The Wayward Bus by John Steinbeck
"It sounds like a good value," Mr. Pritchard said. His mind was made up. He knew how he would get the better of Charlie Johnson now. He would give one of the toilets to Charlie. But on the plate he would put "Presented to Charlie Johnson, the all-American soandso, by Elliott Pritchard," and then let Charlie show off all he wanted to. Everybody would know who had the idea first.
"You haven't got one with you, have you?" he asked.
"No, you have to order."
Mrs. Pritchard spoke up. She had moved close, quietly. "El liott, you're not going to get one of those. Elliott, they're vulgar."
"I wouldn't have it around if there were ladies, of course," said Mr. Pritchard. "No, little girl. Know what I'm going to do? I'm gonna send one of them to Charlie Johnson. That'll get back at him for sending me that stuffed skunk. Yes, sir, I'll fix him."
Mrs. Pritchard explained. "Charlie Johnson was Mr. Pritchard's roommate in college. They have the wildest jokes. They're like little boys when they get together."
"Now," said Mr. Pritchard seriously, "if I ordered one, could you have it sent to an address I'll give you? And could you have it engraved? I'll write what I want you to put on the plate."
"What are you going to say?" Bernice asked.
"Little girls keep their noses out of big man's business," said Mr. Pritchard.
"I'll bet it'll be awful," said Bernice.
Mildred was in the dumps. She felt heavy and tired and she wasn't interested in anything. She was sitting in a twisted wire candy-store chair all by herself at the end of the counter. Cynically she had watched Pimples trying to get the blonde alone. The trip had let her down. She was disgusted with herself and what had happened. What kind of a girl was she if a bus driver could set her off? She shivered a little with distaste. Where was he now? Why didn't he come back? She smothered her impulse to get up and go look for him. Van Brunt's voice sounded beside her so that she jumped.
"Young lady," he said, "your skirt shows. I thought you'd like to know."
"Oh, yes. Thank you very much."
"You might have gone all day thinking you were all fixed up if somebody didn't tell you," he said.
"Oh, yes, thank you." She stood up and, leaning backward, pushed her skirt against her legs so that she could see. There was an inch of slip showing behind.
"I think it's better to be told things like that," Van Brunt said.
"Oh, it is. I guess I broke a shoulder strap."
"I don't care to hear about your underwear," he said coldly. "My only remark is--and I repeat it--your skirt shows. I don't want you to think I had any other motive."
"I don't," said Mildred helplessly.
Van Brunt went on, "Too many young girls get self-conscious of their legs. They think everybody is looking at them."
Suddenly Mildred was laughing wildly like a sick woman.
"What's so funny?" Van Brunt demanded angrily.
"Nothing," said Mildred. "I just thought of a joke." She had remembered that Van Brunt had never missed any show of legs all morning.
"Well, if it's that funny, tell it," he said.
"Oh, no. It's a personal joke. I'll go out and fix my strap." She looked at him and then, deliberately, she said, "You see, there are two straps on each shoulder. One is for the slip and the other supports the brassiere and the brassiere holds the breasts up firmly." She saw Van Brunt's color come up out of his collar. "There isn't anything below that until the panties, if I wore panties, which I don't."
Van Brunt turned and walked away quickly and Mildred felt better. Now the old fool wouldn't have a comfortable moment. She could watch him and maybe later trick him and catch him in the act. She got up, laughing to herself, and went out around the back of the store to the lean-to marked "Ladies."
A lattice covered the door and the morning glory was beginning to climb up. Mildred stood in front of the closed door. She could hear Norma talking to the blonde inside. She listened. Maybe this would make the trip worth while, just listening to people talk. Mildred liked to eavesdrop on people. Sometimes her liking to bothered her. She could listen to inanities with interest. But of all the listening, the best was in women's rest rooms. The freedom of women in any room where there was a toilet, a mirror, and a washbowl had interested her for a long time. She had once written a paper in college, which had been considered daring, in which she had maintained that women lost their inhibitions when their skirts were up.
It must be either that, she thought, or the certainty that man, the enemy, could never invade this territory. It was the one place in the world where women could be certain there would be no men. And so they relaxed and became outwardly the people they were inwardly. She had thought a great deal about it. Women were more friendly or more vicious to one another in public toilets, but on personal terms. Perhaps that was because there were no men. Because, where there were no men, there was no competition, and their poses dropped from them.
Mildred wondered whether it was the same in men's toilets. She just didn't think it was likely, because men had many competitions besides women, while most of women's insecurities had to do with men. Her paper on the subject had been returned marked "Not carefully thought out." She planned to do it over again.
Out in the store she had not been friendly toward Camille. She just didn't like her. But she knew her dislike would not carry into the rest room. She thought, "Isn't it strange that women will compete for men they don't even want?"
Norma and Camille were talking on and on. Mildred put her hand on the door and pushed it open. In the small room were a toilet stall and a washbowl with a square mirror over it. A dispenser of paper seatcovers was on one wall, and paper towels beside the basin. A slot machine for sanitary pads was on the wall beside the frosted glass window. The concrete floor was painted dark red and the walls were thick with layers of white paint. There was a sharp smell of perfumed disinfectant in the air.
Camille was seated on the toilet and Norma stood in front of the mirror. They both looked at Mildred as she came in.
"Want to get in here?" Camille asked.
"No," said Mildred. "I've got a drooping strap on my slip."
Camille looked down at the skirt. "You have all right. No, not that way," she said to Norma. "You see the way your hair line goes? Well, make the eyebrows go up a little on the outside, just a little. Wait, honey. Wait a minute and I'll show you."
She stood up and moved to Norma. "Turn around so I can see you. There, now. And there, now look at yourself. See how it kind of brings down your hairline a little bit? Your forehead's high so you try to bring it down. Now look, close your eyes." She took the eyebrow pencil from Norma and rubbed it gently on the lower lids just below the lashes, making the line a little darker as it passed the outside corners.
"You've got the mascara on too thick, honey," she said. "See how the lashes stick together? Use more water and take a little more time. Wait a minute." She brought out of her purse a little plastic case of eyeshadow. "Now you go careful with this stuff." She dipped her finger into the blue paste, rubbed a little on each of Norma's upper eyelids, making it heavier toward the outside corners. "Now, let me see." She inspected her work. "Look, honey, you keep your eyes too wide, like a rabbit. Let your upper lids down a little bit. No, and don't squint. Just let your upper lids droop down a little bit. There, like that. Now look at yourself. See the difference?"
"My God, I look different," Norma said. Her voice was awed.
"Sure you do. Now, you've got the lipstick on all wrong. Look, honey, your lower lip is too thin. So is mine. Bring the lipstick down a little bit here, and a little here."
Norma stood still like a good child and let her work.
"See? Heavier in the corners," Camille said. "Now your lower lip looks fuller."
Mildred said, "You're good. I could use some advice too."
"Oh, well," said Camille. "It's pretty simple."
"That's theatrical make-up," Mildred said. "I mean it's a kind of theatrical type make-up."
"Oh, damn it!" Mildred exclaimed. "This strap isn't loose, it's broken." She peeled her dress off her shoulder and she had a little silken string in her hand.
"You'll have to pin it," Camille said.
"But I haven't got a pin and my needle and thread's in one of the suitcases!"
Camille opened her purse again, and in the lining were half a dozen tiny safety pins. "Here," said Camille, "I always go heeled." She unfastened one of the pins. "You want me to fix it for you?"
"If you don't mind. My damned eyes. I can't see anything."
Camille pulled the loose slip up, folded the end of the strap, and pinned it firmly to the edge of the slip. "That's hardly all right, but at least it doesn't show. It's still a pin job. You always been shortsighted, honey?"
"No," said Mildred. "I was all right until--well, right when I was about fourteen. One doctor said it had to do with puberty. He said some girls get their eyesight back when they have their first baby."
"That's tough," said Camille.
"It's a damn nuisance," Mildred said. "I don't care how much they make new shapes of glasses. They still aren't very good looking."
"Ever heard of that kind that fit right down against the eyes?"
"I've thought about it and I haven't done anything about it. I guess I'm scared to have anything touch my eyes."
Norma was still regarding herself with wonder in the mirror. Her eyes had suddenly become larger and her lips fuller and softer and the wet rat look had gone from her face.
"Isn't she wonderful?" Norma said to no one. "Isn't she just wonderful?"
Camille said, "She's gonna be a pretty kid when she learns a few tricks and gets some confidence. We'll touch up that hair, honey, as soon as we get in."
"You mean you've thought it over?" Norma cried. "You mean we'll get the apartment?" She whirled on Mildred. "We're going to have an apartment," she said breathlessly. "We're going to have a davenport and Sunday morning we'll wash and set our hair--"
"We'll see," Camille broke in. "We'll just have to see how things work out. Here's the two of us without jobs and already she's got a duplex rented. Hold your horses, honey."
"It's a funny trip," Mildred said. "We're on our way to Mexico. Everything's gone wrong from the start. My father wanted to see the country. He thinks we might settle in California some time. So he wanted to take the bus to Los Angeles. He thought he could see the country better."
"Well, he can," said Camille.
"He can see too much of it maybe," Mildred said. "But did you ever see such a collection of people as we've got?"
"They're all about the same," said Camille.
"I like Mr. Chicoy," said Mildred. "He's part Mexican, you know. But that boy! I've got a feeling he'd climb all over you if you weren't careful."
"Oh, he's all right," Camille said. "He's just a little goaty. Most kids are like that. He'll probably get over it."
"Or maybe he won't," said Mildred. "Did you take a good look at that old fellow, Van Brunt? He didn't get over it. It just ingrew. That's a pretty filthy man in his mind."
Camille smiled. "He's pretty old," she said.
Mildred went into the little cubicle and sat down. "There's something I wanted to ask you," she said. "My father thinks he's seen you somewhere. He's got a pretty good memory. Did you ever see him?"
For a second Mildred saw the hostility in Camille's eyes, saw the tightened mouth, and she knew she'd touched something sore. And instantly Camille's face was placid again.
"I think I must look like somebody else," she said. "This time he's made a mistake unless he saw me in the street somewhere."
"On the level?" Mildred asked. "I'm not trying to catch you now. I just wondered."
The friendliness, the companionship, the relaxation, slipped from the room. It was as though a man had entered. Camille's eyes stabbed at Mildred. "He made a mistake," she said coldly. "You can take that any way you want."
The door opened and Mrs. Pritchard came in. "Oh, there you are," she said to Mildred. "I thought you'd wandered off."
"Oh, I broke a strap on my slip," said Mildred.
"Well, hurry up. Mr. Chicoy's back and there's quite an argument going on--Thank you, dear," she said to Norma, who had moved away from the basin to make room for her. "I'll just moisten my handkerchief and take a little of the dust off--Why don't you have a lemonade?" she said to Mildred. "That nice woman doesn't mind making them at all. I told her she'd be quite famous if she just served pure fruit juices."
Suddenly Camille said, "I wish we could get something to eat. I'm getting hungry. I'd like something good."
"So would I," said Mrs. Pritchard.
"I'd like a cold cracked crab with mayonnaise and a bottle of beer," Camille said.
"Well, I've never had crab that way," said Mrs. Pritchard, "but I wish you could have tasted the way my mother fried butterfish. She used to take an old-fashioned cast-iron skillet--and the fish, it had to be very fresh and very carefully trimmed. She'd make a batter with brown toasted crumbs--bread crumbs, not cracker crumbs--and she'd put a whole tablespoon--no, two tablespoonfuls--of Worcestershire sauce in a beaten egg. I think that was the secret."
"Mother," said Mildred, "don't start on the butterfish recipe."
"You'd better have a lemonade," said Mrs. Pritchard. "It'd clean up your skin. A good long trip makes a person blotchy."
"I wish we'd get moving," Mildred said. "We can get lunch in the next town. What's its name?"
"San Juan de la Cruz," said Norma.
"San Juan de la Cruz," Mrs. Pritchard repeated softly. "I think the Spanish names are so pretty."
Norma took a long, astonished look at herself in the mirror before they went out. She drooped her eyes. It was going to take practice to remember to do that all the time, but it changed her whole appearance and she liked it.
CHAPTER 13
Juan sat on a stool drinking a Pepsi-Cola and rubbing the shiny end of his amputated finger over the corduroy ridges of his trousers. When the women came around from the back and entered the store he looked up at them and the rubbing of his finger became a tapping.
"Is everybody here?" he asked. "No, there's one missing. Where's Mr. Van Brunt?"
"I'm over here." He spoke from behind the counter on the grocery side, where, concealed by a stacked wall of canned coffee, he was inspecting the shelves idly.
Mr. Pritchard said, "I want to know when we can get started. I have connections to make."
"I know," Juan said gently, "and that's what I want to talk about. The bridge is not safe. I can probably get across it. But there's another bridge and it may be out, or it may go out. We can't get any news about it. If we get into the bend of the river with both bridges out, we'd be caught, and nobody could make any connections. Now, I'm willing to take a vote and do anything the majority of the passengers want to do. I'll make a run for it and take a chance, or I'll take you back and you can make other plans. It's up to you. But when you make up your minds I want you to stick to the verdict."
He raised the bottle and drank the Pepsi-Cola.
"I haven't the time," Mr. Pritchard said loudly. "Look, my friend. I've had no vacation since the war started. I've been making the implements of war that gave us the victory, and this is my first vacation. I just haven't the time to go gallivanting all over the country. I need a rest. I only have a few weeks and this is eating them up."
Juan said, "I'm sorry. I'm not doing it on purpose, you know, and if you got caught in the bend of the river you might lose a lot more time and I might lose the bus getting it across. The bridge is strained to the breaking point. It may come down any minute. The only other choice is to go back."
Van Brunt came from behind the stack of coffee. He had a two-and-a-half pound can of sliced peaches in his hand. He crossed the store to Mrs. Breed. "How much?" he asked.
"Forty-seven cents."
"My Go
"The profit hasn't changed," she said. "We've just got to pay more for them."
Van Brunt threw a half-dollar violently down on the counter. "Open 'em up," he said. "Forty-seven cents for a mean little can of peaches!"
Mrs. Breed put the can in a wall opener, turned the crank, and stopped just as the edge raised. She passed the can over the counter to Van Brunt. He drank off part of the juice first, then reached in and picked out a yellow slice with his fingers. He held it over the open can to drip.
"Now I heard what you said," he observed. "You think you can waste our time. I've got to get in to the courthouse and I've got to get in this afternoon. And it's up to you to get me through. You're a common carrier, subject to the rules of the railroad commission."
"That's what I'm trying to do," said Juan. "And one of the rules of the commission is don't kill the passengers."
"It comes of not knowing the country," Van Brunt went on. "There ought to be a strict law that you've got to know the country before you can drive a bus." He waved a slice of peach and flipped it into his mouth and picked up another slice between his thumb and forefinger. He was enjoying himself.
"You said there was only two things to do. Well, there's three. You don't know about the old road that was there before they put in those damn-fool bridges. It goes right around the outside of the bend. The stagecoaches used to use it."
Juan looked questioningly at Mr. Breed. "I heard about it, but what condition is it in?"
"Stages used it for over a hundred years," said Van Brunt.
Mr. Breed said, "I know it's all right for a couple of miles, but I don't know it beyond that. It goes up the side of the mountain to the east, there. It might be washed out. I haven't been over it since way before the rains."
"You've got your choice," Van Brunt said. He waved his piece of peach, flung it into his mouth, and talked around it. "I told you it was going to rain. I told you the river would be up, and now, when you're stuck, I tell you how to get out of it. Do I have to drive your god-damned bus too?"