Arthur Hailey - Wheels

"Hi, Dad!" Barbara said. "This is"

Matt's voice cut across her words. Glaring at Rollie, he demanded, "What the hell are you doing in my house, sitting there . . . ?"

Of necessity, through years of managing an auto plant in which a major segment of the work force was black, Matt Zaleski had acquired a patina of racial tolerance. But it was never more than a patina. Beneath the surface he still shared the views of his Polish parents and their Wyandotte neighbors who regarded any Negro as inferior. Now, seeing his own daughter entertaining a black man in Matt's own home, an unreasoning rage possessed him, to which tension and tiredness were an added spur.

He spoke and acted without thought of consequences.

"Dad," Barbara said sharply, "this is my friend, Mr. Knight. I invited him, and don't . . ."

"Shut up!" Matt shouted as he swung toward his daughter. "I'll deal with you later."

The color drained from Barbara's face. "What do you mean - you'll deal with me?"

Matt ignored her. His eyes still boring into Rollie Knight, he pointed to the kitchen door through which he had just come in. "Out!"

"Dad, don't you dare!"

Barbara was on her feet, moving swiftly toward her father. When she was within reach he slapped her hard across the face.

It was as if they were acting out a classic tragedy, and now it was Barbara who was unbelieving. She thought: This cannot be happening. The blow had stung and she guessed there were weal marks on her cheek, though that part was unimportant. What mattered was of the mind. It was as if a rock had been rolled aside, the rock a century of human progression and understanding, only to reveal a festering rottenness beneath - the unreason, hatred, bigotry living in Matt Zaleski's mind. And Barbara, because she was her father's daughter, at this moment shared his guilt.

Outside, a car stopped.

Rollie, as well, was standing. An instant earlier his confidence had deserted him because he was on unfamiliar ground. Now, as it came back, he told Matt, "Piss on you, honky!"

Matt's voice trembled. "I said get out. Now go!"

Barbara closed her eyes. Piss on you, honky! Well, why not? Wasn't that how life went, returning hate for hate?

For the second time within a few minutes the house side door opened. Brett DeLosanto came in, announcing cheerfully, "Couldn't make anybody hear."

He beamed at Barbara and Matt, then observed Rollie Knight. "Hi, Rollie!

Nice surprise to see you. How's the world, good friend?"

At Brett's easy greeting to the young black man, a flicker of doubt crossed Matt Zaleski's face.

"Piss on you too," Rollie said to Brett. He glanced contemptuously at Barbara. And left.

Brett asked the other two, "Now what in hell was that about?"

He had driven directly across town from Metropolitan Airport when his flight from California landed less than an hour ago. Brett had wanted to see Barbara, to tell her of his personal decision and plans he had begun formulating during the journey home. His spirits had been high and were the reason for his breezy entry. Now, he realized, something serious was wrong.

Barbara shook her head, unable to speak because of tears she was choking back. Brett moved across the room. Putting his arms around her, he urged gently, "Whatever it is, let go, relax! We can talk about it later."

Matt said uncertainly, "Look, maybe I was . . ."

Barbara's voice overrode him. "I don't want to hear."

She had control of herself, and eased away from Brett who volunteered,

"If this is a family mishmash, and you'd prefer me to leave . . ."

"I want you here," Barbara said. "And when you go, I'm leaving with you." She stopped, then regarding him directly, "You've asked me twice, Brett, to come and live with you. If you still want me to, I will."

He answered fervently, "You know I do."

Matt Zaleski had dropped into a chair. His head came up. "Live!"

"That's right," Barbara affirmed icily. "We won't be married; neither of us wants to be. We'll merely share the same apartment, the same bed . . ."

"No!" Matt roared. "By God, no!"

She warned, "Just try to stop me!"

They faced each other briefly, then her father dropped his eyes and put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.

"I'll pack a few things for tonight," Barbara told Brett, "then come back for the rest tomorrow."

"Listen" - Brett's eyes were on the dejected figure in the chair - I wanted us to get together. You know it. But does it have to be this way?"

She answered crisply, "When you know what happened, you'll understand.

So take me or leave me - now, the way I am. If you don't, I'll go to a hotel."

He flashed a quick smile. "I'll take you."

Barbara went upstairs.

When the two men were alone, Brett said uncomfortably, "Mr. Z., whatever it was went wrong, I'm sorry."

There was no answer, and he went outside to wait for Barbara in his car.

For almost half an hour Brett and Barbara cruised the streets nearby, searching for Rollie Knight. In the first few minutes after putting her suitcase in the car and driving away, Barbara explained what had occurred before Brett's arrival. As she talked, his face went grim.

After a while he said, "Poor little bastard! No wonder he took off at me too."

"And me."

"I guess he figures we're all alike inside. Why wouldn't he?"

They drove down another empty street, then, near the end of it, their headlights picked up a shadowy figure, walking. It turned out to be a neighbor of the Zaleskis, going home.

"Rollie's gone." Brett glanced across the front seat of the car inquiringly. "We know where he lives."

Both knew the reason behind Brett's hesitation. It could be dangerous in downtown Detroit at night. Armed holdups and assaults were commonplace.

She shook her head. "We can't do anything more tonight. Let's go home."

"First things first." He pulled to the curb and they kissed.

"Home for you," Brett said carefully, "is a new address - Country Club Manor, West Maple at Telegraph."

Despite their shared depression from tonight's events, he had an excited, breathless feeling as he swung the car northwest.

Much later, lying beside each other in the darkened bedroom of Brett's apartment, Barbara said softly, "Are your eyes open?"

"Yes." A few minutes previously Brett had rolled over onto his back.

Now, hands behind his head, he was regarding the dimness of the ceiling.

"What were you thinking?"

"About something clumsy I once said to you. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

It had been the night Barbara had prepared dinner here and Brett had brought Leonard Wingate home - the first meeting for the three of them.

Afterward, Brett tried to persuade Barbara to stay the night with him, and when she wouldn't, had declared, "You're twenty-nine; you can't possibly be a virgin, so what's our hangup?"

"You didn't say anything when I said that," Brett pointed out, "but you were, weren't you?"

He heard her gentle, rippling laughter. "If anyone's in a position to know . . ."

"Okay, okay." She sensed him smiling, then he turned sideways so that their faces were together once again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing you talk about. Anyway, was it important, really?"

"It's important to me."

There was a silence, then Barbara said, "If you must know, it was important to me, too. You see, I always wanted the first time to be with someone I truly loved." She reached out, her fingers moving lightly down his face. "In the end, it was."

Brett's arms went around her, once more their bodies pressed together as he whispered, "I love you, too."

He had an awareness of savoring one of life's rare and precious moments.