The Wayward Bus (16 page)

Louie glanced in the rear-view mirror at the girl again. She was looking at the back of his head. But something made her look up at the mirror and right into Louie's eyes, and the eyes with their dark lines and the straight, pretty nose and the mouth painted on square photographed permanently in Louie's brain. When she looked into his eyes she smiled as though she felt good.

Louie knew that his throat was closing, and a rising pressure was in his chest. He thought he must be nuts. He knew he was shy, but mostly he convinced himself that he was not, and he was going through all the symptoms of a sixteen-year-old. His eyes flicked from road to mirror, back and forth. He could see that his cheeks were red. “What the hell is this?” he said to himself. “Am I going to go ga-ga over a chippie?” He looked at her more closely to find some thought to save himself, and then he saw deep forceps marks along her jaws. That made him feel more comfortable. She wouldn't be so god-damned confident if she knew he saw the forceps marks. Forty-two miles. The figures came into his head. She'd get off in forty-two miles. Louie would have to make time. He couldn't waste a minute if he wanted to throw a line over this little hustler. And when he tried to speak his voice was hoarse.

She leaned close behind him. “I couldn't hear you,” she said.

Louie coughed. “I said the country looks nice after the rain.”

“Yes, it does.”

He tried to get back to his usual opening. He noticed in the mirror that she was still leaning forward to listen.

“Like I said,” he began, “I try to figure people out. I'd say you was in the movies or on the stage.”

“No,” said the girl. “You'd be wrong.”

“Aren't you in show business?”

“No.”

“Well, do you work?”

She laughed, and her face was very charming when she laughed. But Louie noticed that one of her upper front teeth was crooked. It leaned over and interfered with its neighbor. Her laughter stopped and her upper lip covered the tooth. “Conscious of it,” Louie thought.

She was ahead of him. She knew what he was going to say. It had happened so many times before. He was going to try to find out where she lived. He wanted her telephone number. It was simple. She didn't live anywhere. She had a trunk stored with Loraine with some books in it—
Captain Hornblower
,
⁶
and a
Life of Beethoven
,
⁷
and some paper books of the short stories of Saroyan,
⁸
and some old evening dresses to be made over. She knew Louie was having trouble. She knew that blush that rose out of a man's collar and the thickness of labored speech. She saw Louie glance apprehensively in the mirror at the rear of the bus.

The Hindus were smiling a little at each other. The Chinaman was staring up in the air, trying to work up in his mind some discrepancy in the stories he had been reading. A Greek in the rear seat was cutting an Italian cigar in two with a pocketknife. He put one piece in his mouth and thoughtfully placed the other half in his breast pocket. The old woman was working herself up into a rage at Louie. She directed an iron look at the back of his head, and her chin quivered with fury and her lips were white with the tension of their compression.

The girl leaned forward again. “I'll save you time,” she said. “I'm a dental nurse. You know, I do all those things in a dentist's office.” She often used this. She didn't know why. Perhaps because it stopped speculation and there were never any more questions after she said it. People didn't want to talk much about dentistry.

Louie digested this. The bus came to a railroad crossing. Automatically Louie set his air brakes and stopped. The brakes hissed as he released them and went through the gears to cruising speed again. He sensed that things were closing in on him. The old bitch was going to start trouble any minute now. He didn't have forty-two miles at all. Once the old bitch put in her oar the thing would be over. He wanted to make time while he could, but it was too soon according to Louie's methods. He shouldn't make a play for a good half hour, but the old bitch was going to force his hand.

“Sometimes I get into L.A.,” he said. “Is there someplace I could call you and maybe we could—have dinner and go to a show?”

She was friendly about it. There wasn't anything mean or bitchy about her. She said, “I don't know. You see, I haven't any place to live now. I've been away. I want to get an apartment as soon as I can.”

“But you work someplace,” said Louie. “Maybe I could call you there.”

The old woman was squirming and twitching in her seat. She was mad because Louie had kicked her out of the front seat.

“Well, no,” said the girl. “You see, I haven't got a job. Of course, I'll get one right away because you can always get a job in my profession.”

“This isn't a brush-off ?” Louie asked.

“No.”

“Well, maybe you could drop me a line when you get settled.”

“Maybe.”

“Because I'd like to know someone to take out in L.A.”

And now here it came, the voice as shrill as a whetstone. “There's a state law about talking to passengers. You watch the road.” The old woman addressed the whole bus. “This driver's putting our lives in danger. I'm going to ask to get off if he can't keep his attention on his driving.”

Louie closed up. This was serious. She really could make trouble. He looked in the mirror and found the girl's eyes. With his lips he said, “The god-damned dried up old bitch!”

The girl smiled and put her fingers to her lips. In a way she was relieved and in another she was sorry. She knew that sooner or later she would have trouble with Louie. But she also knew that in many ways he was a nice guy and one she could handle up to a certain point. She knew from his blush that she could probably stop him by hurting his feelings.

But it was over and Louie knew it. The girl wasn't going to get herself in a mess. He had to make time while the bus was rolling. He knew that. Once you got to a station the passengers wanted out as quick as possible. Now he'd lost out. At Rebel Corners he would stop only long enough to let her off and unload that god-damned crate of pies. He hunched over the wheel. The girl had folded her hands in her lap and her eyes would not raise to meet his in the mirror. There were lots of girls prettier than this one. Those forceps scars were damned ugly. They'd give a guy the shivers. Of course, she wore her hair long and forward to cover them. A girl like that couldn't wear her hair up. Louie liked hair up and, Jesus! suppose you woke up in bed and saw those scars. There were plenty of pigs in the world and Louie could get along. But in his chest and his stomach there was a weight of sorrow. He fought at it and picked at it but it wouldn't move. He wanted this girl more than he had ever wanted anyone, and in a different way. He felt a dry and grainy sense of loss. He didn't even know her name, and now he wouldn't get to know her. He could see Edgar's eager eyes questioning him when he came back to San Ysidro. Louie wondered if he would lie to Edgar.

The great tires sang on the road, a high, twanging song, and the motor throbbed with a heavy beat. There were big, wet, floppy clouds in the sky, dark as soot in the middle and white and shining on the edges. One of them was creeping up on the sun now. Already, ahead on the highway, Louie could see the shadow of it rushing toward the bus, and far ahead on the highway he could see the towering green mound of the oaks that grew about the lunchroom at Rebel Corners. He was filled with disappointment.

Juan Chicoy came to the side of the bus as it pulled in.

“What you got for me?” he asked as the door opened.

“One passenger and a flock of pies,” said Louie. He got up from his seat, reached around, and lifted the girl's suitcase. He climbed down to the ground and held up his hands, and the girl put her hands on his arms and stepped down. They walked toward the lunchroom.

“Good-by,” she said.

“Good-by,” said Louie. He watched her go through the door, her little behind bobbing up and down.

Juan and Pimples had the crate of pies off the top of the bus. Louie climbed back into the bus.

“So long,” said Juan.

The old woman had moved up into the front seat. Louie levered the door shut. He went into gear and moved away. When he was in cruising speed and the tires were ringing on the highway, he looked in the mirror. The old woman wore a look of mean triumph.

“You killed it,” Louie said to himself. “Oh, you murdered it.”

The woman looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror. Deliberately Louie made silent words with his lips. “You god damned old bitch!” He saw her lips grow tight and white. She knew what he meant.

The highway sang along ahead of the bus.

CHAPTER 8

Juan and Pimples carried the crate of Mother Mahoney's Home-Baked Pies near to the door of the lunchroom and set it down on the ground. Both of them watched the blonde go through the door. Pimples whistled a low gurgling note. The palms of his hands turned suddenly sweaty. Juan's eyes had lowered until only a little glint of light shone between his lashes. He licked his lips quickly and nervously.

“I know what you mean,” said Juan. “Want to take time out and go over and lift your leg on a tree?”

“God Almighty,” said Pimples. “Whew!”

“Yeah,” said Juan. He bent over, turned the latch on the crate, and raised the hinged side. “I'll take a small bet, Kit.”

“What's that?” Pimples asked.

“I bet,” said Juan, “I bet two to one you already got in your mind the idea that you didn't have a day off for two weeks and you'd like to take today and ride over to San Juan with me. Maybe it would even help if the bus breaks down again.”

Pimples started to blush around his eruptions. He raised his eyes uneasily and looked at Juan, and there was so much humor without poison in Juan's eyes that Pimples felt better. “God damn!” he thought, “there is a man. Why'd I ever work for anybody else?”

“Well,” Pimples said aloud, and he felt he was talking to a man. Juan understood how a guy looked at things. When a cookie went by, Juan knew how a guy felt. “Well,” he said again.

“Well,” Juan mimicked him, “and who's gonna take care of the gas pumps and fix the flats?”

“Who done it before?” Pimples asked.

“Nobody,” said Juan. “We used to just put a sign on the garage—Closed For Repairs. Alice can pump gas.” He slapped Pimples on the shoulder.

“What a guy,” Pimples thought. “What a guy!”

The pies were held by little traylike slots which gripped the edges of the pans and left each pie separate from all the others. There were four stacks of twelve pies—forty-eight pies.

“Let's see,” said Juan, “we get six raspberry, four lemon cream, four raisin, and two caramel custard cream.” He pulled out the pies as he spoke and laid them on top of the crate. “Take them in, Pim—Kit, I mean.”

Pimples took a pie in each hand and went into the lunchroom. The blonde was sitting on a stool drinking a cup of coffee. He couldn't see her face but he felt the electricity or whatever it was she had. He put the pies on the counter.

As he turned to go out again he felt the silence in the room.

Mr. Pritchard and the crabby old guy and the young fellow, Horton, were entranced. Their eyes rose and washed the blonde and fell away. Miss Pritchard and her mother looked pointedly at the piles of bran in back of the counter. Alice was not there, but Norma was in front of the blonde, wiping the counter with her rag.

“Like to have a snail?” Norma asked.

Pimples paused. He had to hear the tone of the blonde's voice.

“Yes, I guess so,” she said. A quick spasm kinked Pimples' stomach at the throaty tone. He hurried outside and gathered up more pies.

“Get moving,” Juan said. “You can look at her all the way over to San Juan, unless you'd rather drive.”

Pimples rushed the pies in. Sixteen pies out. That left thirty-two. Juan closed the side of the crate and turned the catch. When Pimples came out the last time he helped Juan put the pie crate in the big black trunk of “Sweetheart,” the bus. She was ready now. Ready to go. Juan stood back and looked at her. She was no Greyhound but she wasn't bad. Around the windows a little rust showed through the aluminum paint. He would have to touch that up. And the hub caps could take a new coat too.

“Let's get going,” he said to Pimples. “Lock the garage doors. Right between the benches under the radiator hose connections you'll find the sign to put on the door. Jump now if you want to get your clothes changed.”

Pimples leaped for the garage door. Juan straightened up and stretched his arms from his sides and moved toward the lunchroom.

Mr. Pritchard's right leg was crossed over his left and his suspended toe made little convulsive jumps. He had glanced into the blonde's face when she came in and now there was a pleasant excitement in him. But he was puzzled. Somewhere, he thought, he had seen this girl. Maybe she'd worked in one of his plants, maybe a secretary, maybe in some friend's office. But he'd seen her. He felt sure he had. He truly believed that he never forgot a face, when the truth was that he rarely remembered one. He didn't look closely at any face unless he planned to do business with its owner. He wondered about the sense of sin he got out of the recognition. Where could he have seen this girl?

His wife was looking secretly at his swinging foot. Ernest Horton was frankly gazing at the blonde's legs. Norma liked the girl. In one respect Norma was like Loraine. She didn't love anyone—well, except one—so she had nothing to be taken away, nothing to lose. And this girl was nice. She was pleasant-spoken and polite. Actually the girl felt good toward Norma too, sensing that this girl could like her.