Тэлмидж Пауэлл: Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 1, January, 1957

“What’s going on around here?” Harper said, making his lips tight, scowling. “Who are they? What the hell’s the idea?”

The attendant glanced at him swiftly, then headed for the office, making it clear that he didn’t want to get mixed up in what was brewing.

“You check everything I told you?” Harper called.

The attendant did not reply.

“Hey, you! Did you check everything?”

Linda called, “Hungy... hungy,” from the rear seat.

The young men still stood at attention with their arms held rigidly out.

“Please, Dell,” Julia said. “Come on — let’s go.”

Harper said, “I’d like to—”

Angrily, he climbed beneath the wheel of the car, started the engine, and they drove off. As they swung into the highway, a loudly shouted chorus of laughter roared into the early afternoon.

“My God!” Harper said.

Julia Harper stared straight ahead through the windshield, her face strained and slightly pink. Her legs were close together and she held her hands clasped tightly around the white-beaded purse in her lap.

Harper started to speak but there was something in his throat. He tried to clear it away. He gripped the steering wheel very hard, his shoulders rigid.

“That attendant ignored the whole God damned thing,” he said, “He acted like he was scared of those hoodlums.”

Julia said nothing.

“Hungy,” Linda said, jumping up and down on the rear seat. “Hungy... hungy!”

Harper turned sharply to his wife. “I should’ve — what’d you do? What did you do?”

“How do you mean, Dell?”

“Listen to me. You must’ve done something. You heard them. My God, I never saw — I felt like really letting them have it. That’s the God’s truth. I didn’t know what to do, I tell you.”

Julia drew a deep breath and let it out. “It was nothing, really. They’re just kids, Dell. They weren’t really mean and they wouldn’t really start anything.”

“You’re right, there. No guts. No guts in the pack of ’em. Kids.”

They drove for a time.

“It was like you could feel it,” Harper said.

Julia had her eyes closed. She opened them. “What?”

“I don’t know. Like — something. Like there’s no law, no — nothing. Gutless kids — doing a thing like that. What could I do? Tell me that?” He looked at his wife again. “I wish you’d tell me what it was you did, God damn it.”

“I didn’t do anything. Dell. I just stood there. That’s all. I was just standing there, looking at a map. That’s all.”

They drove for a time.

“I didn’t do a thing. Just stood there.”

“Yeah. You think I should report them?”

“What could you report?”

“You’re right. They’re gone now.” He sighed, moved his shoulders around. “They got my goat, I’ll tell you that, though. I should’ve grabbed that one, that ringleader.” He clenched and unclenched his fist on the steering wheel. “Brassy little bastard.”

Julia said nothing. She turned on one hip, tugged at her shorts, rested her chin in the cup of her hand, looking out the window. She closed her eyes again.

The sound of a horn blaring came along swiftly behind them, wailing, growing louder with a frightening speed.

“It’s them again,” Julia said.

“What?” Harper said. “Who?”

She did not answer. The roar of an engine and the scream of a horn was upon them. It swept past, yellow-bright, screaming laughter, shouting, horn blatting. The yellow hot-rod careened in front of them, then leapt away and was soon out of sight.

Nobody said anything.

Finally, they reached the stone-vaulted entrance to the park in the glen. There was no sign whatever of the yellow car.

“Hungy,” Linda said, and began to cry.

“This is a good spot,” Harper said. “I just don’t want to be down there in the main park with all those damned people.”

They were on a dirt road that wound high above the park. They had come through pine woods, and were opposite the top of a waterfall. It was a pleasant, completely isolated site, and Harper drew the car in beneath the shade of a young elm and some pines, beside a stone fireplace.

“We should’ve brought hamburgers,” Julia said, climbing from the car. She stood there a moment and tugged at her shorts with both hands, then opened the rear door and let Linda out. Linda ran toward the stone fireplace and began slapping it with both hands.

“Not so hungry, anyway,” Harper said. Then he said quickly, “I will be, probably. How about waiting awhile, huh? O. K.?”

“I’m starved, Dell — really. Let’s eat. If we don’t, we’ll have trouble on our hands.”

He looked at her suddenly.

“I mean, Linda’s full of the dickens this afternoon.”

Harper brought two blankets from the car, spread them on pine-needled ground. Julia brought the picnic basket and the gallon themos jug of lemonade.

“You’d better get that stack of newspapers in the trunk,” she said. “All right?”

“Sure.”

Harper began to whistle. He returned to the car, flung open the trunk, picked up an armful of pillows, and the small stack of old newspapers. He closed the trunk and returned to the blankets. The sound of the waterfall rose through the afternoon. Sunlight streaked in slim shafts between the branches of trees. Wind sighed softly in the pines.

“It’s nice out here,” Harper said. “A few hours away from things — everything. Quiet. I just feel like eating and laying around. Glad we didn’t go over to the Martins, aren’t you?”

“I thought you weren’t hungry.”

“Am now.”

Julia set out the picnic dinner. Sandwiches. A bowl of potato salad. A cake. A thermos of coffee, and the gallon of lemonade. There were pickles and peanut butter, radishes, celery, apples, oranges, olives — the works. The Harpers always ate heavily when they went on a picnic.

Linda ran, fell and sprawled across the blanket, two chubby hands reaching toward the stack of sandwiches on the waxed paper.

After she was picked up, they sat down on the blanket and began eating.

“What’d you think of old Holdsby’s sermon?” Harper asked, around a mouthful of chicken.

Julia held a pickle and Linda bit off a small piece, made a face, and spit it out. Julia tossed the small bit that Linda had rejected in among the trees, toward a thick growth of low bushes.

“Oughta use the trash can,” Harper said. “What’d you think of—?”

“I didn’t listen,” Julia said. She looked at him, chewing. She swallowed. “He bored me silly today. I don’t know. Sometimes—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What’d you think?”

“I dunno,” Harper said, belching lightly.

The distant sound of a car’s engine that was being raced filtered up through the woods, the afternoon, above the sound of the waterfall, and seemed to drop like some kind of explosion among them. Neither spoke. Linda was busy with a piece of chocolate cake, her fingers in thick icing.

The sound became louder.

The sound lessened.

Harper seemed to relax.

The sound of the engine increased and abruptly the yellow and chrome car was beside their own, parked, with the shouting young men leaping over the sides, moving toward them.

Harper came halfway to his feet, a chicken sandwich in one hand, chewing, trying to swallow, choking.

The yellow-haired youth walked toward them.

“What you know?” he said. “A picnic. Isn’t that nice?”

They all sang in a loud chorus, “We think it’s wonderful.”

The yellow-haired leader stared at Julia. She was kneeling on the blanket, looking up at him. Harper came all the way to his feet, still chewing, still trying to swallow.