The Wayward Bus by John Steinbeck
She leaned close behind him. "I couldn't hear you," she said.
Louie coughed. "I said the country looks nice after the rain."
"Yes, it does."
He tried to get back to his usual opening. He noticed in the mirror that she was still leaning forward to listen.
"Like I said," he began, "I try to figure people out. I'd say you was in the movies or on the stage."
"No," said the girl. "You'd be wrong."
"Aren't you in show business?"
"No."
"Well, do you work?"
She laughed, and her face was very charming when she laughed. But Louie noticed that one of her upper front teeth was crooked. It leaned over and interfered with its neighbor. Her laughter stopped and her upper lip covered the tooth. "Conscious of it," Louie thought.
She was ahead of him. She knew what he was going to say. It had happened so many times before. He was going to try to find out where she lived. He wanted her telephone number. It was simple. She didn't live anywhere. She had a trunk stored with Loraine with some books in it--Captain Hornblower,6 and a Life of Beethoven,7 and some paper books of the short stories of Saroyan,8 and some old evening dresses to be made over. She knew Louie was having trouble. She knew that blush that rose out of a man's collar and the thickness of labored speech. She saw Louie glance apprehensively in the mirror at the rear of the bus.
The Hindus were smiling a little at each other. The Chinaman was staring up in the air, trying to work up in his mind some discrepancy in the stories he had been reading. A Greek in the rear seat was cutting an Italian cigar in two with a pocketknife. He put one piece in his mouth and thoughtfully placed the other half in his breast pocket. The old woman was working herself up into a rage at Louie. She directed an iron look at the back of his head, and her chin quivered with fury and her lips were white with the tension of their compression.
The girl leaned forward again. "I'll save you time," she said. "I'm a dental nurse. You know, I do all those things in a dentist's office." She often used this. She didn't know why. Perhaps because it stopped speculation and there were never any more questions after she said it. People didn't want to talk much about dentistry.
Louie digested this. The bus came to a railroad crossing. Automatically Louie set his air brakes and stopped. The brakes hissed as he released them and went through the gears to cruising speed again. He sensed that things were closing in on him. The old bitch was going to start trouble any minute now. He didn't have forty-two miles at all. Once the old bitch put in her oar the thing would be over. He wanted to make time while he could, but it was too soon according to Louie's methods. He shouldn't make a play for a good half hour, but the old bitch was going to force his hand.
"Sometimes I get into L.A.," he said. "Is there someplace I could call you and maybe we could--have dinner and go to a show?"
She was friendly about it. There wasn't anything mean or bitchy about her. She said, "I don't know. You see, I haven't any place to live now. I've been away. I want to get an apartment as soon as I can."
"But you work someplace," said Louie. "Maybe I could call you there."
The old woman was squirming and twitching in her seat. She was mad because Louie had kicked her out of the front seat.
"Well, no," said the girl. "You see, I haven't got a job. Of course, I'll get one right away because you can always get a job in my profession."
"This isn't a brush-off ?" Louie asked.
"No."
"Well, maybe you could drop me a line when you get settled."
"Maybe."
"Because I'd like to know someone to take out in L.A."
And now here it came, the voice as shrill as a whetstone. "There's a state law about talking to passengers. You watch the road." The old woman addressed the whole bus. "This driver's putting our lives in danger. I'm going to ask to get off if he can't keep his attention on his driving."
Louie closed up. This was serious. She really could make trouble. He looked in the mirror and found the girl's eyes. With his lips he said, "The god-damned dried up old bitch!"
The girl smiled and put her fingers to her lips. In a way she was relieved and in another she was sorry. She knew that sooner or later she would have trouble with Louie. But she also knew that in many ways he was a nice guy and one she could handle up to a certain point. She knew from his blush that she could probably stop him by hurting his feelings.
But it was over and Louie knew it. The girl wasn't going to get herself in a mess. He had to make time while the bus was rolling. He knew that. Once you got to a station the passengers wanted out as quick as possible. Now he'd lost out. At Rebel Corners he would stop only long enough to let her off and unload that god-damned crate of pies. He hunched over the wheel. The girl had folded her hands in her lap and her eyes would not raise to meet his in the mirror. There were lots of girls prettier than this one. Those forceps scars were damned ugly. They'd give a guy the shivers. Of course, she wore her hair long and forward to cover them. A girl like that couldn't wear her hair up. Louie liked hair up and, Jesus! suppose you woke up in bed and saw those scars. There were plenty of pigs in the world and Louie could get along. But in his chest and his stomach there was a weight of sorrow. He fought at it and picked at it but it wouldn't move. He wanted this girl more than he had ever wanted anyone, and in a different way. He felt a dry and grainy sense of loss. He didn't even know her name, and now he wouldn't get to know her. He could see Edgar's eager eyes questioning him when he came back to San Ysidro. Louie wondered if he would lie to Edgar.
The great tires sang on the road, a high, twanging song, and the motor throbbed with a heavy beat. There were big, wet, floppy clouds in the sky, dark as soot in the middle and white and shining on the edges. One of them was creeping up on the sun now. Already, ahead on the highway, Louie could see the shadow of it rushing toward the bus, and far ahead on the highway he could see the towering green mound of the oaks that grew about the lunchroom at Rebel Corners. He was filled with disappointment.
Juan Chicoy came to the side of the bus as it pulled in.
"What you got for me?" he asked as the door opened.
"One passenger and a flock of pies," said Louie. He got up from his seat, reached around, and lifted the girl's suitcase. He climbed down to the ground and held up his hands, and the girl put her hands on his arms and stepped down. They walked toward the lunchroom.
"Good-by," she said.
"Good-by," said Louie. He watched her go through the door, her little behind bobbing up and down.
Juan and Pimples had the crate of pies off the top of the bus. Louie climbed back into the bus.
"So long," said Juan.
The old woman had moved up into the front seat. Louie levered the door shut. He went into gear and moved away. When he was in cruising speed and the tires were ringing on the highway, he looked in the mirror. The old woman wore a look of mean triumph.
"You killed it," Louie said to himself. "Oh, you murdered it."
The woman looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror. Deliberately Louie made silent words with his lips. "You god damned old bitch!" He saw her lips grow tight and white. She knew what he meant.
The highway sang along ahead of the bus.
CHAPTER 8
Juan and Pimples carried the crate of Mother Mahoney's Home-Baked Pies near to the door of the lunchroom and set it down on the ground. Both of them watched the blonde go through the door. Pimples whistled a low gurgling note. The palms of his hands turned suddenly sweaty. Juan's eyes had lowered until only a little glint of light shone between his lashes. He licked his lips quickly and nervously.
"I know what you mean," said Juan. "Want to take time out and go over and lift your leg on a tree?"
"God Almighty," said Pimples. "Whew!"
"Yeah," said Juan. He bent over, turned the latch on the crate, and raised the hinged side. "I'll take a small bet, Kit."
"What's that?" Pimples asked.
"I bet," said J
Pimples started to blush around his eruptions. He raised his eyes uneasily and looked at Juan, and there was so much humor without poison in Juan's eyes that Pimples felt better. "God damn!" he thought, "there is a man. Why'd I ever work for anybody else?"
"Well," Pimples said aloud, and he felt he was talking to a man. Juan understood how a guy looked at things. When a cookie went by, Juan knew how a guy felt. "Well," he said again.
"Well," Juan mimicked him, "and who's gonna take care of the gas pumps and fix the flats?"
"Who done it before?" Pimples asked.
"Nobody," said Juan. "We used to just put a sign on the garage--Closed For Repairs. Alice can pump gas." He slapped Pimples on the shoulder.
"What a guy," Pimples thought. "What a guy!"
The pies were held by little traylike slots which gripped the edges of the pans and left each pie separate from all the others. There were four stacks of twelve pies--forty-eight pies.
"Let's see," said Juan, "we get six raspberry, four lemon cream, four raisin, and two caramel custard cream." He pulled out the pies as he spoke and laid them on top of the crate. "Take them in, Pim--Kit, I mean."
Pimples took a pie in each hand and went into the lunchroom. The blonde was sitting on a stool drinking a cup of coffee. He couldn't see her face but he felt the electricity or whatever it was she had. He put the pies on the counter.
As he turned to go out again he felt the silence in the room.
Mr. Pritchard and the crabby old guy and the young fellow, Horton, were entranced. Their eyes rose and washed the blonde and fell away. Miss Pritchard and her mother looked pointedly at the piles of bran in back of the counter. Alice was not there, but Norma was in front of the blonde, wiping the counter with her rag.
"Like to have a snail?" Norma asked.
Pimples paused. He had to hear the tone of the blonde's voice.
"Yes, I guess so," she said. A quick spasm kinked Pimples' stomach at the throaty tone. He hurried outside and gathered up more pies.
"Get moving," Juan said. "You can look at her all the way over to San Juan, unless you'd rather drive."
Pimples rushed the pies in. Sixteen pies out. That left thirty-two. Juan closed the side of the crate and turned the catch. When Pimples came out the last time he helped Juan put the pie crate in the big black trunk of "Sweetheart," the bus. She was ready now. Ready to go. Juan stood back and looked at her. She was no Greyhound but she wasn't bad. Around the windows a little rust showed through the aluminum paint. He would have to touch that up. And the hub caps could take a new coat too.
"Let's get going," he said to Pimples. "Lock the garage doors. Right between the benches under the radiator hose connections you'll find the sign to put on the door. Jump now if you want to get your clothes changed."
Pimples leaped for the garage door. Juan straightened up and stretched his arms from his sides and moved toward the lunchroom.
Mr. Pritchard's right leg was crossed over his left and his suspended toe made little convulsive jumps. He had glanced into the blonde's face when she came in and now there was a pleasant excitement in him. But he was puzzled. Somewhere, he thought, he had seen this girl. Maybe she'd worked in one of his plants, maybe a secretary, maybe in some friend's office. But he'd seen her. He felt sure he had. He truly believed that he never forgot a face, when the truth was that he rarely remembered one. He didn't look closely at any face unless he planned to do business with its owner. He wondered about the sense of sin he got out of the recognition. Where could he have seen this girl?
His wife was looking secretly at his swinging foot. Ernest Horton was frankly gazing at the blonde's legs. Norma liked the girl. In one respect Norma was like Loraine. She didn't love anyone--well, except one--so she had nothing to be taken away, nothing to lose. And this girl was nice. She was pleasant-spoken and polite. Actually the girl felt good toward Norma too, sensing that this girl could like her.
Just before the Greyhound came in Alice had said to Norma, "Watch the counter, will you? I'll be right back." And then the bus and the blonde and getting the coffee had taken up Norma's thoughts. But now a certain knowledge struck her, made her turn cold and nauseous inside. She knew what was happening as though she could see it. She knew, and knowing, many calculations came into her head around her sick anger. The little roll of money in small bills. That could be used until she could get a job. And why couldn't she go now? She was going to sometime. She opened the cabinets beneath the shelves in back of the lunch counter and shoved the pies in, all except one of each kind. One raspberry, one raisin, one lemon cream, and one caramel custard cream she lined up on the counter, and the smell of them made her sicker. She still didn't quite know what to do.
Juan came through the front door and stood looking at the back of the blonde's head.
Norma said, "Will you watch the counter a minute, Mr. Chicoy?"
"Where's Alice?" Juan asked.
"I don't know," said Norma. She could see Alice in her mind. Alice's eyes weren't so good. She would take the letter to the window and hold it up to the light. She wasn't really interested. It was a casual, vague kind of curiosity. She would lean sideways to the light and her hair would fall in her eyes so she would blow it, and her fingers would scrabble through the pages. Norma shivered. She saw herself hurtling into the room. She saw herself snatch the letter, and her fingers flexed. She felt Alice's skin against her fingernails and her nails striking and clawing for Alice's eyes, those horrible, wet, juicy eyes. Alice would fall on her back and Norma would come down on that great, soft stomach with her knees, and she'd scratch and tear at Alice's face and the blood would run in the scratches.
Juan, looking at Norma, said, "What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"Yes," said Norma.
"Go ahead before you get sick here."
Norma edged down the counter and opened the bedroom door softly. The door to her own room was open just a crack. She closed the door into the lunchroom and moved silently toward her own door. She was cold now and shivering. Cold as ice. Noiselessly she pushed her door open. And there it was--Alice, by the window, holding the letter to Clark Gable up to her eyes and blowing her hair sideways.
Alice blew her hair and looked up and saw Norma standing in the doorway. Her mouth was open, her face avid. She couldn't change her expression. Norma took a step into the room. Her chin was set so hard that the lines receded from her mouth. Alice stupidly held the letter out to her. Norma took it, folded it carefully, and tucked it in her bodice. And then Norma went to her bureau. She drew her suitcase from underneath. She unpinned the key from the inside of her dress and unlocked the suitcase. Heavily she began to pack. She emptied the bureau drawers into the suitcase and pressed the mound of clothes down with her fist. From the closet she dragged out her three dresses and her coat with the rabbit collar and she laid the coat on the bed and rolled the dresses up around the hangers and poked them in the suitcase too.
Alice couldn't move. She watched Norma, her head swinging as the girl passed back and forth. In Norma's brain there was a silent scream of triumph. She was on top. After a life of being pushed around, she was on top and she was silent. She felt good about that. Not one word did she say and not one word would she say. She threw two pairs of shoes into the suitcase and put the lid firmly down and locked it.
"You going right now?" Alice asked.
Norma didn't answer. She wouldn't break her triumph. Nothing could force her.
"I didn't mean to do anything wrong," Alice said.
Norma didn't look up.
"You'd better not tell or I'll fix you," Alice suggested uneasily. Still Norma did not speak. She went to the bed and got her black coat with the rabbit collar. Then she picked up her suitcase and walked out of the room. Her breath was whistling in her nose. S
Juan said, "What's going on here?"
"I'm going to San Juan with you," said Norma.
"You've got to help Alice," said Juan. "She can't stay here alone."
"I've quit," said Norma. She saw that the blonde watched her as she came around the edge of the counter. Norma went out the screen door. She carried her suitcase to the bus and she climbed in and took a seat toward the rear. She stood her suitcase up on its end beside her. She sat very straight.
Juan watched her go out of the door. He shrugged his shoulders. "What do you suppose that was?" he asked of no one in particular.
Ernest Horton was scowling. He hated Alice Chicoy. He said, "What time you think we'll get started?"
"Ten-thirty," said Juan. "It's ten-ten now." He glanced at the Pritchards. "Look, I've got to change my clothes. If you folks want coffee or anything, just come back here and get it."
He went into the bedroom. He slipped the shoulder straps of his overalls and let the pants fall down around his shoes. He had on shorts with narrow blue stripes. He peeled his blue chambray shirt over his head and kicked off his moccasins and stepped out of the overalls, leaving shoes and socks and overalls in a pile on the floor. His body was hard and brown, colored not by the sun but by brown ancestry. He moved over to the bathroom and knocked on the door. Alice flushed the toilet and opened the door. She had been washing her face again and a wet strand of hair was plastered to her cheek. Her mouth was lax and her eyes were swollen and red.