The Moviegoer - Walker Percy [43]
I take her cold hands. “What do you think of this for an idea?” I tell her about the service station and Mr. Sartalamaccia. “We could stay on here at Mrs. Schexnaydre’s. It is very comfortable. I may even run the station myself. You could come sit with me at night, if you liked. Did you know you can net over fifteen thousand a year on a good station?”
“You sweet old Binx! Are you asking me to marry you?”
“Sure.” I watch her uneasily.
“Not a bad life, you say. It would be the best of all possible lives.” She speaks in a rapture—something like my aunt. My heart sinks. It is too late. She has already overtaken herself.
“Don’t—worry about it.”
“I won’t! I won’t!”—as enraptured and extinguished in her soul, gone, as a character played by Eva Marie Saint. Leaning over, she hugs herself.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ooooh,” Kate groans, Kate herself now. “I’m so afraid.”
“I know.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll go to my car. Then we’ll drive down to the French Market and get some coffee. Then we’ll go home.”
“Is everything going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me. Say it.”
“Everything is going to be all right.”
THREE
1
Saturday morning at the office is dreary. The market is closed and there is nothing to do but get on with the letter writing. But this is no more than I expected. It is a fine day outside, freakishly warm. Tropical air has seeped into the earth and the little squares of St. Augustine grass are springy and turgid. Camphor berries pop underfoot; azaleas and Judas trees are blooming on Elysian Fields. There is a sketch of cloud in the mild blue sky and the high thin piping of waxwings comes from everywhere.
As Sharon types the letters, I stand hands in pockets looking through the gold lettering of our window. I think of Sharon and American Motors. It closed yesterday at 30¼.
At eleven o’clock it is time to speak.
“I’m quitting now. I’ve got sixty miles to go before lunch.”
“Wherebouts you going?”
“To the Gulf Coast.”
The clatter of the typewriter does not slacken.
“Would you like to go?”
“M-hm”—absently. She is not surprised. “It just so happens I got work to do.”
“No, you haven’t. I’m closing the office.”
“Well I be dog.” There is still no surprise. What I’ve been waiting to see is how she will go about shedding her secretary manner. She doesn’t. The clatter goes on.
“I’m leaving now.”
“You gon let me finish this or not!” she cries in a scolding voice. So this is how she does it. She feels her way into familiarity by way of vexations. “You go head.”
“Go?”
“I’ll be right out. I got to call somebody.”
“So do I.” I call Kate. Mercer answers the phone. Kate has gone to the airport with Aunt Emily. He believes she is well.
Sharon looks at me with a yellow eye. “Is Miss Cutrer any kin to you?” she cries in her new scolding voice.
“She is my cousin.”
“Some old girl told me you were married to her. I said nayo indeed.”
“I’m not married to anyone.”
“I said you weren’t!” She tilts her head forward and goes off into a fit of absent-mindedness.
“Why did you want to know if I was married?”
“I’ll tell you one thing, son. I’m not going out with any married man.”
But still she has not come to the point of waiting upon my ministrations—like a date. Still very much her own mistress, she sets about tidying up her desk. When she shoulders her Guatemalan bag and walks briskly to the door, it is for me to tag along behind her. Now I see how she will have it: don’t think I’m standing around waiting for you to state your business—you said you were closing the office—very well, I am leaving.
I jump ahead of her to open-the door.
“Do you want to go home and let me pick you up in half an hour? Put your suit on under your clothes.”
“All right!” But it isn’t all right. Her voice is a little too bright.
“Meanwhile I’ll go get my car and my suit.”
“All right.” She is openly grudging. It is not right at all! She is just like Linda.
“I have a better idea. Come on and walk home with me to get my car and then I’ll take you to your house.”
“All right.” A much better all right.