The Wayward Bus (20 page)

Mr. Pritchard, going back, was not careful, and when the bus took a curve he was flung sideways. He clutched at the seatback, missed it, and fell sprawling on Camille's lap. His right hand reaching to break his fall whipped her short skirt up and his arm went between her knees. Her skirt was slightly torn. She helped him disengage himself and she pulled down her skirt. Mr. Pritchard was blushing violently.

“I'm very sorry,” he said.

“Oh, it's all right.”

“But I've torn your skirt.”

“I can mend it.”

“But I must pay to have it mended.”

“I'll just patch it up myself. It isn't bad.” She looked at his face and knew that he was prolonging the affair as much as he could. “He'll want to know what address to send the money to,” she thought.

Mrs. Pritchard called, “Elliott, are you trying to sit in that lady's lap?”

Even Juan laughed then. Everyone laughed. And suddenly the bus was not full of strangers. Some chemical association was formed. Norma laughed hysterically. All the tension of the morning came out in her laughter.

Mr. Pritchard said, “I must say, you take it very well. I didn't come back here to sit in your lap. I wanted to have a few words with this gentleman. Son,” he said to Pimples, “would you mind moving for just a little while. I have some business I'd like to talk over with Mr.—I don't think I heard your name.”

“Horton,” said Ernest, “Ernest Horton.”

Mr. Pritchard had a whole series of tactics for getting on with people. He never forgot the name of a man richer or more powerful than he, and he never knew the name of a man less powerful. He had found that to make a man mention his own name would put that man at a slight disadvantage. For a man to speak his own name made him a little naked and unprotected.

Camille was looking at her torn skirt and talking softly to Norma. “I always wanted to live on a hill,” she said. “I love hills. I love to walk in hills.”

“It's all right after you're rich and famous,” Norma said firmly. “I know people in pictures that every chance they get, why, they go hunting and fishing and wear old clothes and smoke a pipe.”

Camille was bringing Norma out. She had never in her whole life felt so excited and free. She could say anything she wanted. She giggled a little.

“It's nicer to wear old dirty clothes if you've got a closet full of nice fresh clean ones,” she said. “Old clothes are the only kind I've got and I'm god-damned sick of it.” She glanced at Camille to see how she'd react to such candor.

Camille nodded. “You aren't kidding, sister.” Something very strong and sympathetic was growing up between these two. Mr. Pritchard tried to hear the conversation but he couldn't.

The ditches beside the highway ran full with water descending toward the valley. The heavy clouds were massing for a new attack.

“It's coming on to rain,” Van Brunt said happily.

Juan grunted. “I had a brother-in-law kicked to death by a horse,” he observed.

“Couldn't have used any sense,” said Van Brunt. “Horse kicks a man, it's usually the man's fault.”

“Killed him anyway,” said Juan, and he settled into silence.

The bus was nearing the top of the grade and the turns were becoming tighter all the time.

“I was very much interested in our little talk this morning, Mr. Horton. It's a pleasure to talk with a man with some get-up and go. I'm always on the look-out for men like that for my organization.”

“Thanks,” said Ernest.

“We're having trouble right now with these returning veterans,” said Mr. Pritchard. “Good men, you understand. And I think everything should be done for them—everything. But they've been out of the run. They're rusty. In business you've got to keep up every minute. A man that has kept up is twice as valuable as a man that has been out of the mill, so to speak.” He looked at Ernest for approval. Instead he saw a kind of hard, satiric look come into Ernest's eyes.

“I see your point,” Ernest said. “I was four years in the Army.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Pritchard. “Oh, yes—you're not wearing your discharge button, I see.”

“I've
got
a job,” Ernest said.

Mr. Pritchard fumbled with his thoughts. He had made a bad mistake. He wondered what the thing was in Ernest's lapel button. It looked familiar. He should know. “Well, they're a fine bunch of boys,” he said, “and I only hope we can put in an administration that will take care of them.”

“Like after the last war?” Ernest asked. It was a double brush, and Mr. Pritchard began to wonder if he'd been right about Horton. There was a kind of a brutality about Horton. He had a kind of swagger and a headlong quality so many ex-soldiers had. The doctors said they would get over it just as soon as they lived a good normal life for a while. They were out of line. Something would have to be done.

“I'm the first one to come to the defense of our veterans,” Mr. Pritchard said. He wished to God he could get off the subject. Ernest was looking at him with a slightly crooked smile that he was beginning to recognize in applicants for jobs. “I just thought I'd like to interview a man with your get-up and go,” Mr. Pritchard said uneasily. “When I get back from my vacation I'd be very glad to have you call on me. We can always make room for a man who's got it.”

“Well, sir,” said Ernest, “I get very sick of running around the country all the time. I often thought I'd like to have a home and a wife and a couple of kids. That's the real way to live. Come home at night and lock the whole world outside, and a boy and a girl, maybe. This sleeping in hotels isn't living.”

Mr. Pritchard nodded. “You're four-square right,” he said, and he was very much relieved. “I'm just the right man to say that to. Twenty-one years married and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“You've been lucky,” said Ernest. “Your wife's a fine-looking woman.”

“And she's a fine woman,” said Mr. Pritchard. “The most thoughtful person in the world. I often wonder what I'd do without her.”

“I was married once,” said Ernest. “My wife died.” His face was sad.

“I'm sorry,” said Mr. Pritchard. “And this may sound silly. Time does heal wounds. And maybe some day—well, I wouldn't give up hope.”

“Oh, I don't.”

“I didn't mean to pry into your affairs,” said Mr. Pritchard, “but I've been thinking about your idea for those lapel slipcovers for a dark suit to convert into a tuxedo. If you're not tied up with anyone I thought we might—well, talk about doing a little business.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “it's like I told you. Clothes manufacturers won't want something that will rule out some of their business. I just don't see the angle right now.”

Mr. Pritchard said, “I forget whether you said you had applied for a patent.”

“Well, no. I told you. I just registered the idea.”

“How do you mean, registered?”

“Well, I wrote out a description and made some drawings and put it in an envelope and mailed it to myself, registered mail. That proves when I did it because that envelope is sealed.”

“I see,” said Mr. Pritchard, and he wondered whether such a method would have any standing in court. He didn't know. But it was always better to take the inventor in on a percentage. Only the really big fellows could afford to lift an invention whole. The big fellows could afford a long fight. They figured it was cheaper than cutting in an inventor and the figures proved they were right. But Mr. Pritchard's firm wasn't big enough and, besides, he always thought that generosity paid off.

“I've got an idea or two that might work out,” he said. “Course, it'll take some organization. Now, suppose you and I could make a deal. This is just a supposition, you understand. I'd handle the organization and we would take a percentage of profit after expenses.”

“But they don't want it,” Ernest said. “I've asked around.” Mr. Pritchard laid a hand on Ernest's knee. He had a hollow feeling that he ought to shut up, but he remembered the satiric look in Ernest's eyes and he wanted Ernest to admire him and to like him. He couldn't shut up.

“Suppose we formed a company and we protected the idea?” he said. “Patent it, I mean. Now we organize to manufacture this product, a national advertising campaign—”

“Just a moment,” Ernest broke in.

But Mr. Pritchard was carried away. “Now suppose these layouts just happened to fall into the hands of, say, oh, Hart, Schaffner and Marx
⁴
or some big manufacturer like that, or maybe the association. They'd get ahold of it by accident, of course. Well, maybe they'd like to buy us out.”

Ernest began to look interested. “Buy the patent?”

“Buy not only the patent but the whole company.”

“But if they bought the patent then they could kill it,” Ernest said.

Mr. Pritchard's eyes were slitted and his pupils shone through his glasses and a little smile lay on the corners of his mouth. For the first time since she had got off the bus from San Ysidro he had forgotten Camille. “Look ahead a little further,” he said. “When we sell and dissolve the company we only pay a capital gain tax on the profits.”

“That's smart,” said Ernest excitedly. “Yes, sir, that's very smart. That's blackmail and a very high-class blackmail. Yes, sir, nobody could touch us.”

The smile vanished from Mr. Pritchard's mouth. “What do you mean, blackmail? We would intend to go ahead and manufacture. We could even order machinery.”

“That's what I mean,” said Ernest. “It's very high class. It's all wrapped up. You're a smart man.”

Mr. Pritchard said, “I hope you don't think it's dishonest. I've been in business thirty-five years and I've climbed to the head of my company. I can be proud of my record.”

“I'm not criticizing you,” Ernest said. “I think you've got a very sound idea there. I'm for it, only—”

“Only what?” said Mr. Pritchard.

“I'm kind of low on dough,” said Ernest, “and I'm gonna need a quick buck. Oh, well, I can borrow it, I guess.”

“What do you need money for? Maybe I could advance—”

“No,” said Ernest, “I'll get it myself.”

“Is it some new wrinkle you figured out?” Mr. Pritchard asked.

“Yes,” said Ernest. “I gotta get this idea into the patent office by carrier pigeon.”

“You don't think for one minute—”

“Of course not,” said Ernest. “Certainly not. But I'm gonna be happier when that envelope gets to Washington alone.”

Mr. Pritchard leaned back in his seat and smiled. The highway whirled and twisted ahead, and between two great abutments was the pass into the next valley.

“You'll be all right, son. I think we can do business. I don't want you to think I'd take advantage though. My record speaks for itself.”

“Oh, I don't,” said Ernest. “I don't.” He looked secretly at Mr. Pritchard. “It's just that I've got a couple of very luscious dames in L.A. and I don't want to get in that apartment and forget everything.” He saw the reaction he wanted.

“I'm going to be two days in Hollywood,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Maybe we could talk a little business.”

“Like in these dames' apartment?”

“Well, a man needs some kind of relaxation. I'm going to be at the Beverly Wilshire .
⁵
You could call me there.”

“I sure will,” said Ernest. “What color dame you like best?”

“Don't misunderstand me,” said Mr. Pritchard. “I like to sit and have a scotch and soda but I've got a position, you know. I don't want you to misunderstand.”

“Oh, I don't,” said Ernest. “I could maybe pick up the blonde ahead here, if you want.”

“Don't be silly,” said Mr. Pritchard.

Pimples had moved forward in the bus. On the underside of his jaw he felt an itching burn and he knew an eruption was forming. He sat down in the seat across from Mildred Pritchard. He didn't want to touch the new place but he was powerless over his hands. His right hand moved upward and his forefinger rubbed the lump under the chin. It was a very sore lump. This one was going to be a devil. He knew already what it would look like. He wanted to squeeze it, to scratch it, to rip it out. His nerves were on edge. He forced his hand into his coat pocket and clenched his fist there.

Mildred was staring vacantly out of the window.

“I wish I could go to Mexico,” Pimples said.

Mildred looked around at him in surprise. Her glasses caught the light from his window and glared blindly at him.

Pimples swallowed. “I never been there,” he said weakly.

“Neither have I,” said Mildred.

“Yeah, but you're going.”

She nodded. She didn't want to look at him because she couldn't keep her eyes from his eczema and that embarrassed him. “Maybe you can go soon,” she said uneasily.

“Oh, I'll go,” said Pimples. “I'll go everywhere. I'm a great traveler. I'd rather travel than anything. You get experience that way.”

She nodded again and took off her glasses in protection against him. Now she couldn't see him so clearly.

“I thought maybe I'd be a missionary like Spencer Tracy and go to China and cure them of all those diseases.
⁶
You ever been to China?”

“No,” said Mildred. She was fascinated by his thinking.

Pimples took most of his ideas from moving pictures and the rest from the radio. “It's very poor people there in China,” he said, “some of them so poor they just starve to death right outside your window if some missionary don't come along and help them. And if you help them, why, they love you, and let any Jap come around and make trouble and they stick a knife right in him.” He nodded solemnly. “I think they're just as good as you and me,” he said. “Spencer Tracy just came along and he cured them up and they loved him—and you know what he done? He found his own soul. And there was this girl and he didn't know whether he ought to marry her because she had a past. Of course, it came out it wasn't her fault and it wasn't even true, but this old dame told lies about her.” Pimples' eyes glowed with pity and enthusiasm. “But Spencer Tracy didn't believe those lies and he lived in an old palace that had secret passages and tunnels and—well, then the Japs come.”