chores. Everything has just been meaningless."
"Maybe you'd feel better if you turned to, Howie." He sighed and nodded. "You're probably right. I guess I would. This is a nice machine, and she's beginning to look like a slum. Yes, I guess I'll do that, Trav. I shouldn't have needed somebody to tell me."
"Shall I look Pidge up and talk to her?"
He looked eager. "Would you? Would you give it a try?"
"Of course."
"And get back to me?"
"Why not?"
"I hate to say this. But you see if you think she needs help. If you think she does, maybe she'll listen to you."
"I'll let you know."
He walked with me down the long jetty, past all the boats. He knew a lot of people for having been there such a short time. Hey there, Howie. How's it going, fella?
At the end of the jetty, he made a short sound of laughter without mirth. "When things start to go bad, they really go," he said. "I've told you enough. You shouldn't hear it all from me. Something else happened when we were a week out from here. You let her tell you about that one, and draw your own conclusions. That's why she got off the boat and why I can't even talk to her."
I shook his hand. He didn't let go. He looked at me with his big dumb brown brute eyes, and they watered, and in a husky voice, he said, "What I really want is… I want her back… If you could just…"
He let go and spun away. His voice had broken. He started walking slowly back out the jetty toward the Trepid. It was a listless and dejected walk. A big dumpy giant, sad in the Christmas-coming sunshine.
Four
IT WAS late afternoon when I got back to Pidge's borrowed apartment. She seemed remote, ill at ease, and strangely indifferent to my reaction to whatever Howie had told me. She took me down to the ninth floor and showed me the little studio apartment she had borrowed. She gave me the key and said I could come up when I'd freshened up.
I said it had been a while since I'd done any hotel-hopping, so how about humoring me and going out with me. She brightened perceptibly. By the time she phoned down and said she was ready and would meet me at the garage level, she sounded almost cheerful.
She wore a handsome pants suit and had carefully applied a fiesta face. She found it easy to smile. She had the use of the white Toyota of the missing Alice Dorck and said that she was getting almost used to the traffic, so maybe…?
She sat very erect behind the wheel, with firm grip and frown of concentration. She angled the little car through holes just before they started to close. She whipped around the indecisive and tucked herself away from the certifiable maniacs. She picked productive lanes and managed to locate, without hesitation, the last parking slot in the lot off Seaside.
It was a good night for strolling, the air balmy and soft. Along Waikiki the hotels have not yet had to adopt the Miami Beach hospitality routine of posting armed guards at doorways who demand a look at your key and, if you look kinky, escort you to the desk for official clearance. At Waikiki you can still walk in and buy a lady a drink. We worked the little cluster across from the International Market the Outrigger, the Surfrider, the Moana, checking out the outdoor bars. Get the rum drink in the squat glass and you get a stick of fresh pineapple to stir it with. Get the Mary, which she was drinking with both care and thirst, and the stir-stick is a stalk of celery.
I steered the talk to safe places, back to Bahama seas and Florida beaches. She cheered up and freshened, and her voice broke free of the monolevel, moving up and down the scale of her emotions. Have a drink; take a walk; drink again.
In the most inconspicuous way, I was trying to get her well smashed. Yes, in vino there is veritas, if you can translate it, if you can figure out which side of the truth you are seeing. The International Market was closing. We roamed through a corner of it and I bought her one flower, the color of cinnamon, not quite an orchid, not
"Maybe you'd feel better if you turned to, Howie." He sighed and nodded. "You're probably right. I guess I would. This is a nice machine, and she's beginning to look like a slum. Yes, I guess I'll do that, Trav. I shouldn't have needed somebody to tell me."
"Shall I look Pidge up and talk to her?"
He looked eager. "Would you? Would you give it a try?"
"Of course."
"And get back to me?"
"Why not?"
"I hate to say this. But you see if you think she needs help. If you think she does, maybe she'll listen to you."
"I'll let you know."
He walked with me down the long jetty, past all the boats. He knew a lot of people for having been there such a short time. Hey there, Howie. How's it going, fella?
At the end of the jetty, he made a short sound of laughter without mirth. "When things start to go bad, they really go," he said. "I've told you enough. You shouldn't hear it all from me. Something else happened when we were a week out from here. You let her tell you about that one, and draw your own conclusions. That's why she got off the boat and why I can't even talk to her."
I shook his hand. He didn't let go. He looked at me with his big dumb brown brute eyes, and they watered, and in a husky voice, he said, "What I really want is… I want her back… If you could just…"
He let go and spun away. His voice had broken. He started walking slowly back out the jetty toward the Trepid. It was a listless and dejected walk. A big dumpy giant, sad in the Christmas-coming sunshine.
Four
IT WAS late afternoon when I got back to Pidge's borrowed apartment. She seemed remote, ill at ease, and strangely indifferent to my reaction to whatever Howie had told me. She took me down to the ninth floor and showed me the little studio apartment she had borrowed. She gave me the key and said I could come up when I'd freshened up.
I said it had been a while since I'd done any hotel-hopping, so how about humoring me and going out with me. She brightened perceptibly. By the time she phoned down and said she was ready and would meet me at the garage level, she sounded almost cheerful.
She wore a handsome pants suit and had carefully applied a fiesta face. She found it easy to smile. She had the use of the white Toyota of the missing Alice Dorck and said that she was getting almost used to the traffic, so maybe…?
She sat very erect behind the wheel, with firm grip and frown of concentration. She angled the little car through holes just before they started to close. She whipped around the indecisive and tucked herself away from the certifiable maniacs. She picked productive lanes and managed to locate, without hesitation, the last parking slot in the lot off Seaside.
It was a good night for strolling, the air balmy and soft. Along Waikiki the hotels have not yet had to adopt the Miami Beach hospitality routine of posting armed guards at doorways who demand a look at your key and, if you look kinky, escort you to the desk for official clearance. At Waikiki you can still walk in and buy a lady a drink. We worked the little cluster across from the International Market the Outrigger, the Surfrider, the Moana, checking out the outdoor bars. Get the rum drink in the squat glass and you get a stick of fresh pineapple to stir it with. Get the Mary, which she was drinking with both care and thirst, and the stir-stick is a stalk of celery.
I steered the talk to safe places, back to Bahama seas and Florida beaches. She cheered up and freshened, and her voice broke free of the monolevel, moving up and down the scale of her emotions. Have a drink; take a walk; drink again.
In the most inconspicuous way, I was trying to get her well smashed. Yes, in vino there is veritas, if you can translate it, if you can figure out which side of the truth you are seeing. The International Market was closing. We roamed through a corner of it and I bought her one flower, the color of cinnamon, not quite an orchid, not
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