English
I
ALetterfromRaymieWutherspoon,inFrance,saidthathehadbeensenttothefront,beenslightlywounded,beenmadeacaptain.
FromVida'sprideCarolsoughttodrawastimulanttorouseherfromdepression.
Mileshadsoldhisdairy.Hehadseveralthousanddollars.
ToCarolhesaidgood–bywithamumbledword,aharshhand–shake,"GoingtobuyafarminnorthernAlberta—farofffromfolksasIcanget."
Heturnedsharplyaway,buthedidnotwalkwithhisformerspring.Hisshouldersseemedold.
Itwassaidthatbeforehewenthecursedthetown.
Therewastalkofarrestinghim,ofridinghimonarail.
ItwasrumoredthatatthestationoldChampPerryrebukedhim,"Youbetternotcomebackhere.
We'vegotrespectforyourdead,butwehaven'tgotanyforablasphemerandatraitorthatwon'tdoanythingforhiscountryandonlyboughtoneLibertyBond."
SomeofthepeoplewhohadbeenatthestationdeclaredthatMilesmadesomedreadfulseditiousretort:somethingaboutlovingGermanworkmenmorethanAmericanbankers;butothersassertedthathecouldn'tfindonewordwithwhichtoanswertheveteran;thathemerelysneakedupontheplatformofthetrain.
Hemusthavefeltguilty,everybodyagreed,forasthetrainlefttown,afarmersawhimstandinginthevestibuleandlookingout.
Hishouse—withtheadditionwhichhehadbuiltfourmonthsago—wasverynearthetrackonwhichhistrainpassed.
WhenCarolwentthere,forthelasttime,shefoundOlaf'schariotwithitsredspoolwheelsstandinginthesunnycornerbesidethestable.
Shewonderedifaquickeyecouldhavenoticeditfromatrain.
ThatdayandthatweekshewentreluctantlytoRedCrosswork;shestitchedandpackedsilently,whileVidareadthewarbulletins.
AndshesaidnothingatallwhenKennicottcommented,"FromwhatChampsays,IguessBjornstamwasabadegg,afterall.
InspiteofBea,don'tknowbutwhatthecitizens'committeeoughttohaveforcedhimtobepatriotic—letonliketheycouldsendhimtojailifhedidn'tvolunteerandcomethroughforbondsandtheY.M.C.A.They'veworkedthatstuntfinewithalltheseGermanfarmers."
II
ShefoundnoinspirationbutshedidfindadependablekindnessinMrs.Westlake,andatlastsheyieldedtotheoldwoman'sreceptivityandhadreliefinsobbingthestoryofBea.
GuyPollocksheoftenmetonthestreet,buthewasmerelyapleasantvoicewhichsaidthingsaboutCharlesLambandsunsets.
HermostpositiveexperiencewastherevelationofMrs.Flickerbaugh,thetall,thin,twitchywifeoftheattorney.Carolencounteredheratthedrugstore.
"Walking?"snappedMrs.Flickerbaugh.
"Why,yes."
"Humph.Guessyou'retheonlyfemaleinthistownthatretainstheuseofherlegs.Comehomeandhaveacupo'teawithme."
Becauseshehadnothingelsetodo,Carolwent.
ButshewasuncomfortableinthepresenceoftheamusedstareswhichMrs.Flickerbaugh'sraimentdrew.
Today,inreekingearlyAugust,sheworeaman'scap,askinnyfurlikeadeadcat,anecklaceofimitationpearls,ascabroussatinblouse,andathickclothskirthikedupinfront.
"Comein.Sitdown.Stickthebabyinthatrocker.Hopeyoudon'tmindthehouselookinglikearat'snest.Youdon'tlikethistown.NeitherdoI,"saidMrs.Flickerbaugh.
"Why—"
"Courseyoudon't!"
"Wellthen,Idon't!ButI'msurethatsomedayI'llfindsomesolution.ProbablyI'mahexagonalpeg.Solution:findthehexagonalhole."Carolwasverybrisk.
"Howdoyouknowyoueverwillfindit?"
"There'sMrs.Westlake.She'snaturallyabig–citywoman—sheoughttohavealovelyoldhouseinPhiladelphiaorBoston—butsheescapesbybeingabsorbedinreading."
"Youbesatisfiedtoneverdoanythingbutread?"
"No,butHeavens,onecan'tgoonhatingatownalways!"
"Whynot?Ican!I'vehateditforthirty–twoyears.
I'lldiehere—andI'llhateittillIdie.Ioughttohavebeenabusinesswoman.
Ihadagooddealoftalentfortendingtofigures.Allgonenow.SomefolksthinkI'mcrazy.GuessIam.Sitandgrouch.Gotochurchandsinghymns.FolksthinkI'mreligious.Tut!
Tryingtoforgetwashingandironingandmendingsocks.
Wantanofficeofmyown,andsellthings.Juliusneverhearofit.Toolate."
Carolsatonthegrittycouch,andsankintofear.
Couldthisdrabnessoflifekeepupforever,then?
WouldshesomedaysodespiseherselfandherneighborsthatshetoowouldwalkMainStreetanoldskinnyeccentricwomaninamangycat's–fur?
Asshecrepthomeshefeltthatthetraphadfinallyclosed.
Shewentintothehouse,afrailsmallwoman,stillwinsomebuthopelessofeyeasshestaggeredwiththeweightofthedrowsyboyinherarms.
Shesataloneontheporch,thatevening.ItseemedthatKennicotthadtomakeaprofessionalcallonMrs.DaveDyer.
Underthestillyboughsandtheblackgauzeofduskthestreetwasmeshedinsilence.
Therewasbutthehumofmotortirescrunchingtheroad,thecreakofarockerontheHowlands'porch,theslapofahandattackingamosquito,aheat–wearyconversationstartinganddying,thepreciserhythmofcrickets,thethudofmothsagainstthescreen—soundsthatwereadistilledsilence.
Itwasastreetbeyondtheendoftheworld,beyondtheboundariesofhope.
Thoughsheshouldsithereforever,nobraveprocession,noonewhowasinteresting,wouldbecomingby.
Itwastediousnessmadetangible,astreetbuildedoflassitudeandoffutility.
MyrtleCassappeared,withCyBogart.ShegiggledandbouncedwhenCytickledherearinvillagelove.
Theystrolledwiththehalf–dancinggaitoflovers,kickingtheirfeetoutsidewaysorshufflingadraggingjig,andtheconcretewalksoundedtothebrokentwo–fourrhythm.Theirvoiceshadaduskyturbulence.
Suddenly,tothewomanrockingontheporchofthedoctor'shouse,thenightcamealive,andshefeltthateverywhereinthedarknesspantedanardentquestwhichshewasmissingasshesankbacktowaitfor—Theremustbesomething.
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