Come Along with Me (22 page)

“From the city. Exactly. I daresay you were delighted to have the house.”

“Indeed I was.”

“I suppose Aunt could hardly have done otherwise. Sister, give Miss Elizabeth the saucer. Quickly, before the room catches fire.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth took the chipped saucer from Miss Caroline and put out her cigarette; ash trays, she thought, lamps, ash trays, coffeepot.

“Her apron is gone,” Miss Caroline told her sister.

“Already?” Miss Amanda turned to look fully at Elizabeth. “I am afraid we will see many changes, Sister. And now Miss Elizabeth is waiting for us to leave. Miss Elizabeth is determined to begin her packing tonight.”

“Really,” Elizabeth said helplessly, gesturing, “really—”

“All of Aunt's pretty things. This is not our formal call, Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Amanda rose grandly, and Miss Caroline followed. “You will see us within three days. Poor Aunt.”

Elizabeth followed them back to the kitchen. “Really,” she said again, and “Please don't leave,” but Miss Amanda overrode her.

“This door does not latch properly,” Miss Amanda said. “See that it is securely locked behind us.”

“They say that's how he got in,” Miss Caroline whispered. “Keep it locked
always
.”

“Good night, Miss Elizabeth. I am happy to know that you plan to keep the house well lighted. We see your lights, you know, from our windows.”

“Good night,” Miss Caroline said, turning to put her hand once more on Elizabeth's arm. “Locked,
remember
.”

“Good night,” Elizabeth said, “good night.” Old bats, she was thinking, old bats. Sooner or later I'm going to have words with them; they're probably the pests of the neighborhood. She watched as they went side by side down the path, their heads not yet turned to one another, their long skirts swinging. “Good night,” she called once more, but neither of them turned. Old bats, she thought, and slammed the door correctly; the latch caught, and she took down the key and locked it. I'll give them the moose head, she thought, my aunt would have wanted them to have it. It's late, I've got to find myself a bed, I haven't even been upstairs yet. I'll give them each a piece of the junk; my very own, my pretty little house.

Humming happily, she turned back toward the parlor; I wonder where they found her? she thought suddenly; was it in the parlor? She stopped in the doorway, staring at the soft chair and wondering: did he come up behind her there? While she was sewing? And then pick up her glasses from the floor and set them on the table? Perhaps she was reading her magazine when he caught her, perhaps she had just washed her cup and saucer and was turning back to get her sweater; would it have been this quiet in the house? Is it always this quiet?

“No, no,” she said aloud. “This is silly. Tomorrow I'll get a dog.”

Pressing her lips together firmly, she walked across the room and turned off the light, then came back and turned off the lamp beside the door, and the soft darkness fell around her; did they find her here? she wondered as she went through the sunporch, and then said aloud “This is silly,” and turned off the light. With the darkness following close behind her she came back to the kitchen and checked that the back door was securely locked. He won't get in
here
again, she thought, and shivered.

There was no light on the stairs. I can leave the kitchen light on all night, she thought, but no; they'll see it from their windows; did he wait for her on the stairs? Pressing against the wall, the kitchen light still burning dimly behind her, she went up the stairs, staring into the darkness, feeling her way with her feet. At the top was only darkness, and she put out her hands blindly; there was a wall, and then a door, and she ran her hand down the side of the door until she had the doorknob in her fingers.

What's waiting behind the door? she thought, and turned and fled wildly down the stairs and into the lighted kitchen with the locked back door. “Don't leave me here alone,” she said, turning to look behind her, “please don't leave me here alone.”

 * * * 

Miss Amanda and Miss Caroline cuddled on either side of their warm little stove. Miss Amanda had a piece of fruitcake and a cup of tea and Miss Caroline had a piece of marshmallow cake and a cup of tea. “Just the same,” Miss Caroline was saying, “she should have served something.”

“City ways.”

“She could have offered some of the city cake she brought with her. The coffeepot was right there in the kitchen. It's not polite to wait until the company goes and then eat by yourself.”

“It's city ways, Sister. I doubt she'll be a good neighbor for us.”

“Her aunt would not have done it.”

“When I think of her searching that little house for valuables I feel very sorry for Aunt.”

Miss Caroline set down her plate, and nodded to herself. “She might not like it here,” she said. “Perhaps she won't stay.”

[
1962
]

THE BUS

Old Miss Harper was going home, although the night was wet and nasty. Miss Harper disliked traveling at any time, and she particularly disliked traveling on this dirty small bus which was her only way of getting home; she had frequently complained to the bus company about their service because it seemed that no matter where she wanted to go, they had no respectable bus to carry her. Getting away from home was bad enough—Miss Harper was fond of pointing out to the bus company—but getting home always seemed very close to impossible. Tonight Miss Harper had no choice: if she did not go home by this particular bus she could not go for another day. Annoyed, tired, depressed, she tapped irritably on the counter of the little tobacco store which served also as the bus station. Sir, she was thinking, beginning her letter of complaint, although I am an elderly lady of modest circumstances and must curtail my fondness for travel, let me point out that your bus service falls far below . . .

Outside, the bus stirred noisily, clearly not anxious to be moving; Miss Harper thought she could already hear the weary sound of its springs sinking out of shape. I just can't make this trip again, Miss Harper thought, even seeing Stephanie isn't worth it, they really go out of their way to make you uncomfortable. “Can I get my ticket, please?” she said sharply, and the old man at the other end of the counter put down his paper and gave her a look of hatred.

Miss Harper ordered her ticket, deploring her own cross voice, and the old man slapped it down on the counter in front of her and said, “You got three minutes before the bus leaves.”

He'd love to tell me I missed it, Miss Harper thought, and made a point of counting her change.

The rain was beating down, and Miss Harper hurried the few exposed steps to the door of the bus. The driver was slow in opening the door and as Miss Harper climbed in she was thinking, Sir, I shall never travel with your company again. Your ticket salesmen are ugly, your drivers are surly, your vehicles indescribably filthy . . .

There were already several people sitting in the bus, and Miss Harper wondered where they could possibly be going; were there really this many small towns served only by this bus? Were there really other people who would endure this kind of trip to get somewhere, even home? I'm very out of sorts, Miss Harper thought, very out of sorts; it's too strenuous a visit for a woman of my age; I need to get home. She thought of a hot bath and a cup of tea and her own bed, and sighed. No one offered to help her put her suitcase on the rack, and she glanced over her shoulder at the driver sitting with his back turned and thought, he'd probably rather put me off the bus than help me, and then, perceiving her own ill nature, smiled. The bus company might write a letter of complaint about
me
, she told herself and felt better. She had providentially taken a sleeping pill before leaving for the bus station, hoping to sleep through as much of the trip as possible, and at last, sitting near the back, she promised herself that it would not be unbearably long before she had a bath and a cup of tea, and tried to compose the bus company's letter of complaint. Madam, a lady of your experience and advanced age ought surely to be aware of the problems confronting a poor but honest little company which wants only . . .

She was aware that the bus had started, because she was rocked and bounced in her seat, and the feeling of rattling and throbbing beneath the soles of her shoes stayed with her even when she slept at last. She lay back uneasily, her head resting on the seat back, moving back and forth with the motion of the bus, and around her other people slept, or spoke softly, or stared blankly out the windows at the passing lights and the rain.

Sometime during her sleep Miss Harper was jostled by someone moving into the seat behind her, her head was pushed and her hat disarranged; for a minute, bewildered by sleep, Miss Harper clutched at her hat, and said vaguely, “Who?”

“Go back to sleep,” a young voice said, and giggled. “I'm just running away from home, that's all.”

Miss Harper was not awake, but she opened her eyes a little and looked up to the ceiling of the bus. “That's wrong,” Miss Harper said as clearly as she could. “That's wrong. Go back.”

There was another giggle. “Too late,” the voice said. “Go back to sleep.”

Miss Harper did. She slept uncomfortably and awkwardly, her mouth a little open. Sometime, perhaps an hour later, her head was jostled again and the voice said, “I think I'm going to get off here. 'By now.”

“You'll be sorry,” Miss Harper said, asleep. “Go back.”

Then, still later, the bus driver was shaking her. “Look, lady,” he was saying, “I'm not an alarm clock. Wake up and get off the bus.”

“What?” Miss Harper stirred, opened her eyes, felt for her pocketbook.

“I'm not an alarm clock,” the driver said. His voice was harsh and tired. “I'm not an alarm clock. Get off the bus.”

“What?” said Miss Harper again.

“This is as far as you go. You got a ticket to here. You've arrived. And I am not an alarm clock waking up people to tell them when it's time to get off; you got here, lady, and it's not part of my job to carry you off the bus. I'm not—”

“I intend to report you,” Miss Harper said, awake. She felt for her pocketbook and found it in her lap, moved her feet, straightened her hat. She was stiff and moving was difficult.

“Report me. But from somewhere else. I got a bus to run. Now will you please get off so I can go on my way?”

His voice was loud, and Miss Harper was sickeningly aware of faces turned toward her from along the bus, grins, amused comments. The driver turned and stamped off down the bus to his seat, saying, “She thinks I'm an alarm clock,” and Miss Harper, without assistance and moving clumsily, took down her suitcase and struggled with it down the aisle. Her suitcase banged against seats, and she knew that people were staring at her; she was terribly afraid that she might stumble and fall.

“I'll certainly report you,” she said to the driver, who shrugged.

“Come on, lady,” he said. “It's the middle of the night and I got a bus to run.”

“You ought to be
ashamed
of yourself,” Miss Harper said wildly, wanting to cry.

“Lady,” the driver said with elaborate patience, “please get off my bus.”

The door was open, and Miss Harper eased herself and her suitcase onto the steep step. “She thinks everyone's an alarm clock, got to see she gets off the bus,” the driver said behind her, and Miss Harper stepped onto the ground. Suitcase, pocketbook, gloves, hat; she had them all. She had barely taken stock when the bus started with a jerk, almost throwing her backward, and Miss Harper, for the first time in her life, wanted to run and shake her fist at someone. I'll report him, she thought, I'll see that he loses his job, and then she realized that she was in the wrong place.

Standing quite still in the rain and the darkness Miss Harper became aware that she was not at the bus corner of her town where the bus should have left her. She was on an empty crossroads in the rain. There were no stores, no lights, no taxis, no people. There was nothing, in fact, but a wet dirt road under her feet and a signpost where two roads came together. Don't panic, Miss Harper told herself, almost whispering, don't panic; it's all right, it's all right, you'll see that it's all right, don't be frightened.

She took a few steps in the direction the bus had gone, but it was out of sight and when Miss Harper called falteringly, “Come back,” and, “Help,” there was no answer to the shocking sound of her own voice out loud except the steady drive of the rain. I sound old, she thought, but I will not panic. She turned in a circle, her suitcase in her hand, and told herself, don't panic, it's all right.

There was no shelter in sight, but the signpost said R
ICKET'S
L
ANDING
; so that's where I am, Miss Harper thought, I've come to Ricket's Landing and I don't like it here. She set her suitcase down next to the signpost and tried to see down the road; perhaps there might be a house, or even some kind of a barn or shed where she could get out of the rain. She was crying a little, and lost and hopeless, saying Please, won't someone come? when she saw headlights far off down the road and realized that someone was really coming to help her. She ran to the middle of the road and stood waving, her gloves wet and her pocketbook draggled. “Here,” she called, “here I am, please come and help me.”

Through the sound of the rain she could hear the motor, and then the headlights caught her and, suddenly embarrassed, she put her pocketbook in front of her face while the lights were on her. The lights belonged to a small truck, and it came to an abrupt stop beside her and the window near her was rolled down and a man's voice said furiously, “You want to get killed? You trying to get killed or something? What you doing in the middle of the road, trying to get killed?” The young man turned and spoke to the driver. “It's some dame. Running out in the road like that.”

“Please,” Miss Harper said, as he seemed almost about to close the window again, “please help me. The bus put me off here when it wasn't my stop and I'm lost.”

“Lost?” The young man laughed richly. “First I ever heard anyone getting lost in Ricket's Landing. Mostly they have trouble
finding
it.” He laughed again, and the driver, leaning forward over the steering wheel to look curiously at Miss Harper, laughed too. Miss Harper put on a willing smile, and said, “Can you take me somewhere? Perhaps a bus station?”

“No bus station.” The young man shook his head profoundly. “Bus comes through here every night, stops if he's got any passengers.”

“Well,” Miss Harper's voice rose in spite of herself; she was suddenly afraid of antagonizing these young men; perhaps they might even leave her here where they found her, in the wet and dark. “Please,” she said, “can I get in with you, out of the rain?”

The two young men looked at each other. “Take her down to the old lady's,” one of them said.

“She's pretty wet to get in the truck,” the other one said.

“Please,” Miss Harper said, “I'll be glad to pay you what I can.”

“We'll take you to the old lady,” the driver said. “Come on, move over,” he said to the other young man.

“Wait, my suitcase.” Miss Harper ran back to the signpost, no longer caring how she must look, stumbling about in the rain, and brought her suitcase over to the truck.

“That's awful wet,” the young man said. He opened the door and took the suitcase from Miss Harper. “I'll just throw it in the back,” he said, and turned and tossed the suitcase into the back of the truck; Miss Harper heard the sodden thud of its landing, and wondered what things would look like when she unpacked; my bottle of cologne, she thought despairingly. “Get
in
,” the young man said, and, “My God, you're wet.”

Miss Harper had never climbed up into a truck before, and her skirt was tight and her gloves slippery from the rain. Without help from the young man she put one knee on the high step and somehow hoisted herself in; this cannot be happening to me, she thought clearly. The young man pulled away fastidiously as Miss Harper slid onto the seat next to him.

“You are pretty wet,” the driver said, leaning over the wheel to look around at Miss Harper. “Why were you out in the rain like that?”

“The bus driver.” Miss Harper began to peel off her gloves; somehow she had to make an attempt to dry herself. “He told me it was my stop.”

“That would be Johnny Talbot,” the driver said to the other young man. “He drives that bus.”

“Well, I'm going to report him,” Miss Harper said. There was a little silence in the truck, and then the driver said, “Johnny's a good guy. He means all right.”

“He's a bad bus driver,” Miss Harper said sharply.

The truck did not move. “You don't want to report old Johnny,” the driver said.

“I most certainly—” Miss Harper began, and then stopped. Where am I? she thought, what is happening to me? “No,” she said at last, “I won't report old Johnny.”

The driver started the truck, and they moved slowly down the road, through the mud and the rain. The windshield wipers swept back and forth hypnotically, there was a narrow line of light ahead from their headlights, and Miss Harper thought, what is happening to me? She stirred, and the young man next to her caught his breath irritably and drew back. “She's soaking wet,” he said to the driver. “I'm wet already.”

“We're going down to the old lady's,” the driver said. “She'll know what to do.”

“What old lady?” Miss Harper did not dare to move, even turn her head. “Is there any kind of a bus station? Or even a taxi?”

“You could,” the driver said consideringly, “you could wait and catch that same bus tomorrow night when it goes through. Johnny'll be driving her.”

“I just want to get home as soon as possible,” Miss Harper said. The truck seat was dreadfully uncomfortable, she felt steamy and sticky and chilled through, and home seemed so far away that perhaps it did not exist at all.

“Just down the road a mile or so,” the driver said reassuringly.

“I've never heard of Ricket's Landing,” Miss Harper said. “I can't imagine how he came to put me off there.”

“Maybe somebody else was supposed to get off there and he thought it was you by mistake.” This deduction seemed to tax the young man's mind to the utmost, because he said, “See, someone else might of been supposed to get off instead of you.”

“Then
he's
still on the bus,” said the driver, and they were both silent, appalled.

Ahead of them a light flickered, showing dimly through the rain, and the driver pointed and said, “There, that's where we're going.” As they came closer Miss Harper was aware of a growing dismay. The light belonged to what seemed to be a roadhouse, and Miss Harper had never been inside a roadhouse in her life. The house itself was only a dim shape looming in the darkness, and the light, over the side door, illuminated only a sign, hanging crooked, which read B
EER
Bar & Grill
.