himself standing on the
corner of Main Street and Elm and can’t for the life of him recall how he got there or where
he’s been. This is known as domestic amnesia.”
He
pulled at his pipe and felt the vibration of the car against the back of his
head where it leaned against the metal of the door. He was afraid to look at
the girl. He had let his resentment carry him into depths he knew nothing
about. If her mind were really ill his skepticism could easily bring on some
reaction he would be quite incapable of coping with, not being a psychiatrist.
“That’s
very interesting,” her voice said softly. “You should have a consultation with
Dr. Kaufman about my case.” She went on before he could speak, “Then you think
there is no such thing as genuine amnesia?”
“Hell,
no,” he said. “I know there is. I’m just blowing off steam. Forget it.”
“Don’t
be polite,” she said. Her voice held an edge of anger.
He
glanced at her and said, his anger answering hers, “Well, damn it, nothing ever
went black for me when I wanted it to. And if it did, I wouldn’t expect to come
out of it with somebody’s name, address, and telephone number.”
She
kicked the car out of gear and braked to a halt at the side of the road. A
truck swerved past, its horn blaring. She glanced at it, startled, as it went
on to the west, then turned to face Emmett.
“Does
it occur to you that you’re being rather cruel, Mr. Emmett?”
He
took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. He did not say
anything.
“Why
do you dislike me?” she asked.
He
looked up. “I don’t,” he said quickly. “I think you’re probably a fine girl,
Miss Nicholson. But God damn it…!” He rubbed his eyes. He had a headache now. “Oh,
forget it,” he said. “Please forget the whole thing.”
“What
were you going to say?”
He
turned to her. “Listen,” he said angrily, “I spent the whole damn war and a
couple of years more being respectful and sympathetic to guys who kind of
looked down at me because…”
“I
see.”
“…
So then I think I’m getting away from it,” he said savagely, “and I pick up a
girl on the Lincoln Highway , and damn if she doesn’t turn out to be a
lousy heroine.”
He
knew that his face was quite red, and he could not make himself look at her. He
cranked down the window beside him, knocked the hot ashes out of his pipe into
his hand, and pitched them out before they could burn him. He heard the girl
begin to laugh, looked up, and found himself grinning wryly.
“I
think you’d better climb in back and get some sleep,” Ann Nicholson said.
chapter SEVEN
He
woke up abruptly as the car lurched and came to a halt, the tires grinding in
the gravel at the side of the road. It was hot in the cramped rear seat; he was
stiff and his left arm was asleep. He heard the siren whine past, dying.
“My
God,” he said, sitting up to rub his numb hand. “Don’t tell me you were
speeding!”
Ann
Nicholson turned a white frightened face toward him. “I don’t think so. I’m
sure I slowed down to twenty-five in the town…”
Emmett
sighed. “Well. It’s never any use arguing with them.”
He
stopped. A tall man had got out of the black Ford sedan that had come to rest
ahead. The man looked as if he had been thin ten years ago, and as if the
weight he had put on since had not had time to distribute itself about his
body; it was all in the lower chest
corner of Main Street and Elm and can’t for the life of him recall how he got there or where
he’s been. This is known as domestic amnesia.”
He
pulled at his pipe and felt the vibration of the car against the back of his
head where it leaned against the metal of the door. He was afraid to look at
the girl. He had let his resentment carry him into depths he knew nothing
about. If her mind were really ill his skepticism could easily bring on some
reaction he would be quite incapable of coping with, not being a psychiatrist.
“That’s
very interesting,” her voice said softly. “You should have a consultation with
Dr. Kaufman about my case.” She went on before he could speak, “Then you think
there is no such thing as genuine amnesia?”
“Hell,
no,” he said. “I know there is. I’m just blowing off steam. Forget it.”
“Don’t
be polite,” she said. Her voice held an edge of anger.
He
glanced at her and said, his anger answering hers, “Well, damn it, nothing ever
went black for me when I wanted it to. And if it did, I wouldn’t expect to come
out of it with somebody’s name, address, and telephone number.”
She
kicked the car out of gear and braked to a halt at the side of the road. A
truck swerved past, its horn blaring. She glanced at it, startled, as it went
on to the west, then turned to face Emmett.
“Does
it occur to you that you’re being rather cruel, Mr. Emmett?”
He
took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. He did not say
anything.
“Why
do you dislike me?” she asked.
He
looked up. “I don’t,” he said quickly. “I think you’re probably a fine girl,
Miss Nicholson. But God damn it…!” He rubbed his eyes. He had a headache now. “Oh,
forget it,” he said. “Please forget the whole thing.”
“What
were you going to say?”
He
turned to her. “Listen,” he said angrily, “I spent the whole damn war and a
couple of years more being respectful and sympathetic to guys who kind of
looked down at me because…”
“I
see.”
“…
So then I think I’m getting away from it,” he said savagely, “and I pick up a
girl on the Lincoln Highway , and damn if she doesn’t turn out to be a
lousy heroine.”
He
knew that his face was quite red, and he could not make himself look at her. He
cranked down the window beside him, knocked the hot ashes out of his pipe into
his hand, and pitched them out before they could burn him. He heard the girl
begin to laugh, looked up, and found himself grinning wryly.
“I
think you’d better climb in back and get some sleep,” Ann Nicholson said.
chapter SEVEN
He
woke up abruptly as the car lurched and came to a halt, the tires grinding in
the gravel at the side of the road. It was hot in the cramped rear seat; he was
stiff and his left arm was asleep. He heard the siren whine past, dying.
“My
God,” he said, sitting up to rub his numb hand. “Don’t tell me you were
speeding!”
Ann
Nicholson turned a white frightened face toward him. “I don’t think so. I’m
sure I slowed down to twenty-five in the town…”
Emmett
sighed. “Well. It’s never any use arguing with them.”
He
stopped. A tall man had got out of the black Ford sedan that had come to rest
ahead. The man looked as if he had been thin ten years ago, and as if the
weight he had put on since had not had time to distribute itself about his
body; it was all in the lower chest
Similar Books
