would have been able to tell me. All they’d told me
was I was there for a rest and not to worry, that everything would
be all right. Maybe I was nuts. Maybe I was going home to kill my
brother.
Because I was going home. Nothing would stop
me.
As I gunned the Ford coupe down the blacktop
road, hoping I’d hit a main highway soon, Leda sat beside me. Her
ghost was there and she was naked, carrying yellow shorts in one
hand. Leda. Leda was gone. Leda had disappeared.
Vanished.
The one you called your wife, only she
wasn’t.
Neat. Like that. I had to get home. Find out
what I could and see Frank face to face. Once that was out of my
system, I’d be clean.
Then I could spend the rest of my life hunting
Leda. I knew I’d find her because the world isn’t big enough to
hide in. Not for Leda it wouldn’t be big enough. I told myself she
wasn’t with Frank, hadn’t been.
I tried to tell myself I’d find her because
she’d run out on me when I needed her most. When I had to have her
support. I didn’t know where she’d gone. She had weakened and run
out on me. Alone, I told myself. Alone!
Because I loved her. She was in me. She was a
part of me and no other woman—not even Norma—could ever take her
place. There was only one, Leda, and it had to stay that way. It
would stay that way.
The blacktop road ended and I hit a stretch of
bouncy tar-ribbed cement, which sent the Ford leaping like a
stricken sparrow.
When I got home I knew I’d see Norma. She’d be
there, as she’d always been. And maybe she’d always be my girl. But
there could only be one Leda. . . .
Trees, low hills, shallow gutters, sunny-sided
fields sloped past the car with speed, blurred in my vision, dusty
through the windshield.
I held the pedal to the floor. It was like
flying low. Sunlight jerked in unrhythmic splashes on the road, the
car, and across my face. The engine spat and roared with that same
unattainable and terrific savagery seen in the myriad and untamed
noises a hen makes when being chased by a rooster with a one-track
mind.
Cars that passed, and cars I passed, drew out
of the way with a slow-motion illusion that was confounding. I knew
I was wild, I knew the exertion of the past few moments was
telling. But I also knew the old glands were pumping adrenalin and
so long as I utilized it, they’d keep pumping.
Stay excited until it’s all over. That’s what
I told myself. Make it a blur. And then I got the idea.
Get drunk. Back there in my mind Prescott
babbled about how I should stay away from the bottle. But if I did,
I’d get calm again. I couldn’t afford to get calm now. I had nearly
a thousand miles to cover and it had to be done fast. Once it was
done, things wouldn’t matter.
All right. Clothes. Money. Ditch the car. A
bottle. And home. How home? Plane. That was the fastest.
How to get them?
The second-hand car lot on the edge of town
flashed by with a red-and-white sign reading: “CANNE’S CARS.” I
rode the brakes without half realizing what I was doing. The car
fishtailed. I made a sharp U-turn and beat it straight for Canne’s
place. The Ford whirred like an over-revved plane in a spin as I
bounced up the gravel drive leading between flashing new cars into
the lot.
“ Well, two hundred, mebbe. No more.
And that’s going pretty high, too.” Canne was freckle-faced, heavy
jowled, and dressed sleekly in a tan sport suit. It was obvious to
Canne. He was beating a poor hick.
“ All right. It’s a deal. I need the
cash.”
“ Haven’t I seen that car
before?”
“ You may have. I came to town a
week ago, been working here since then. Probably saw it around
town.”
“ Sure. I’ve seen that there car
before.” His eyes were big and I wondered that he didn’t get them
full of dust. There were purple veins strung in a webbed shield
across his nose.
When he’d paid me and I’d signed the car over
in Jim Phelby’s name, I said, “Can I use your phone?”
He was reading the
was I was there for a rest and not to worry, that everything would
be all right. Maybe I was nuts. Maybe I was going home to kill my
brother.
Because I was going home. Nothing would stop
me.
As I gunned the Ford coupe down the blacktop
road, hoping I’d hit a main highway soon, Leda sat beside me. Her
ghost was there and she was naked, carrying yellow shorts in one
hand. Leda. Leda was gone. Leda had disappeared.
Vanished.
The one you called your wife, only she
wasn’t.
Neat. Like that. I had to get home. Find out
what I could and see Frank face to face. Once that was out of my
system, I’d be clean.
Then I could spend the rest of my life hunting
Leda. I knew I’d find her because the world isn’t big enough to
hide in. Not for Leda it wouldn’t be big enough. I told myself she
wasn’t with Frank, hadn’t been.
I tried to tell myself I’d find her because
she’d run out on me when I needed her most. When I had to have her
support. I didn’t know where she’d gone. She had weakened and run
out on me. Alone, I told myself. Alone!
Because I loved her. She was in me. She was a
part of me and no other woman—not even Norma—could ever take her
place. There was only one, Leda, and it had to stay that way. It
would stay that way.
The blacktop road ended and I hit a stretch of
bouncy tar-ribbed cement, which sent the Ford leaping like a
stricken sparrow.
When I got home I knew I’d see Norma. She’d be
there, as she’d always been. And maybe she’d always be my girl. But
there could only be one Leda. . . .
Trees, low hills, shallow gutters, sunny-sided
fields sloped past the car with speed, blurred in my vision, dusty
through the windshield.
I held the pedal to the floor. It was like
flying low. Sunlight jerked in unrhythmic splashes on the road, the
car, and across my face. The engine spat and roared with that same
unattainable and terrific savagery seen in the myriad and untamed
noises a hen makes when being chased by a rooster with a one-track
mind.
Cars that passed, and cars I passed, drew out
of the way with a slow-motion illusion that was confounding. I knew
I was wild, I knew the exertion of the past few moments was
telling. But I also knew the old glands were pumping adrenalin and
so long as I utilized it, they’d keep pumping.
Stay excited until it’s all over. That’s what
I told myself. Make it a blur. And then I got the idea.
Get drunk. Back there in my mind Prescott
babbled about how I should stay away from the bottle. But if I did,
I’d get calm again. I couldn’t afford to get calm now. I had nearly
a thousand miles to cover and it had to be done fast. Once it was
done, things wouldn’t matter.
All right. Clothes. Money. Ditch the car. A
bottle. And home. How home? Plane. That was the fastest.
How to get them?
The second-hand car lot on the edge of town
flashed by with a red-and-white sign reading: “CANNE’S CARS.” I
rode the brakes without half realizing what I was doing. The car
fishtailed. I made a sharp U-turn and beat it straight for Canne’s
place. The Ford whirred like an over-revved plane in a spin as I
bounced up the gravel drive leading between flashing new cars into
the lot.
“ Well, two hundred, mebbe. No more.
And that’s going pretty high, too.” Canne was freckle-faced, heavy
jowled, and dressed sleekly in a tan sport suit. It was obvious to
Canne. He was beating a poor hick.
“ All right. It’s a deal. I need the
cash.”
“ Haven’t I seen that car
before?”
“ You may have. I came to town a
week ago, been working here since then. Probably saw it around
town.”
“ Sure. I’ve seen that there car
before.” His eyes were big and I wondered that he didn’t get them
full of dust. There were purple veins strung in a webbed shield
across his nose.
When he’d paid me and I’d signed the car over
in Jim Phelby’s name, I said, “Can I use your phone?”
He was reading the
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