Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 Read Free Page A

with its horn screaming. The girl looked
after it a little resentfully as it receded along the highway.
                 “Oh,
damn,” she said wearily. “I always do that. But he doesn’t have to make such a
fuss about it.”
                 Emmett
looked at her drawn face as the convertible came to rest beside the pumps, and
he opened his mouth to suggest that she let him drive.
                 “That
sun’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” he said instead. He did not want to frighten her
by seeming eager to seize control of her car.
                 She
removed her colored glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, but it will be down in a
little while.” She turned as the attendant came to her window, and gave him a
key from the glove compartment. “Fill it, please.” Then she opened the door and
got out. “Can you reach my purse?” she asked Emmett.
                 He
leaned back, found it and gave it to her, then watched her walk around the
front of the car, her heels a little uncertain in the gravel, her tailored
skirt a little crumpled in the rear. She vanished around the white lattice-work
at the side of the filling station after glancing up at the sign on it. He got
out of the car and walked back and forth stiffly, kicking his feet in the white
gravel.
                 “How
far to Clinton?” he asked the attendant.
                 The
man looked around. “Forty miles to the river,” he said, and hung up the hose. “Check
the oil?”
                 Emmett
nodded. “And clean off the windshield, will you?” It made him feel a little
awkward to give orders about a woman’s car; a little like a gigolo. He opened
the door and dragged his things out of the rear, opened one suitcase and took
out a folded army blanket, throwing it back to the seat Then he got the keys
from the ignition, finding himself suddenly pleased that she had trusted him
enough to leave them, and opened the trunk. He put the bags away and closed the
cover and, after a moment, unlocked and opened it again, looking inside,
frowning. There was nothing there except the suitcases and fishing-rod
container he had just put in, the spare tire, the jack and handle, and socket
wrench for the wheel nuts.
                 “That’ll
be three-o-five,” the attendant said, behind him. “Oil and water O.K.”
                 Emmett
accepted the gas-tank key and stood for a moment, after closing the trunk,
looking at the white clapboard station with the little wings of lattice-work
that modestly concealed the doors on either side; everything very white and
clean, the pumps, oil cans, and water can looking very new in the fading red
light; only the hydraulic lift at the side showing enough grease to prove that
they actually did business in this place. The white gravel expanse was bounded
by a low white picket fence. Behind the station, on the hill, was a farm house
not nearly as neat and tidy as the station, and there were other farms as far
as you could see in all directions. The concrete highway ran arbitrarily
through them as if laid down, not necessarily with a ruler but at least with a
French curve, after everything else had been there for years except the filling
station which belonged to the highway rather than to the Illinois countryside.
                 Ann
Nicholson came out of the restroom. She had removed her hat, carrying it, with
her purse, in her hand. She had also combed out her hair, loosening it from the
pins that had held it in place under the hat, so that it fell in soft waves
behind her ears, reaching her shoulders. It was light brown, fine in texture
and, loose, made her look less remote and sophisticated, and several years
younger. Without hat or gloves on she did not look quite so much, Emmett
thought, like a mislaid orchid. She stopped by the attendant, who jerked his
head towards Emmett; and she came to him, opening her purse.