bud?”
“Yeah, and pretty soon the bunny will be bringing Easter eggs besides.”
He gave me a startled look over his shoulder and dropped me from his mind. My consciousness began to operate in fits and starts, like a bored conversation, and finally blanked out in sleep. I woke up momentarily when the bus stopped and filled up with passengers at the amusement park. They climbed in, laughing and talking and yelling drunkenly: an apprentice seaman clutching a papier-mâché doll in one hand and a girl in the other; a couple of sleek youngsters in zoot suits, sharing a girl with precocious breasts and a dopey look on her face; an obvious floozie with purple eyelids, embraced by a tall, pale boy whose forehead was shining with sweat; a little man who wanted to fight, being soothed by a larger companion; a sleepy young man in an imitation llama coat, accompanied by a henna redhead and a peroxide blonde.
He stopped beside me and leaned over clumsily: “Say, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“Never,” I said. “I just arrived from South Africa where my father owns the Kimberley Diamond Mines. His name, curiously enough, is Jan Christian Smuts.”
“That a fact?” said the sleepy young man. He looked at me in sudden horror, doubled up, and vomited on the floor.
“Gracious Jesus!” the driver said. “Do I have to ride with the smell again all night?”
“I’m sorry, Christ, I’m sorry,” the young man said. He took a figured silk scarf from around his neck and got down on his knees to wipe the floor.
I pushed back in my corner and went to sleep again. A man with a changing face followed me down a street that I knew well. I was only a young kid and he frightened me. It was dark and growing darker. I came to the mouth of an alley and ran into it, scurrying silently between blind brick walls. A door opened in the wall and I slammed it shut before the man could catch me. The moose head and the hall tree were there, and I climbed the stairs to my own room. But the room was full of unfriendly faces, jostling and pushing towards me. I ran down the hall to my father’s room, calling to him to come and help me. The room was empty, the windows were broken, the bed was covered with dust. A smiling rat hopped out of the abandoned bed and ran between my legs, brushing me with his tail.
I woke up with tears wet on my face. The bus was nearly empty, and the last few passengers were standing in line in the aisle, waiting to get out.
“Can you tell me where the Mayor lives?” I asked the driver.
“Yeah, he lives here on the north side. I don’t know exactly where. You can ask them in the terminal.”
Another bus took me within a couple of blocks of Allister’s address, and I got out and walked the rest of the way. It was a white frame colonial house, with decorative green shutters opening at the sides of the windows. There were no lights on, but I went up the red brick walk, climbed the shallow porch, and knocked on the door with its bronze lion’s head.
In a minute the light on the porch came on, then the light in the hall inside. Slippered feet shuffled down thestairs into the hall, the lock was snapped back, and the door opened. A thin man in his late thirties with nervous lines in his face peered out at me.
“Mr. Allister?”
“What do you want?” His graying hair was rumpled, and his eyes were bleared with sleep.
“I want help—”
“My God, you people never give me any rest! Look, you can get a free bed down at the Center. They’ll give you breakfast in the morning.” He started to close the door.
“Not that kind of help. I’m J.D. Weather’s son. You must have known my father.”
“J.D. Weather didn’t have a son.” He looked into my face suspiciously.
I pulled out my wallet and showed him the photostat of my discharge papers. “You can see my name’s Weather. I want to talk to you—”
“What about? This is a hell of a time of night to wake me up.”
“I was told that
“Yeah, and pretty soon the bunny will be bringing Easter eggs besides.”
He gave me a startled look over his shoulder and dropped me from his mind. My consciousness began to operate in fits and starts, like a bored conversation, and finally blanked out in sleep. I woke up momentarily when the bus stopped and filled up with passengers at the amusement park. They climbed in, laughing and talking and yelling drunkenly: an apprentice seaman clutching a papier-mâché doll in one hand and a girl in the other; a couple of sleek youngsters in zoot suits, sharing a girl with precocious breasts and a dopey look on her face; an obvious floozie with purple eyelids, embraced by a tall, pale boy whose forehead was shining with sweat; a little man who wanted to fight, being soothed by a larger companion; a sleepy young man in an imitation llama coat, accompanied by a henna redhead and a peroxide blonde.
He stopped beside me and leaned over clumsily: “Say, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“Never,” I said. “I just arrived from South Africa where my father owns the Kimberley Diamond Mines. His name, curiously enough, is Jan Christian Smuts.”
“That a fact?” said the sleepy young man. He looked at me in sudden horror, doubled up, and vomited on the floor.
“Gracious Jesus!” the driver said. “Do I have to ride with the smell again all night?”
“I’m sorry, Christ, I’m sorry,” the young man said. He took a figured silk scarf from around his neck and got down on his knees to wipe the floor.
I pushed back in my corner and went to sleep again. A man with a changing face followed me down a street that I knew well. I was only a young kid and he frightened me. It was dark and growing darker. I came to the mouth of an alley and ran into it, scurrying silently between blind brick walls. A door opened in the wall and I slammed it shut before the man could catch me. The moose head and the hall tree were there, and I climbed the stairs to my own room. But the room was full of unfriendly faces, jostling and pushing towards me. I ran down the hall to my father’s room, calling to him to come and help me. The room was empty, the windows were broken, the bed was covered with dust. A smiling rat hopped out of the abandoned bed and ran between my legs, brushing me with his tail.
I woke up with tears wet on my face. The bus was nearly empty, and the last few passengers were standing in line in the aisle, waiting to get out.
“Can you tell me where the Mayor lives?” I asked the driver.
“Yeah, he lives here on the north side. I don’t know exactly where. You can ask them in the terminal.”
Another bus took me within a couple of blocks of Allister’s address, and I got out and walked the rest of the way. It was a white frame colonial house, with decorative green shutters opening at the sides of the windows. There were no lights on, but I went up the red brick walk, climbed the shallow porch, and knocked on the door with its bronze lion’s head.
In a minute the light on the porch came on, then the light in the hall inside. Slippered feet shuffled down thestairs into the hall, the lock was snapped back, and the door opened. A thin man in his late thirties with nervous lines in his face peered out at me.
“Mr. Allister?”
“What do you want?” His graying hair was rumpled, and his eyes were bleared with sleep.
“I want help—”
“My God, you people never give me any rest! Look, you can get a free bed down at the Center. They’ll give you breakfast in the morning.” He started to close the door.
“Not that kind of help. I’m J.D. Weather’s son. You must have known my father.”
“J.D. Weather didn’t have a son.” He looked into my face suspiciously.
I pulled out my wallet and showed him the photostat of my discharge papers. “You can see my name’s Weather. I want to talk to you—”
“What about? This is a hell of a time of night to wake me up.”
“I was told that
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