.”
Psyche Page 17
