The Americans (15 page)

Now Carter expected him to put his knowledge to use. He would, no matter how timid or unsure he felt at first. . He'd made a promise and he'd keep it. A week later, he worked up nerve to ask Dolores Wert- man to go walking on the Common at dusk. He nearly fainted when she said yes. They strolled in the spring twilight, their conversation halting and inconsequential. After ten minutes of fear- wracked hesitation, he forced himself to grope for Dolores' hand and squeeze it. The moment he did, he experienced an embarrassing physical reaction. He turned sideways to hide it. Several minutes later they found themselves on a deserted portion of a path. He turned to face her. He saw her smiling at him in a strange, puzzling way. His heart was thundering in his chest. His ears rang. His palms were slick with sweat. Without a word of preamble, he darted forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. The instant his lips touched her soft skm, he was transfixed with terror. He was sure she'd shriek for her parents, or the police. She did neither. She stepped closer to him, cocking her head and continuing to smile at him in that soft, strange way. The sinking sun struck fire from her red hair. "I didn't think you knew how to kiss a girl, Will Kent. Or had the gumption." Suddenly she brought her mouth to his. "I'm glad I was wrong." She flung one arm around his neck, closed her eyes and pressed against him, without embarrassment, for a wondrous moment. "Oh, that was grand," she whispered when they resumed their walk. Will was still so full of astonishment and joy, he was speechless. "I've watched you for days. I thought you'd never come near my house, or speak to me. Will you take me walking again?" She squeezed his hand in hers. "Please?" He managed to say in a strangled voice, "Whenever you want, Dolores." Margaret was all but forgotten. But she was still there in the darkness of his mind. Watching. Waiting. Biding her time. CHAPTER XVIII Carter's Choice ON THE TRIP WEST, Carter lacked neither spending monev nor creature comforts. Gideon, perhaps conscience-stricken over sending his stepson into a kind of exile, had not only paid off the last few dollars of Carter's debt, but had bought him a first-class ticket from Boston. That meant Carter was permitted in all the cars, including the parlor car with its rosewood paneling and deep, comfortable seats of turkey red plush. Mr. Pullman, builder and operator of the cars, did things in style. At least for first-class passengers. Carter slept in one of Pullman's convertible berths, and ordered his meals from a menu rivaling that of a fine restaurant. On his first full day of traveling, he started with a breakfast of shirred eggs and champagne. Shortly after noon he sat down to a heavy full-course dinner which included oxtail soup, mutton with a caper sauce, fresh fruit, and coconut pudding in wine. The main dish of his light supper was a tasty rabbit pie. On a first-class ticket, Carter was allowed in the second- class cars, where he could gawk at the poorer passengers crowded on hard, narrow wooden seats. Those traveling second class weren't permitted in the first-class cars, of course. Porters rigidly enforced the rule. Carter rather enjoyed strolling through second class, a book under his arm and a cigar in his hand. The farmers, the immigrants-all the drab, weary-looking men and women packed on the benches-gazed at him with sullen envy. They knew he had money. To be on top-recognized as important and special-that was a wonderful feeling. The apple orchards of upstate New York slipped by, and the lake shore of Ohio, then the rich farmlands of Indiana. Gideon had provided Carter with a number of current books, including an advance copy of the ailing President Grant's Memoirs; a dull novel about a businessman named Lapham; and the only volume Carter really enjoyed dipping into, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The Mark Twain novel had been sold on subscription, before publication. It was already being damned as trash. In Concord, where old Philip had stood and fought at the bridge, the Library Committee had banned the book, terming it "suitable only for the slums." The man behind the Mark Twain pseudonym liked to think of himself as a businessman as well as a famous writer, Gideon often said. Twain was heavily involved in financing the publication of his own books on a subscription basis. But he'd licensed Kent and Son to print inexpensive reprint editions of some of his earlier work. Hence Gideon had gone out to Concord to protest the ban on Twain's behalf. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The author wasn't upset. The last time he'd come to dinner at the Kent house, he'd said to Gideon, "Don't push too hard to get the ban lifted. I calculate it'll sell at least twenty-five thousand extra copies for me." At major station stops every hundred miles or so, a new conductor would tear off a perforated section of Carter's long ticket. Just before he reached Chicago, he found himself studying the ticket with resentment he couldn't explain. In Chicago, he had half a day to himself. He used it to shop for a plaid traveling jacket at Marshall Field's. Then the Union Pacific bore him west out of Illinois. At Council Bluffs, he saw two old men with seamed brown faces dozing in the sun on the depot platform. He stood studying the men while second-class passengers dashed for seats at the counter in the flyblown dining room. Curious decorations hung from rope belts the old men wore. Long hanks of dark hair, intertwined with what appeared to be bleached animal skin. While the Indians dozed, they fondled the decorations occasionally. Carter asked a trainman about the objects. "Scalps," the old man said. "I see those same two red bastards hanging around this station "most every trip. I think they're Sioux. I dunno why the local citizens permit 'em in public places- 'specially since they sit there flaunting the fact that they killed white people. They ought to be put on a reservation, them and the rest of their murdering kin. Ought to put ninety-nine percent of the niggers in with 'em." Cynically, Carter wondered just how gullible the man's bigoted views made him. He decided to find out. On the spot, he made up a story about a vast conspiracy involving French and German anarchists. In a hushed voice, he told the trainman the anarchists were slipping into America to gather recruits among the disgruntled Indians. "By God I can believe it!" the trainman declared. "This country's being taken over by Jew radicals. Every one of them who criticizes our government ought to be put in front of a firing squad." "Mmmm," Carter murmured, meaning to be noncommital. He didn't agree, but the trainman thought he did. That was the purpose of the murmur. If he ever ran for public office, he'd know how to lock up the trainman's vote. Just scream that nigras, Jews, Indians, and anarchists were making plans to run amok and desecrate the flag. Interesting how even the stupidest people could teach you something. Billowing smoke and sparks behind it, the Union Pacific express sped across the darkness of Nebraska. More stars than Carter had ever seen illuminated the sky above the prairie. Soon, though, the stars paled, and anxious passengers crowded the platforms between the cars, pointing to the northern horizon. It glowed like a furnace. The brilliant red light seemed to be sweeping toward the train. The whistle blared. The train picked up speed. At Carter's elbow, a conductor said: "Prairie fire. We've got to go like blazes so it doesn't catch us. You can see the wind fanning it. Moving it this way." And in front of the wall of fire, dark specks leaped and darted. Deer? Bison? Carter watched in awe. The danger was short-lived. The express outran the fire, which dwindled to a scarlet smudge in the northeast, then vanished. Once more the conductor tore off a section of Carter's ticket. He stared at the remaining sections, trying to fathom why the sight of them bothered him so much. All at once he understood. The excitement of the journey and the novelty of the sights had diverted him from the answer for a while. He might be escaping to a new city, but he certainly wasn't escaping to a new way of life. The ticket didn't represent fresh opportunity, but a variation of all he'd rebelled against for years. Other people restricting his freedom. Telling him what to do. The ticket wasn't a symbol of fresh opportunity. It was a symbol of Gideon's will. Gideon's wishes. Gideon's plan for his life- "Well, by God, it's my life!" He hadn't meant to speak aloud. The Pullman porter, a sad, slope-shouldered old black man, thought Carter was calling him, and came hurrying along the aisle. "Beg pardon, sir? Did you want me to make up your bed?" The accumulated resentment boiled over. He jumped up. "Yes! Get to it!" "I will, sir. Right this minute." The man was cringing, almost servile. That pleased Carter. It wasn't that he felt as the trainman did about blacks; the porter's skin had nothing to do with Carter's 'reaction. What he liked was being in control of another human being-black, brown, red, white, it didn't matter. Only the control mattered. The control achieved by some method that would not get you killed; Ortega and the Red Cod had taught him to set that limit. Control of others was what he wanted from life. Instead, he had the ticket. When the lower berth was ready, he climbed in. Thus far on the trip, he'd slept soundly. Tonight he was restless. He cursed volubly whenever the train swayed or jerked. Hour after hour, all he could think of was the ticket. "Sleep well, sir?" the porter asked in a hopeful tone when Carter climbed out between the green curtains the next morning. "No. I had a miserable rest." He knuckled his eyes; noticed the respectful look on the porter's face. How could he * make everyone treat him that way? He knew. By following the advice he'd given W. By being somebody. He couldn't do it by going on to San Francisco, though. He couldn't do it by swamping floors or cleaning toilets in some nigger-owned hotel, that was for damned sure. He had to strike out in a new direction. "I'm not spending another night on this rattletrap," he announced. "I thought you were going all the way to California with us, sir." "I changed my mind. What's the next stop?" The porter consulted his watch. "North Platte, Nebraska." "When will we be there?" "About ten." "That's where I'm getting off." The porter bobbed his head. "Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir." The only other passenger to leave the train at North Platte was an old farmer from second class. Carter stood on the platform in the sun as the locomotive drivers began to shunt back and forth and the whistle blew. The moment the train pulled out, he knew he'd made a dreadful mistake. North Platte seemed to be nothing more than a collection of railroad sidings, unpainted commercial buildings and small, mean houses set down beside a dirty river in the middle of a sea of prairie grass. A stiff breeze filled the air with dust. It was only April but the sun was scorching. Sweat turned his linen shirt sodden beneath his new Marshall Field jacket. He hoisted his two cowhide valises and trudged toward the main street. He felt hot, tired, and overcome with guilt, By bolting from the train, he'd betrayed Julia's trust. He stopped a man emerging from a general store whose elaborately painted sign read: H. and M. K. BOYLE OF NORTH PLATTE - General Merchandise - "Mister, is there a clean, inexpensive hotel in town?" The plainly dressed townsman eyed Carter's fancy jacket and dusty button shoes. "Try the Platte Palace." He jerked a thumb into the sun's glare. "Two blocks down. The widow Butts runs it." "Obliged." Carter touched two fingers to his forehead, picked up his valises and walked on. What he saw around him was discouraging. Shimmering heat devils on the horizon. Blowing dust. A godforsaken little town whose loftiest building seemed to be its grain elevator. But he was free of all the ticket represented. Free. He had to remember that. I The Platte Palace Hotel was two stories high, half a block wide across the front, and deserted. He entered and saw a woman dusting the lobby counter. The woman was -- j plain, heavy-breasted, in her early forties. She looked uncomfortable in her worn, high-necked dress of black silk. were' She gave him a hard look. Her gray-green eyes had a curious intensity. He endured the stare without a sign of annoyance, then put on his most charming smile. "I just got off the train." He pointed to a chipped writing desk near the large and dusty front window through which the sunlight streamed. "Do you mind if I sit and write a note?" "I suppose not." The tone of the reply said she wished he i wouldn't. Carter set his valises on the rug. The movement stirred motes of dust and set them whirling faster in the sunshine. He sank down in the chair. It creaked. He opened the desk drawer. It contained nothing but Union and Central Pacific timetables. "You'll have to get your own stationery," the woman called. "I quit supplying it after my husband died. Too many people steal it, and it's expensive. My husband was always giving things away. That's why we were always broke." Carter nodded. Why was the woman staring at him so intently? Was she angry because he intended to use the desk? Well, the hell with her. He found his unused ticket; held it up: "I have paper." She sniffed and gave him another oblique look. She tugged nervously at the waist of her dress, tightening the material over her breasts. He noticed that as she did so, she i

stood in profile. He was beginning to catch onto her game. The woman disappeared behind the partition which contained the pigeonholes for mail. All the pigeonholes were empty. A train whistle sounded in the distance. Carter bent his head over the desk whose top was illuminated by the blazing sunlight. He began to feel confused and depressed. Where could he go? How could he support himself after his money was gone? He only had fifteen dollars left. He was in the middle of a vast, unfamiliar country. Friendless. Alone- He pulled an old steel pen from the inkwell. On the back of the ticket, he began a letter to Julia. In brief sentences, he told her he'd left the train in Nebraska. He told her he couldn't go on to the Hope House and the backslash nenial job waiting there. He told her he had to do what he wanted, not what someone ordered him to do. He stuck the end of the pen in his mouth and chewed on it. With a start, he realized the woman had come back and was watching him gnaw hotel property. He stopped. Smiled. She returned the smile and slowly leaned her elbows and her pendulous breasts on the counter. The pen scratched in the silence: still don't want you to worry, which is why I am sending this. And I don't want you to be hurt, or fret, if you don't hear from me for a while. I must sort things out and make my way on my own. I'm grown now, I can do it. I will write you from wherever I land in a few months, and am sure I will have good news about what I have decided to do in the future. What lies, he thought, his face glum and his belly beginning to hurt as he realized the enormity of the step he'd taken. He had no idea where he'd go, or how he'd get along when his traveling cash ran out. All his thoughts about freedom-all his plans to control his own destiny- seemed ludicrous in view of his situation. But his mother mustn't know that. She'd be upset enough when she learned what he'd done. Despite her low opinion of him, he loved her, and he owed her at least a little peace of mind. He finished the letter by saying: Above all, please do not worry. still will be fine. Say hello to W. yr. affectionate son, Carter.