The Second Coming by Walker Percy Page A

on the map. His fingernail was as large and convex as a watch crystal and, surprisingly, polished. The nail made a slight sound on the paper as it passed up and down the trails. As their heads bent close over the map, she could not hear him breathe in but his exhalations came out whistling and strong as a bellows. The sight of his large polished nail on the map and the sound of his breathing so diverted her that she could not collect her thoughts.
    â€œI know where old Judge Kemp’s summer place used to be. He used to come up here when I was a boy. I even worked in his greenhouse.”
    â€œGreenhouse?” she said drowsily.
    â€œHis daddy got the idea a long time ago of growing orchids and selling them to the rich people at the old Grove Park Inn where they used to have dances every night.”
    â€œThat’s him,” she said but not really remembering.
    â€œThis is where it used to be.” The gleaming watch-glass fingernail strayed off a trail into a blank space.
    â€œUsed to be?”
    â€œIt burned down years ago.”
    â€œIt all burned?”
    â€œThe main house. Must have been bums or hippies living out there. Ain’t nobody been out there for years.”
    â€œShow me how to get there.” After she said it, she realized she had said it. She had uttered not a question, not a statement, but a request. How long had it been since she had said to someone: Do this, do that? Perhaps the secret of talking was to have something to say.
    â€œTake this trail.” The watch-glass nail glided, hesitated, then stopped like a Ouija in a white space. “It’s just the other side of the golf course.”
    â€œHow far is it from here?”
    â€œThree, four miles.”
    â€œDo you mind telling how old you are?” It would help if she knew whether he was forty-five or sixty-five. But he went on nodding and didn’t reply. Her question, she saw, was inappropriate, but he let it go.
    Instead he looked at her and said: “Are you going to stay out there?”
    â€œYes. It’s my place.”
    â€œBe careful, young lady.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHippies and bums stay out there. Last summer a lady got—hurt. Just keep your eyes open.”
    â€œAll right.”
    He rose.
    â€œIt’s a nice walk. Have a nice day.”
    â€œWhat?” She was puzzled by the way he said it, in a perfunctory way like goodbye. But what a nice thing to say.
    But he only repeated it—“Have a nice day”—and raised a finger to the place where the brim of his hat would have been. He returned to his street corner.
    After marking the trail with her Scripto pencil and making an X in the blank space, she folded the map carefully with the marked trail on the outside and stuck it in the breast pocket of her shirt. Opposite the Gulf station she stopped and looked down at her boots. They felt stiff. She went into the rest room, tore three coarse tissues from the roll above the washbasin, put the toilet seat lid down, sat and took off her boots, removed the can of neat’s-foot oil from her knapsack and oiled her boots, using the entire can. Carefully she disposed of the oil-soaked paper and empty can. She washed and dried her hands.
    In the street her boots felt better, light and strong yet pliable as suede. There was a small pleasure too in getting rid of the can. She meant to live with very few things.
    Passing a drugstore window, she noticed a display of Timex wristwatches. Perhaps she should own a watch. Else how would one know when it was time to get up, eat meals, go to bed? Had there ever been a time in her life when she did not eat a meal when mealtime came? What if one did not? Who said one had to get up or eat meals at a certain time?
    After a moment she shrugged and shouldered her NATO knapsack, this time using both straps, and walked on. The distributed weight felt good on her shoulders. For the first time in her life, she felt that it, her life,