On the Run by John D. MacDonald Page A

hurried to the bed. He stood in the doorway. When she turned toward him she was smiling again. They walked out into the side yard. Summer clouds had moved across the sun. She sat on the stone wall and looked up at him. “He goes to sleep like that.”
    “My God, he’s sharp.”
    “Sometimes he goes a little off. Not often. And it makes him very angry when he does. He goes into the past, and becomes confused about who I am and why he’s in bed.”
    “What are you doing for him?”
    She shrugged. “Keeping him clean and comfortable and entertained. What else is there to do? Ward Marriner is an excellent doctor. The malignancy is slow and localized and not pain-making. He’ll die easily, Sid.”
    “When?”
    “Soon. But I have a very unprofessional opinion about that. It won’t be tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Because he wants to talk to you and listen to you. And to George.”
    “When does George get here?”
    “This evening or tomorrow. Do you mind listening to the old man?”
    “Funny question, Paula. I don’t mind. It’s a very strange feeling. I didn’t think I had anybody. Then there’s this link, going so damned far back. Way back. For God’s sake,
his
father knew Lincoln!”
    “Don’t you want roots like that?”
    “What good do they do me?”
    “A sense of belonging, Sid. Small towns are full of all the tangled roots. When your mother was a little girl she played in the yard. She sat on this wall. That was her room up there. She looked out of those windows. When I was eleven years old I fell out of that crab apple tree on the other side of the road and chipped this tooth. See? My best friend lived in that house over there.”
    He looked at the stones of the wall. “Stop trying to do it,” he said. “Stop trying to pull me into all this … damned identification. Last night wasn’t any lifetime guarantee.” He heard the words after he said them, knowing how deeply they could hurt her, and he was aware of her stillness and afraid to look at her. When he did look at her, he saw what effort the smile cost her, saw the tears standing in her eyes, and marveled that she could smile.
    “Oh, Sid,” she said. “That damned door, with the rusty hinges. I pry it open a little way, trying to let some fresh air in, and then you suddenly get terrified and you slam it shut. And you try to slam it on my hands, don’t you?”
    “I just want you to understand …”
    “You don’t give me credit for understanding. What am I supposed to be? Some sort of dangerous swamp? Last night was complete in itself. I won’t let you spoil it.”
    He tried to answer her smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to spoil it.”
    It had not been anything planned. By Sunday noon he had realized they were getting ahead of schedule. He had stopped at a second rate motel and dickered with the owner-manager and they had been charged a dollar apiece for the use of one unit in which to take showers. She had gone first. When she had come out, in her fresh yellow blouse, she had acted odd in a way he could not identify. He went in, carrying fresh clothing. The little bathroom was humid with steam, mildly pungent with the characteristic scents of her. And on the big misted mirror she had left him a message, written with her finger. A bloated heart, a crooked arrow. P.L. loves S.S. It was both wry game and delicate overture. It was funny, and curiously touching.
    Five miles up the road she said primly, “Send a message and nobody answers.”
    “You see that sort of thing everywhere. Peter Lorre loves Sylvia Sydney. It’s one of the true romances of show biz.”
    “I hate people who think up lines to take themselves off the hook.”
    “Well, we’re running ahead of time. The only possible solution is to find another motel and steam up another mirror and spend the night writing messages to each other.”
    “Sir! You owe me a message, not a communications center.”
    “Okay. S.S. loves P.L.”
    “I’ll never