Джеймс Кейн - The Enchanted Isle

So in the dark I would lie there, and then I knew I had to leave home. Where I would go I didn’t know, except it seemed to boil down to a life of shame, which had a mink coat attached, at lease so I’d heard; or a convent, which had a nun habit. We were Episcopal, but they have Episcopal nunneries too, and I’d heard they’d take you in. Either way I’d get even, parade in front of Mother and Steve in the mink coat or nun habit, whichever, and say, “You made me what I am today, I hope you’re satisfied.” And then it came to me, and came to me night after night: I didn’t have to do that, go for the shame or the convent, neither of which really appealed to me, as I did have someone out there to take up for me. That was my father, my real father I’m talking about, at lease as I thought he was then — that I’d never heard from, at Christmas or Valentine’s or even on my birthday. But who said he knew where I was? Could be that Mother hadn’t told him, as they’d broken up when I was born and she never spoke of him. But I began imagining him, how good-looking he was, and how we’d live, us two, on a desert isle we’d swim to when our plane was wrecked at sea, and eat clams and drink coconut milk. I got so I knew every tree, every bunch of grass, every stretch of sand on that island I had with him. Then I knew I was going to him, and once more I played hooky from school.

It was another Monday morning, early in June, a month ago, and once more Steve had driven in to the District to start his trip to New York. Once more I sat in the malt shop, once more Mother appeared, once more the Caddy stopped, once more it started off and she wasn’t there anymore. I went back to the house and packed, taking my time about it. I put my things in my zipper bag, the one I’d had at the beach — my dresses, some shorts, socks and other stuff, and one extra pair of shoes, but I put some loafers back as they took up too much room. I put on a blue mini dress. I put on a black straw hat, one I’d worn to church but OK, I thought, for travel. I counted my money, the thirty I’d made from odd jobs, the sixteen for baby-sitting, and the twenty-eight I had left over from delivering papers. I wrote Mother a note, pretty mean I guess, saying I was fed up but telling her good-bye and Steve good-bye. I left it on the hall table, picked up my bag and coat, walked down to the jewelry store, and, like I said, bought my bus ticket to Baltimore. Then I went out on the street again, but if I tell the truth, in my secret heart I didn’t know what I meant to do — get on the bus and go through with it, or walk on back to the house, tear up my note, and go on as I had been going. But on the bench, when I got to it, was a boy.

When he saw me he got up and took my bag and coat. He was medium height and kind of good-looking, except for the slant of his face, off to one side, with dark hair, black eyes, and sideburns. He had on gray slacks and a zipper jacket and looked around nineteen, three years older than I was. But when he sat down again, it wasn’t beside the bag and coat, but between me and them, kind of close, which was OK with me, except he was kind of rank from not having had a bath. I didn’t mind too much, but didn’t like it much either. However, no use magnifying small things, so when he said “Hiya,” I did, and we took it from there. He said what nice weather we were having, and I said yeah, it sure was, He said it was generally balmy in June, and I said there was that about it. We went along like that a few minutes, and then he asked if I was taking the bus. I said, “Yeah,” and then right away took it back, because, like I said, I wasn’t sure yet, down deep inside me, if I was taking that bus or not. I stammered, “I mean, I’m thinking about it. I... have my ticket bought, but I haven’t decided yet.” But then at last, for no good reason at all, except he was looking at me, except he kept looking at me, like I must be some kind of a kook, I did make up my mind — I knew I was taking that bus. I said, “Yeah, I’ve pretty well made up my mind. I guess I’m taking it, yeah.” And then: “I am! You can bet your sweet life on that!” And then, blurting it out, still for the same reason of how he was looking at me: “I’m leaving home if you have to know! I’m going to Baltimore! I’m going to find my father — my real father I’m talking about, not this other one, the one that beat me up!”

“...The one that what?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t unload on you.”

“Well, hey! It’s what a friend is for, isn’t it?”

“I could use one all right.”

He patted my hand, and we sat for some little time. Then: “I’m leaving home too, and I’m bound for Baltimore too. But I’m different from you — I’m not leaving, I was put. Out, I mean, like Bill Bailey, except without any fine-tooth comb till I bought myself one.” He took a comb from his pocket and waved it around at me. Then he went on, “Without anything, if you can believe it. Some friends took me in, but this morning they put me out. Stuff was missing from the pantry, and they said I took it and sold it. I said I hadn’t. I offered to prove I hadn’t, but would they let me? Would they believe what I said? Why is it my father, my mother, my friends, everyone except maybe my sister, got to believe somebody else, not me? Why can’t they ever believe me?”

“I’ve been through that, plenty.”

“But why? Will you tell me?”

“With that stepfather of mine I know why — I hope to tell you I do. I’d be ashamed to say. I’d be ashamed even to breathe it.”

“...When does your bus come through?”

“Twenty after. But I thought it was your bus too.”

“I wish it was. I’d love to travel with you, and Baltimore’s where I’m bound. The thing of it is I’m flat. I told you how they put me out — without a comb, without a brush, without a dime, and without one word being said about the two hundred they owe me, that they’re holding for me, that they’re supposed to be holding for me, that by rights ought to be mine... How much money you got?”

“...Little over seventy-four dollars.”

“Look, if you could lend me two dollars, then I could buy me a ticket and keep you company on this trip.”

“OK.”

“Thanks. You’re swell. What’s your name?”

“Mandy — Mandy Vernick. It’s really Amanda, but Mandy’s what they call me. What’s yours?”

“Rick. Rick Davis.”

“Rick? That’s for Richard?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I like it better than Dick.”

By then I had out my billfold to give him the money. He said, “Make it five — then I can hold my head up.”

So I made it five.

He went and bought a ticket, and then our bus came along, “three-twenty, right on time,” as he said, taking a flash at my watch. It was half full, but the back seat was empty and we took it, me sitting next to the window, him putting my bag and coat topside, in the rack over our heads. We passed a meadow off to one side, with a plane taxiing on it, a little yellow plane, and he said, “The College Park Flying Field — oldest one in the world. Did you know that, Mandy?”

“I never even heard of it.”

“Well, it is.”

That was the whole conversation for at lease half the trip. The bus was a local, stopping every three or four miles, but we held hands and didn’t mind. Then, though, I started talking, half to myself, and it all commenced coming out, about Steve, the real reason he had for spanking me, and even about Mother, who I shouldn’t have mentioned at all but had to; I just couldn’t help it. And yet I mightn’t have if it hadn’t been for him, listening so sympathetic. Seems funny, the way he treated me later, that I didn’t catch on at the time the kind of a guy he was. But I didn’t and went on and on, at last even telling about my father and how I would call him up soon as I got into the bus station in Baltimore. But then for the first time, ’stead of being so sympathetic, he shook his head no. “What’s the matter, Rick? I say something out of line?”