man, driven and harried by a neurotic wife with social ambitions. And he remembered Cal as a fat, shy boy, butt of cruel jokes. The shyness had congealed to sullenness.
“Hello, Cal.”
“Hello, Doyle.” No smile or offer of hand or flicker of response.
“Glad somebody recognized me.”
“Heard you were back in town. Over on the beach.”
“How’s your father?”
“Had a stroke. Hasn’t been out of bed for three years.” For the first time there was a flick of expression on the doughy face, a faint shadow of satisfaction, of a smothered glee.
“Sorry to hear it. I want to get a spinning rod.”
“Over here. It’ll have to be cash, Doyle. I don’t run a credit business.”
“It will be cash.”
He picked out what he wanted. Bolley deftly ran monofilament onto the reel spool, dropped the lures and swivels and leader into a small paper sack. On theother side of the store a clerk was demonstrating a floor fan to an old lady.
As Alex paid and received his change, he said, “You sure as hell give me a big welcome, Cal. Thanks.”
Cal Bolley stared at him. “Want I should hire a band? I can’t keep you people out of the store. I’ll take your money when you’ve got any. I don’t have to stand around and carry on a big conversation.”
As Alex walked to the door he was conscious of Bolley standing there, watching him, the piggy little eyes remote and suspicious.
After he got behind the wheel, he knew that there was something he had to do, and the longer he delayed it the more difficult it would become. He forced himself to drive to Palm Street. The old house had been painted not long ago, but it was the same color, cream with dark brown trim. He glanced up at the window which had been the window to his room, and went onto the porch and pushed the bell, stood looking through the screen into the dim hallway. It could well be like the response he had gotten from Cal. But this time it would hurt.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he heard her say, and she came down the hall in a faded print dress, wiping her hands on her apron, a little sparrow of a woman with white hair, sharp features, an air of timeless nervous energy.
“Yes?” she said and looked up at him through the screen, and quite suddenly her face broke, a shattering of delicate ancient glass. And for the first time he realized how lovely a girl Myra Ducklin must have been. She fumbled the screen open and tugged at him and pulled him into the hallway, and hugged him and made broken sounds against his chest that finally turned into an endless saying of his name. She pushed him away and, holding his arms, looked up into his face, trying through tears to smile at him in an accusing and disciplinary way.
“You never wrote!” she said in a shaky voice. “You never did write me one letter, Alex!”
“I tried, Aunt Myra. Honest to God, I tried!”
“Now no cussin’ in front of a church lady.” She clung to his hands. “You turned into a man, Alex. I guess nobody could call you handsome and I guess you know that. But you’ve got a good face, Alex. It’s a good strong face. Come in the sitting room. Oh, it’s so good to see you! It’s been so long. So terrible long.”
They went into the small, immaculate, old-fashioned parlor. She sat beside him on the couch and held his hand tightly and said, “There’s a big box in the attic. I packed it all up. The old papers and things from your folks and the photographs and all. And your school records and those sports things you won, and the clothes you left behind. I put moth crystals in. Everything is safe, but I guess it wasn’t much point, saving the clothes. Joe, he was going to throw everything out he was that mad, but I knew that wouldn’t be a Christian act.”
“I … I didn’t have any idea you’d be so glad to see me, Aunt Myra. I guess Joe wouldn’t have. I’m sorry about Joe.”
“You just don’t have much sense, Alex Doyle. That little trouble you had doesn’t
“Hello, Cal.”
“Hello, Doyle.” No smile or offer of hand or flicker of response.
“Glad somebody recognized me.”
“Heard you were back in town. Over on the beach.”
“How’s your father?”
“Had a stroke. Hasn’t been out of bed for three years.” For the first time there was a flick of expression on the doughy face, a faint shadow of satisfaction, of a smothered glee.
“Sorry to hear it. I want to get a spinning rod.”
“Over here. It’ll have to be cash, Doyle. I don’t run a credit business.”
“It will be cash.”
He picked out what he wanted. Bolley deftly ran monofilament onto the reel spool, dropped the lures and swivels and leader into a small paper sack. On theother side of the store a clerk was demonstrating a floor fan to an old lady.
As Alex paid and received his change, he said, “You sure as hell give me a big welcome, Cal. Thanks.”
Cal Bolley stared at him. “Want I should hire a band? I can’t keep you people out of the store. I’ll take your money when you’ve got any. I don’t have to stand around and carry on a big conversation.”
As Alex walked to the door he was conscious of Bolley standing there, watching him, the piggy little eyes remote and suspicious.
After he got behind the wheel, he knew that there was something he had to do, and the longer he delayed it the more difficult it would become. He forced himself to drive to Palm Street. The old house had been painted not long ago, but it was the same color, cream with dark brown trim. He glanced up at the window which had been the window to his room, and went onto the porch and pushed the bell, stood looking through the screen into the dim hallway. It could well be like the response he had gotten from Cal. But this time it would hurt.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he heard her say, and she came down the hall in a faded print dress, wiping her hands on her apron, a little sparrow of a woman with white hair, sharp features, an air of timeless nervous energy.
“Yes?” she said and looked up at him through the screen, and quite suddenly her face broke, a shattering of delicate ancient glass. And for the first time he realized how lovely a girl Myra Ducklin must have been. She fumbled the screen open and tugged at him and pulled him into the hallway, and hugged him and made broken sounds against his chest that finally turned into an endless saying of his name. She pushed him away and, holding his arms, looked up into his face, trying through tears to smile at him in an accusing and disciplinary way.
“You never wrote!” she said in a shaky voice. “You never did write me one letter, Alex!”
“I tried, Aunt Myra. Honest to God, I tried!”
“Now no cussin’ in front of a church lady.” She clung to his hands. “You turned into a man, Alex. I guess nobody could call you handsome and I guess you know that. But you’ve got a good face, Alex. It’s a good strong face. Come in the sitting room. Oh, it’s so good to see you! It’s been so long. So terrible long.”
They went into the small, immaculate, old-fashioned parlor. She sat beside him on the couch and held his hand tightly and said, “There’s a big box in the attic. I packed it all up. The old papers and things from your folks and the photographs and all. And your school records and those sports things you won, and the clothes you left behind. I put moth crystals in. Everything is safe, but I guess it wasn’t much point, saving the clothes. Joe, he was going to throw everything out he was that mad, but I knew that wouldn’t be a Christian act.”
“I … I didn’t have any idea you’d be so glad to see me, Aunt Myra. I guess Joe wouldn’t have. I’m sorry about Joe.”
“You just don’t have much sense, Alex Doyle. That little trouble you had doesn’t
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