Джеймс Кейн - The Enchanted Isle

“But I have to know, there’s a reason.”

“What reason?”

“One I may have, but don’t yet have.”

“Where I am doesn’t matter, as I’m traveling and first I stop one place, then another. When I’m settled I’ll let you know.”

“Then don’t say you weren’t told.”

“Told what, Mother?”

“The... reason I’ll have for wanting to know where you are. Which I’m not sure of yet but may be sure of later.”

“Then, OK, Mother, I called up to say I’m all right, that you don’t have to turn me in as a missing person or something, and... have you, by the way?”

“No! And after what Ed Vernick told me...”

“Then, don’t. I’m OK.”

“And that’s all you have to say?”

“That’s right. What do you have to say?”

“...That you have all my love.”

“And, Mother, you have mine.”

Suddenly, both of us were crying, but with love mixed in, and then she kept saying, “My love and my prayers, I keep saying them over and over.”

“Then, OK, Mother.”

“OK... OK.”

Then we’d both hung up, and I was standing there in the booth, with an empty, queer feeling, the tears still on my cheeks.

Walking back to the hotel I kept thinking of Rick, how glad I’d be to see him, to be with him, to have him pat my hand and start talking about our island. But in the lobby he wasn’t there. I looked in the dining room, remembering I’d been gone for some time and thinking he might have decided to eat breakfast. But he wasn’t there, and I came back and went to the desk. I asked, “Would you have Mr. Ruth paged? Mr. Richard Ruth, please.”

“Mr. Ruth has checked out. He left.”

“He has what?”

“Checked out. Are you Mrs. Ruth?”

“Yes, I am. Did he leave a message for me?”

“No, Miss. He left this.”

From behind the counter the clerk lifted my suitcase and set it on the desk in front of me. He kept staring in kind of a funny way. I said, “Oh, I see. Thanks.”

“Yes, Miss.”

I took the suitcase, but a bellboy grabbed for it, and also for the coat, which I was carrying now, as it was warmer in Savannah than it had been in Baltimore. But I hung on to them both and staggered to a chair, where I sat down real quick, as I had to. I mean I was stunned and might have toppled if I tried to stay on my feet. Because, of course, I knew by now that Rick had played me a trick, sending me down to that drugstore so he could give me the air and skip with all that money. But the jolt wasn’t all. I was hurt too, as at last I’d fallen for him, so I felt warm and close and friendly. On account of all that I sat there quite a few minutes, while the bellboy still stood by and the desk clerk studied me, like wondering what to do in case I became a problem, which I easily could have, as I had no idea what to do next. However, the first thing seemed to be to get on the trail of Rick. So at last I motioned the bellboy and let him take the bag and load me into a cab. I tipped him and told the driver, take me to the bus terminal.

At the terminal I paid him and went inside and at that hour, which was no more than a quarter to nine, there wasn’t much going on, so the baggage man was sitting on his counter reading the paper. I asked him, “Did a young man in a zipper jacket and gabardine slacks claim a heavy black suitcase here? In the last half hour, I mean?”

“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago.”

“Which way did he go, please?”

“I didn’t notice which way he went... Hey, wait, so happens I did. Last I saw of him he was at the ticket window.”

“Thanks. Thanks ever so much.”

I asked the man at the ticket window, “A young man in zipper coat, gabardine slacks, and long dark hair: do you remember what ticket he bought? Maybe twenty minutes ago?”

“Miss, I don’t take note of their coat, their pants, or their hair. All I see is their money. No, I don’t remember.”

I went out on the platform, where people get on the buses, and, of course he wasn’t there. I asked a man in uniform which buses had left in the last twenty minutes, and he said, “Atlanta local; Memphis express.”

“Thank you so much.”

I went to the taxi stand and there was my cab where I’d left it. I got in and told the driver, “Police station, please.”

“OK... Something wrong, Miss?”

“I want to report a theft.”

“Police station’s where you do it.”

But then, after two or three blocks I panicked; I was so terrified. I realized what it would mean, that I would be questioned and would have to tell it all, not only about the money but also about the coat, so I’d have to give it up. I said, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the police station yet. I must find a place to stay, so I’ll be settled down before I do anything. Where can I go, do you know?”

“You mean like to a motel?”

“I doubt if they’d take me in.”

“They don’t like young girls, that’s right.”

“I have to go somewhere, though.”

“How about to the Y? They might take you in.”

“I don’t know much about them.”

“Oh, they will take you in, of course. That is if you can pay? You got money, Miss?”

“I have some, yes.”

“Be around five dollars a night.”

“I can afford that much.”

“Maybe a little bit more now. Say, this inflation really hurts. Everything’s going up — except us. We have to charge the same.”

“Y’s fine. Take me there, please.”

So we were passing a park, one of dozens they have in Savannah, and he drove around it so we were headed back the way we had come. And I began thinking of how I’d have to buy a paper for the want ads it would have, and I would begin, where I left off in Baltimore, trying to find a job. And then all of a sudden I upchucked — not really, not the way Rick wanted to do, to make a mess there in the cab. I mean in my mind, so everything came up. It all came up in a flash, what Rick had done to me, how rotten it was, and how I refused to take it, lying down, sitting down, or any other way. I said to the driver, “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind again. Back to the bus terminal, please.”

“The terminal it is.”

I knew what I had to do.

I got to Washington around ten o’clock and, instead of taking the bus out, went all the way by cab, as I was pretty tired by then and wanted to get there. So it was $4.25, and I gave the driver five dollars. Then I went up to the front porch, walking on the grass so my footsteps wouldn’t be heard. I peeped in the front window and couldn’t see anything, but a light was on in the living room, so I knew somebody was home. I let myself in with my key, making as little noise as I could, and then from the hall saw Steve asleep in the chair by the arch, the one to the dining room. He was all sprawled out, his necktie pulled to one side, his shirt open at the throat, his belt unbuckled, and his pants half unzipped, while beside the chair on the floor were six or eight beer cans standing around. I set the bag down, opened the closet and hung up the coat, then went in the living room and sat down in the chair by the door. Everything looked the same, the furniture a little bit scuffed, the rug with rose border, the aquarelles of Venice, and the color TV by the fireplace. It came to me about Steve, that if he was more or less drunk he might start something with me, so I got out a knife I had bought at the newsstand in Savannah. On the box it said “BOY SCOUT,” but it was really a switchblade. I took it out of my handbag and sprung it open by pressing the button.

But at the click he opened his eyes.

Then he sat staring at me like a goof. He was big and thickset, maybe thirty years old, with kind of a bull look, but at the same time kind of a frog look. So he stared for some little time, then rubbed his eyes and stared some more. Then: “Mandy, is that you?”