and me can go into Wentworth every now and then. With you to help out, it's going to be a lot easier here."
But there was a slight doubt in his voice that made me look at him, puzzled. He didn't sound like a man who is sold on what he is saying.
The truck was now pounding along the flat, burning road and we passed a big sign that read:
Point of No Return
You Have Been Warned!
Last Chance for Gas for 165 Miles
Snack Bar. Repairs. Greasing. Service.
I looked beyond the sign to the three gas pumps and the garage that loomed up towards me.
The service station was bright and gay. There were paths to the bungalow and to the cabin across the highway edged with stones, painted white. There were flowers planted around the gas pumps that made a gay splash of colour. Behind the pumps was a long, low building that housed the snack bar. Beyond the snack bar was the bungalow with bright blue curtains at the windows and a cream coloured front door.
"This is quite a place," I said. He beamed at me.
"Glad to hear you say it. I've certainly worked at it. You and me—we could do a lot more to it. I've plenty of ideas. Up to now I've had to do it all on my own."
He opened the cab door and climbed down onto the white, burning sand. I followed him down.
If I had owned this place and had a wife to share it with me, and if I had blasted my horn the way Jenson had, I would have expected my wife to have come out from where she was and give me a welcome.
But no one came out of any of the buildings to welcome Carl Jenson back to his home.
The place could have been a morgue for all the excitement his arrival caused, and that registered with me, although it didn't seem to surprise him.
He waved to the cabin.
"You go ahead. You want a wash and a shave." He gave me a nudge in the ribs that made me stagger. "You hungry? I'll get you something. You go ahead and clean up."
"When I'm through—where do I come?"
He pointed to the lunch room.
"Right there," and nodding, he walked up the path to the bungalow.
I went over to the cabin, pushed open the door and walked into the living-room. It was comfortably furnished, and there was a T.V. set in one of the corners. Beyond the living-room was a tiny bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and went into the bathroom. It took me a little time to get clean and shave. By now I had raised quite a moustache, and I decided to keep it. I returned to the bedroom, put on my shirt and trousers, and then took a look at myself in the mirror on the wall.
The moustache made quite a difference, but I was still acutely aware that I was being hunted. Looking at myself now, I felt more secure. If there were pictures of me in the papers, I was pretty sure with this moustache, I wouldn't be recognised.
I went to the cabin door and stood looking across at the opposite buildings, then I looked back at the long winding road disappearing into the hills. The desert stretched either side of me: bleak, hot and desolate. It gave me a feeling of security. The police would be looking for me in Oakland or one of the other big towns. I was pretty sure they wouldn't think to look for me here.
I moved out into the sunshine and crossed over to the lunch room. There were ten fixed stools in front of the counter and five tables along the wall for those who wanted to eat in style. Along the counter were beer and soda spouts. There was a glass case full of pies, baked to a turn, with individual labels on each, reading: cherry, apple, pineapple, cranberry. There was a unit containing paper napkins, condiments, ketchup, glasses and knives and forks. Everything was spotlessly clean. On the wall was the menu written in bold, neat printing:
Today's Specials
Fried Chicken
Veal Steaks
Beef Hash
Fruit Pies
Through the half open door behind the counter came the smell of onions frying that made my mouth water. I was just about to tap on the counter to attract attention when I heard Jenson say, "Now look, Lola, you mustn't get worked up
But there was a slight doubt in his voice that made me look at him, puzzled. He didn't sound like a man who is sold on what he is saying.
The truck was now pounding along the flat, burning road and we passed a big sign that read:
Point of No Return
You Have Been Warned!
Last Chance for Gas for 165 Miles
Snack Bar. Repairs. Greasing. Service.
I looked beyond the sign to the three gas pumps and the garage that loomed up towards me.
The service station was bright and gay. There were paths to the bungalow and to the cabin across the highway edged with stones, painted white. There were flowers planted around the gas pumps that made a gay splash of colour. Behind the pumps was a long, low building that housed the snack bar. Beyond the snack bar was the bungalow with bright blue curtains at the windows and a cream coloured front door.
"This is quite a place," I said. He beamed at me.
"Glad to hear you say it. I've certainly worked at it. You and me—we could do a lot more to it. I've plenty of ideas. Up to now I've had to do it all on my own."
He opened the cab door and climbed down onto the white, burning sand. I followed him down.
If I had owned this place and had a wife to share it with me, and if I had blasted my horn the way Jenson had, I would have expected my wife to have come out from where she was and give me a welcome.
But no one came out of any of the buildings to welcome Carl Jenson back to his home.
The place could have been a morgue for all the excitement his arrival caused, and that registered with me, although it didn't seem to surprise him.
He waved to the cabin.
"You go ahead. You want a wash and a shave." He gave me a nudge in the ribs that made me stagger. "You hungry? I'll get you something. You go ahead and clean up."
"When I'm through—where do I come?"
He pointed to the lunch room.
"Right there," and nodding, he walked up the path to the bungalow.
I went over to the cabin, pushed open the door and walked into the living-room. It was comfortably furnished, and there was a T.V. set in one of the corners. Beyond the living-room was a tiny bedroom. I stripped off my clothes and went into the bathroom. It took me a little time to get clean and shave. By now I had raised quite a moustache, and I decided to keep it. I returned to the bedroom, put on my shirt and trousers, and then took a look at myself in the mirror on the wall.
The moustache made quite a difference, but I was still acutely aware that I was being hunted. Looking at myself now, I felt more secure. If there were pictures of me in the papers, I was pretty sure with this moustache, I wouldn't be recognised.
I went to the cabin door and stood looking across at the opposite buildings, then I looked back at the long winding road disappearing into the hills. The desert stretched either side of me: bleak, hot and desolate. It gave me a feeling of security. The police would be looking for me in Oakland or one of the other big towns. I was pretty sure they wouldn't think to look for me here.
I moved out into the sunshine and crossed over to the lunch room. There were ten fixed stools in front of the counter and five tables along the wall for those who wanted to eat in style. Along the counter were beer and soda spouts. There was a glass case full of pies, baked to a turn, with individual labels on each, reading: cherry, apple, pineapple, cranberry. There was a unit containing paper napkins, condiments, ketchup, glasses and knives and forks. Everything was spotlessly clean. On the wall was the menu written in bold, neat printing:
Today's Specials
Fried Chicken
Veal Steaks
Beef Hash
Fruit Pies
Through the half open door behind the counter came the smell of onions frying that made my mouth water. I was just about to tap on the counter to attract attention when I heard Jenson say, "Now look, Lola, you mustn't get worked up
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