The Collection (84 page)

The
road branched; there were several ways from here and I might miss her. I took
the shortest route, the one she'd be most likely to take if she came directly home
from town. It went past Carter Brent's place, but that was dark. There was a
light on at Sylvia's place, though, and guitar music. I knocked on the door and
while I was waiting I realized that it was the phonograph and not a live
guitarist. It was Segovia playing Bach, the Chaconne from the D-Minor Partita,
one of my favorites. Very beautiful, very fine-boned and delicate, like Lamb.

Sylvia
came to the door and answered my question. No, she hadn't seen Lamb. And no,
she hadn't been at the inn, or anywhere. She'd been home all afternoon and
evening, but did I want to drop in for a drink? I was tempted--more by Segovia
than by the drink--but I thanked her and went on.

I
should have turned around and gone back home instead, because for no reason I
was getting into one of my black moods. I was illogically annoyed because I
didn't know where Lamb was; if I found her now I'd probably quarrel with her,
and I hate quarreling. Not that we do, often. We're each pretty tolerant and
understanding--of little things, at least. And Lamb's not having come home yet
was still a little thing.

But I
could hear the blaring jukebox when I was still a long way from the inn and it
didn't lighten my mood any. I could see in the window now and Lamb wasn't
there, not at the bar. But there were still the booths, and besides, someone
might know where she was. There were two couples at the bar. I knew them;
Charlie and Eve Chandler and Dick Bristow with a girl from Los Angeles whom I'd
met but whose name I couldn't remember. And one fellow, stag, who looked as
though he was trying to look like a movie scout from Hollywood. Maybe he really
was one.

I went
in and, thank God, the jukebox stopped just as I went through the door. I went
over to the bar, glancing at the line of booths; Lamb wasn't there.

I said,
"Hi," to the four of them that I knew, and to the stag if he wanted
to take it to cover him, and to Harry, behind the bar. "Has Lamb been
here?" I asked Harry.

"Nope,
haven't seen her, Wayne. Not since six; that's when I came on. Want a
drink?"

I
didn't, particularly, but I didn't want it to look as though I'd come solely
for Lamb, so I ordered one.

"How's
the painting coming?" Charlie Chandler asked me.

He
didn't mean any particular painting and he wouldn't have known anything about
it if he had. Charlie runs the local bookstore and--amazingly--he can tell the
difference between Thomas Wolfe and a comic book, but he couldn't tell the
difference between an El Greco and an Al Capp. Don't misunderstand me on that;
I like Al Capp.

So I
said, "Fine," as one always says to a meaningless question, and took
a swallow of the drink that Harry had put in front of me. I paid for it and
wondered how long I'd have to stay in order to make it not too obvious that I'd
come only to look for Lamb.

For
some reason, conversation died. If anybody had been talking to anybody before I
came in, he wasn't now. I glanced at Eve and she was making wet circles on the
mahogany of the bar with the bottom of a martini goblet. The olive stirred
restlessly in the bottom and I knew suddenly that was the color, the exact
color I'd wanted to mix an hour or two ago just before I'd decided not to try
to paint. The color of an olive moist with gin and vermouth. Just right for the
main sweep of the biggest hill, shading darker to the right, lighter to the
left. I stared at the color and memorized it so I'd have it tomorrow. Maybe I'd
even try it tonight when I got back home; I had it now, daylight or no. It was
right; it was the color that had to be there. I felt good; the black mood that
had threatened to come on was gone.

But
where was Lamb? If she wasn't home yet when I got back, would I be able to
paint? Or would I start worrying about her, without reason? Would I get that
tightness in the pit of my stomach?

I saw
that my glass was empty. I'd drunk too fast. Now I might as well have another
one, or it would be too obvious why I'd come. And I didn't want people--not
even people like these--to think I was jealous of Lamb and worried about her.
Lamb and I trusted each other implicitly. I was curious as to where she was and
I wanted her back, but that was all. I wasn't suspicious of where she might be.
They wouldn't realize that.

I said,
"Harry, give me a martini." I'd had so few drinks that it wouldn't
hurt me to mix them, and I wanted to study that color, intimately and at close
hand. It was going to be the central color motif; everything would revolve
around it.

Harry
handed me the martini. It tasted good. I swished around the olive and it wasn't
quite the color I wanted, a little too much in the brown, but I still had the
idea. And I still wanted to work on it tonight, if I could find Lamb. If she
was there, I could work; I could get the planes of color in, and tomorrow I
could mode them, shade them.

But
unless I'd missed her, unless she was already home or on her way there, it
wasn't too good a chance. We knew dozens of people; I couldn't try every place
she might possibly be. But there was one other fairly good chance, Mike's Club,
a mile down the road, out of town on the other side. She'd hardly have gone
there unless she was with someone who had a car, but that could have happened.
I could phone there and find out.

I
finished my martini and nibbled the olive and then turned around to walk over
to the phone booth. The wavy-haired man who looked as though he might be from
Hollywood was just walking back toward the bar from the jukebox and it was
making preliminary scratching noises. He'd dropped a coin into it and it
started to play something loud and brassy. A polka, and a particularly noisy
and obnoxious one. I felt like hitting him one in the nose, but I couldn't even
catch his eye as he strolled back and took his stool again at the bar. And
anyway, he wouldn't have known what I was hitting him for. But the phone booth
was just past the jukebox and I wouldn't hear a word, or be heard, if I phoned
Mike's.

A
record takes about three minutes, and I stood one minute of it and that was
enough. I wanted to make that call and get out of there, so I walked toward the
booth and I reached around the jukebox and pulled the plug out of the wall.
Quietly, not violently at all. But the sudden silence was violent, so violent
that I could hear, as though she'd screamed them, the last few words of what
Eve Chandler had been saying to Charlie Chandler. Her voice pitched barely to
carry above the din of brass--but she might as well have used a public address
system once I'd pulled the jukebox's plug.

"...
may be at Hans's." Bitten off suddenly, as if she'd intended to say more.

Her
eyes met mine and hers looked frightened.

I
looked back at Eve Chandler. I didn't pay any attention to Golden Boy from
Hollywood; if he wanted to make anything of the fact that I'd ruined his dime,
that was his business and he could start it. I went into the phone booth and
pulled the door shut. If that jukebox started again before I'd finished my
call, it would be my business, and I could start it. The jukebox didn't start
again.

I gave
the number of Mike's and when someone answered, I asked, "Is Lamb
there?"

"Who
did you say?"

"This
is Wayne Gray," I said patiently. "Is Lambeth Gray there?"

"Oh."
I recognized it now as Mike's voice. "Didn't get you at first. No, Mr.
Gray, your wife hasn't been here."

I
thanked him and hung up. When I went out of the booth, the Chandlers were gone.
I heard a car starting outside.

I waved
to Harry and went outside. The taillight of the Chandlers' car was heading up
the hill. In the direction they'd have gone if they were heading for Hans
Wagner's studio--to warn Lamb that I'd heard something I shouldn't have heard,
and that I might come there.

But it
was too ridiculous to consider. Whatever gave Eve Chandler the wild idea that
Lamb might be with Hans, it was wrong. Lamb wouldn't do anything like that. Eve
had probably seen her having a drink or so with Hans somewhere, sometime, and
had got the thing wrong. Dead wrong. If nothing else, Lamb would have better
taste than that. Hans was handsome, and he was a ladies' man, which I'm not,
but he's stupid and he can't paint. Lamb wouldn't fall for a stuffed shirt like
Hans Wagner.

But I
might as well go home now, I decided. Unless I wanted to give people the
impression that I was canvassing the town for my wife, I couldn't very well
look any farther or ask any more people if they'd seen her. And although I
don't care what people think about me either personally or as a painter, I
wouldn't want them to think I had any wrong ideas about Lamb.

I
walked off in the wake of the Chandlers' car, through the bright moonlight. I
came in sight of Hans's place again, and the Chandlers' car wasn't parked
there; if they'd stopped, they'd gone right on. But, of course, they would
have, under those circumstances. They wouldn't have wanted me to see that they
were parked there; it would have looked bad.

The
lights were on there, but I walked on past, up the hill toward my own place.
Maybe Lamb was home by now; I hoped so. At any rate, I wasn't going to stop at
Hans's. Whether the Chandlers had or not.

Lamb
wasn't in sight along the road between Hans's place and mine. But she could
have made it before I got that far, even if--well, even if she had been there.
If the Chandlers had stopped to warn her.

Three
quarters of a mile from the inn to Hans's. Only one quarter of a mile from
Hans's place to mine. And Lamb could have run; I had only walked.

Past
Hans's place, a beautiful studio with that skylight I envied him. Not the
place, not the fancy furnishings, just that wonderful skylight. Oh, yes, you
can get wonderful light outdoors, but there's wind and dust just at the wrong
time. And when, mostly, you paint out of your head instead of something you're
looking at, there's no advantage to being outdoors at all. I don't have to look
at a hill while I'm painting it. I've seen a hill.

The
light was on at my place, up ahead. But I'd left it on, so that didn't prove
Lamb was home. I plodded toward it, getting a little winded by the uphill
climb, and I realized I'd been walking too fast. I turned around to look back
and there was that composition again, with the gibbous moon a little higher, a
little brighter. It had lightened the black of the near hills and the far ones
were blacker. I thought, I can do that. Gray on black and black on gray. And,
so it wouldn't be a monochrome, the yellow lights. Like the lights at Hans's
place. Yellow lights like Hans's yellow hair. Tall, Nordic-Teutonic type,
handsome. Nice planes in his face. Yes, I could see why women liked him. Women,
but not Lamb.

I had
my breath back and started climbing again. I called out Lamb's name when I got
near the door, but she didn't answer. I went inside, but she wasn't there.

The
place was very empty. I poured myself a glass of wine and went over to look at
the picture I'd blocked out. It was all wrong; it didn't mean anything. The
lines were nice but they didn't mean anything at all. I'd have to scrape the
canvas and start over. Well, I'd done that before. It's the only way you get
anything, to be ruthless when something's wrong. But I couldn't start it
tonight.

The tin
clock said it was a quarter to eleven; still, that wasn't late. But I didn't
want to think so I decided to read a while. Some poetry, possibly. I went over
to the bookcase. I saw Blake and that made me think of one of his simplest and
best poems, "The Lamb." It had always made me think of
Lamb--"Little lamb, who made thee?" It had always given me,
personally, a funny twist to the line, a connotation that Blake, of course,
hadn't intended. But I didn't want to read Blake tonight. T.S. Eliot:
"Midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium." But
it wasn't midnight yet, and I wasn't in the mood for Eliot. Not even Prufrock:
"Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table--" He could do things with words
that I'd have liked to do with pigments, but they aren't the same things, the
same medium. Painting and poetry are as different as eating and sleeping. But
both fields can be, and are, so wide. Painters can differ as greatly as Bonnard
and Braque, yet both be great. Poets as great as Eliot and Blake. "Little
lamb, who--" I didn't want to read.

And
enough of thinking. I opened the trunk and got my forty-five caliber automatic.
The clip was full; I jacked a cartridge into the chamber and put the safety
catch on. I put it into my pocket and went outside. I closed the door behind me
and started down the hill toward Hans Wagner's studio.

I
wondered, had the Chandlers stopped there to warn them? Then either Lamb would
have hurried home--or, possibly, she might have gone on with the Chandlers, to
their place. She could have figured that to be less obvious than rushing home.
So, even if she wasn't there, it would prove nothing. If she was, it would show
that the Chandlers hadn't stopped there.

I
walked down the road and I tried to look at the crouching black beast of the
hills, the yellow of the lights. But they added up to nothing, they meant
nothing. Unfeeling, ungiving-to-feel, like a patient etherized upon a table.
Damn Eliot, I thought; the man saw too deeply. The useless striving of the
wasteland for something a man can touch but never have, the shaking of a dead
geranium. As a madman. Little Lamb. Her dark hair and her darker eyes in the
whiteness of her face. And the slender, beautiful whiteness of her body. The
softness of her voice and the touch of her hands running through my hair. And
Hans Wagner's hair, yellow as that mocking moon.