Ширли Мерфи - The Sand Ponies

Karen smiles softly. “It’ll be all right. I know it will. No one will pay any attention. Something hot would taste so good.”

“Well, we’ll see. Here we come.” They are descending a steep hill, the bus’s gears growling. Below are a few pale lights strung out in a row, a few splashes of colored neon, and some faint house lights farther on. Karen and Tom are the only ones to get off, walking softly past the sleeping passengers as the darkened bus stops at a corner. There is no station. A small shaggy dog greets them and follows them a way, but soon goes home to bed.

They start up the one street of the town, walking north. They pass a restaurant, a grocery and gas station, then farther on, another restaurant, small and grimy. In between the buildings stand pine and redwood trees, casting strange shadows in the glow from the street lights and shop signs, and overhead a sickle moon is rising beyond the hills. They walk slowly, breathing the salty air and feeling the space around them. They pass a feed store, a few more shops, and then an open space. The town is quite spread out, as if it didn’t want to crowd in on itself. A good sign, Tom thinks. Then they come to an inn, set back a little from the road.

“I’d like to work there,” Karen says, impressed. It is a neat place with deep balconies around the second floor. In the center is a patio in which a huge oak tree stands sheltering some deserted tables. There are lights in what appears to be the dining room; the children stop and yearn toward it. “Some cocoa would taste so good,” Karen says.

Tom hesitates. “I guess there’s no harm,” he says finally, “if we hide our packs in the bushes. Maybe they’ll have a job.”

“What will we say if they do? That we live here?”

“No,” Tom says. “I don’t know.” It’s a dilemma they have not been able to solve. Then, “No. The town’s too small. We don’t know whether there are cabins or summer cottages where we could be living. We’d better have some cocoa and get the lay of the place, Karen, then wait until we’ve had a chance to look around some more, and make a plan.”

“All right.”

But when they have crossed the patio there is no restaurant, only a bar, and the occupants do not smile as the children enter. “What do you want?” asks the bartender. “Better go down to the Poppy, or Suzy’s. This here’s a bar, and kids not allowed.”

“We’re sorry,” Tom says. “We didn’t know. We just wanted coffee, that’s all.” They won’t have cocoa in a bar.

“You got money, you’ll get a cupa coffee,” the man tells them gruffly, “but you gotta take it outside. There’s tables in the patio.” Everyone in the bar is staring, making the children uncomfortable. Tom quickly pays for the coffee and heads for the door, Karen beside him.

“You kids want a bed?” A gruff woman’s voice stops them. She is a sinewy, tanned person with short dark hair. She is wearing a man’s shirt and Levi’s, and smoking a cigarette in a holder. She is sitting at a round wooden table with five men, poker chips and cards and glasses and ash trays scattered about. The men look equally sun-browned and rough, but somehow different from the cowboys and fishermen the children have known. Two have beards, and all have longish hair and mean-looking eyes.

“You kids want a bed?” she repeats.

“How could she have known? How could she?” Karen is to say later. Now they say nothing; both children are far too surprised. They just stand gaping.

“I could use a couple of dishwashers, and the floors need scrubbing.” The woman continues, “You want a bed, you kids, or are you summer people?”

It is a chance for a job. Work and meals, and a room besides. Tom looks again at the bar and the rough men, and smells the stale beer smell. He looks at his sister, then gives the woman his best smile. “We hadn’t thought about it. We really planned to loaf this summer. We’ll ask our parents, though, if you need help. We won’t want a room, of course. What will you pay, ma’am?”

“Ninety cents an hour, if you work good. Can you wait table, kid?” she asks Karen.

“I don’t know why not,” Karen says, poised.

“You ask your folks, kids,” snaps the bartender. “Sixteen, ain’tcha? Must be. Don’t want nothing illegal going on around here.” There is a snicker from the poker table, and the woman glares for a second.

“We’ll ask,” Karen says, smiling. “We’ll ask, and come back in the morning. Thank you. And thanks,” she says to the bartender, “for the coffee.”

They drink their coffee at a table under the tree, looking at the stars through the branches and warming their hands around the steaming cups. They whisper a little, hut dare not giggle over their deceitfulness. Karen’s heart is pounding and she is glad when Tom returns their cups to the bar. “Well-brought-up kids,” says the bartender. Several men chuckle.

“Just the thing for the Black Turtle,” says one, and there is a murmur of laughter in the smoky room.

The children walk into the dusk of the road, retrieving their bags from the bushes.

“We’ll not go back there,” Tom says when they are out on the road once more. Most of the town is behind them, but there are a few tourist cabins with small Vacancy signs, and farther on, a blacksmith’s shop.

“No,” Karen says. She knows Tom is right, but the thought of waiting table interests her, and she is a little disappointed. “Maybe we only imagined there was anything strange about it. Maybe we are too touchy about bars and things, because of Uncle George.”

Tom only looks at her.

“I guess it really wasn’t a very nice place,” she says reluctantly. Tom grins.

Now that the town is behind them the stars are brighter, and the moon sits like a golden scythe overhead. The ocean is louder, too, though they cannot see it, for the road is lined with scrubby, thick-growing trees.

A few cottages begin to appear, set back from the road, most of them dark, but here and there a light. “We would be best off sleeping near one of them,”

Tom says. “In case anyone bothered us, we could yell, or get to people for help.”

There is a soft light ahead, and as they approach the cabin they see pale curtains and someone reading by the window. Close to the road is a giant willow tree, dropping its lacy branches to the ground. Tom parts the curtains of leaves, and there inside is a leaf-walled room, lighted faintly by the glow from the thin moon. They wait and listen. Nothing stirs, and the figure goes on reading. The children step inside and let the leaves fall together. They are completely hidden from the road and the house. They grin in the faint light and stealthily spread their tarpaulins out on the ground, taking care not to rustle the dry leaves. They settle down and pull their heavy coats over them. Karen is still thinking about the job.

“But we do need it badly,” she whispers to Tom. “Couldn’t we work for a little while, just to get some money, then go away? Before they find out we don’t live here?” She doesn’t dare whisper very loud, and Tom strains to hear.

“I’m afraid of it, Karen. I don’t like that place.”

She sighs.

“But maybe we’ll feel differently in the morning.”

“Yes, maybe,” she says hopefully. “How would we work it? Would we take the room?”

“They’d know we lied to them.”

“Would they care?”

“Not unless it were to their advantage, I think.”

Karen knows he is right. “But couldn’t we say that our folks are letting us do it for a lark? Or that they are going away for a couple of weeks, and will let us stay and work if we promise to do as we’re told, and not go out anywhere at night after work? Something like that?”