Читать книгу Echoes - Roger Arthur Smith - Страница 10

One

Mildred Warden did not hear the boy enter her library. That was because of the wind, she assumed. The spring zephyr had arrived the week before, the first part of May, 1960, and gathered strength until it was a bellowing, whistling wind, a hideous racket that had a scratchy sound to it because of the sand it carried. The wind scooped clouds off the desert, and from the naval ammunition depot nearby, whirled the sand into the air and flung it at Hawthorne. It was no wonder that commercial buildings, county buildings, and houses alike—everything—looked drab and poorly painted. The town received a yearly sandblasting. This was especially true for the Mineral County Library, because it stood far out along A Street on the edge of Hawthorne, as exposed to the central Nevada wastelands as a cast- off child.

Mildred was startled away from reading the Saturday Evening Post—the March 19, 1960, issue with the painting of downtown Manhattan on the cover. So colorful and so thrilling!

All at once, there the boy was, standing right in front of her desk, practically under her nose. She glanced outside the window—the sky was a pale, sandy blue—and back to the boy. A cold thrill made her shiver. How had he come in without ringing the bell on the door? If the door opened, it tinkled automatically. It had to have been because of the wind. It was too noisy—there was no other explanation. But then, Mildred wondered, why hadn’t the wind sounded louder when the door opened? Why hadn’t she felt its gritty breath rush in?

Mildred glared at the boy, who stared dumbly back. Her first impression was unfavorable. He was not a cute child. Barely presentable, in fact. It was impossible to see him and imagine a mother who found him to be adorable, who was proud of him. His head was large and blocky. He had stiff brown hair on his head pushed up in a coxcomb, no doubt by the wind. It made him look like a cartoon figure plummeting from a great height, or theatrically frightened. His skin was pallid except for brown freckles on his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. The nose was wide, the tip flat as if someone were pressing a finger against it. The mouth was likewise wide, and a half-inch scar running at an upward slant from the right corner gave him an ironic look, although there was nothing ironic in his eyes. They were a watery blue, hooded under heavy brows. Only his chin might lay claim to cuteness, in Mildred’s opinion. It was a perky little dome of fat that jutted out and sported a small dimple. His body was stocky, and he held himself stiffly, hands fisted at his sides. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, checked blue and white, buttoned up all the way to his throat and tucked into jeans, the bottoms of which were turned up in four-inch cuffs. The black Keds, torn and sand-stained, were off-putting to Mildred.

He was not a child whose mother dressed him thoughtfully. He was a child dressed quickly and dismissed, gotten out of the house to play after school, so the mother could have time to herself. That was the way it looked.

Imagining motherhood. It was something that Mildred often did when there were no patrons in the library, which was the norm. She occasionally imagined how other women must feel about their children, but that was only for contrast. Her imagination more often conjured a child she herself would have one day. Sometimes it was a girl, whom Mildred could dress up and share confidences with. Sometimes a boy, whom she could prepare for college and brag about.

This boy was not her sort. Not at all. He was unpromising. Mildred understood that intelligence could hide behind all kinds of faces. Even so, he did not look very bright. He just stood there, lumpish as slag.

Nonetheless, Mildred put on a little smile for him. She always encouraged the young to read. It was part of her job as the county librarian, but beyond that she believed in the power of literacy to improve the young, believed in it more than anything, except maybe for her belief in marriage and children in her future. That was only a matter of time. For now, she relished introducing a child to books. This boy was obviously in need of it.

“Are you looking for a book?” Mildred asked the boy.

He took a long time before nodding, yes. His eyes stayed vacant, but they also stayed on Mildred, unwaveringly. She grew uneasy.

“Can you read?” she asked, a little sharply. The boy nodded again, but Mildred was unconvinced. “How old are you?” In a gesture too babyish for his age, the boy held up one hand, the fingers splayed. Five, thought Mildred, then, startled, did a double take. No, four.

It was a sickening shock. The hand had three fingers and a thumb. He raised his other hand, showing two fingers. He was six.

“What is your name?” she demanded, to cover her disquiet.

It was the only time that Mildred ever heard his voice. He emitted a throaty rasp, as if he were just getting over a bad cold or hadn’t spoken in a long, long time. Mildred made out an m, t, g, n, and s, but it wasn’t at all clear how they went together. She winced. Harshness aside, it did not seem to be a boy’s voice, or not a pleasant boy’s voice. Surprisingly deep for one so young, it was also dry and hollow, like the voice heard on TV in another room. She shivered again—once. A short, sharp clench.

When she asked him to repeat his name, he just gaped at her. She ran through the sounds in her mind, thinking now that the boy was simple and she would have to call the county juvenile officer to come and take care of him. She would need a name to give to the officer. M-t-g-n-s: Several people came to mind whose names had those consonants. She tried them out. He nodded, or appeared to, at the last, Matthew Gans.

It was all very frustrating.

Gans. She knew of the family, of course. Matt Gans was the new auto shop teacher at Mineral County High School, a position that automatically put him in the town’s upper crust. The family had arrived the previous summer, but Mildred did not meet Mr. and Mrs. Gans until December.

It happened at a Christmas party. She was making her way round the crowded, cluttered, loud living room of Michael Callahan, the high school principal, when all of a sudden there they were, face to face, she and Mr. Gans. Immediately, he began chatting, asking about her job and family and prospects. Mildred was charmed. A fine figure of a man, open and dynamic. With an attractive wife, however, who allowed her husband only a short exchange. That was because, Mildred sensed, Mr. Gans displayed interest in her. She imagined the wife seeing a pretty younger woman captivating her husband and being a little jealous. It sent a pleasant warmth through Mildred. Titillating—she permitted herself that word only on rare occasions; the short conversation with Matt Gans was exactly that. About children of Matt and … Misty? … yes, Misty Gans, she could not recall having heard. Although of course a married male high school teacher would have children, she told herself. Didn’t they always, though.

Her eyes refocused on the boy. “Is Matthew Gans your father or your name?”

Maddeningly, the boy nodded again. But it struck Mildred then: he could be Matthew Gans, Junior. With a speech impediment. And shy. Well, she couldn’t hold those against him. A test, though, might establish his identity and whether he could in fact read at the same time. Mildred wrote out the four names she had pronounced to him and held it up for him to read.

“Which is you?” she asked.

Slowly, gently, he reached out and slipped the list from her fingers, and without looking it over held it at shoulder height. Mildred was taken aback. She dismissed the urge to order the boy away, however, or call the juvenile authorities right then and there. Every child deserved a chance. Instead, she became brisk.

A few more questions and a few more nods, and she established that he was not a library member, was willing to become one, and could write his own name on the small beige card with rounded edges that she set in front of him on the very edge of her desk. Hesitating, he laid the list beside it, took the pen that Mildred offered (she nearly lost patience), rested one forearm on the desktop, canted his head at a sharp angle in the opposite direction from his pen hand, and painstakingly filled in two blocky letters on the empty line below “Mineral County Library.” M and G, widely spaced. The letters, if ungraceful, were the same size and on the line, exactly as Mildred liked. Yet as he wrote, the odd notion came to her that the boy was not writing them, but drawing them. Odd, too, that he should set down the capital letters first. She waited for him to fill in the rest of the names. He didn’t, though. He set down the pen and stared at the capitals.

Sweeping the card away and reversing it, she added “atthew” to the M and “ans” to the G: Matthew Gans. After a hesitation, she put in “Jr.,” then assigned him a member number, dated and signed the card herself, and handed it back to him explaining that he was allowed to check out one book for a week from the children’s section. When she asked whether he knew what “check out” meant, he made no sign in response, so she explained how a lending library worked. It became evident to her, after a time, that she sounded high-handed, a little mean even, in giving a long explanation. And she was doing it because the boy was not likable, seemed slow. So she brought the library lecture to a sudden end by asking him what sort of book he would like to check out first.

Atop a low bookshelf next to her desk, the bookshelf she reserved for recent publications that she recommended to patrons, Mildred had propped several volumes for young adults and children. She pointed to the books on the shelf and prompted, “Do you like any of these?” The question made the boy appear suddenly closed, as if his eyes actually retreated into his head. It could have been a trick of the light. When the boy followed Mildred’s gesture and looked at the books, he was also facing away from sunlight flooding in through the high window behind Mildred’s desk and toward the comparatively shadowed area of the bookshelf; the pupils of his eyes dilated. Nothing so mundane and mechanical occurred to Mildred, though. The boy seemed, all of a sudden, furtive. Creepy.

He nodded slowly but did not point to any specific book. So Mildred removed the nearest and set it before him on the desk. However well the boy could read (if at all, Mildred wondered), the book was profusely, beautifully illustrated and would prove educational.

“Here,” she said, trying to soften her voice some. “This is brand new and lovely and part of the famous Every Child’s Omnibus series.”

She stopped herself again. The name would mean nothing to the boy. In any case, he simply fixed his eyes on the book until she flipped open the cover, took out the checkout cards from their stiff paper pocket, stamped in the due date on each, and re-inserted one into the pocket, while laying aside the second for filing. When she picked up Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom and held it out, he raised his hands to receive it readily enough. Just then the phone rang.

The phone stood on a half-size file cabinet behind Mildred and, still offering the book, she twisted round to reach for the receiver. The caller was not, as she hoped, Will Dubykky, whom Mildred dared think of as a possibility, but Deputy Sheriff Dodd. He wanted a book about Wyatt Earp, because he had heard that Wyatt Earp had actually served as a lawman in Mineral County. Mildred was familiar with the subject. She informed him crisply, because he was not a man she wanted to encourage through long conversation, that Wyatt Earp had indeed been a marshal in Nevada, but it was in Nye County, not Mineral County. In the course of her remarks, she felt a little tug at her extended hand, and released her hold on the book. The deputy’s questions disposed of a minute later, she swiveled back. Matthew Gans, Jr., was gone.

Mildred looked around her library. It was a long single room of tables and wall shelves where there was nowhere to hide. The boy had vanished, and with him Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. He was the first to check it out. Mildred’s smooth, powdered forehead creased. And, Mildred realized, the list of names was gone, too.

Did she smell something musty, like decay? She sniffed deeply. Yes … maybe, but she was startled out of that line of thought. A gust of wind swiped at the windows, scratching and rattling the panes. She pressed a palm to her heart to calm it.

That door bell, Mildred mused, disgruntled and more than a little spooked now, I’ll have to get it replaced with something louder or people will be sneaking in on me all the time. Like that boy.

Now, what nice man should do it for her?

TO MILDRED’S DELIGHT, Will Dubykky did call later in the day. He was calling, he told her, simply to be sure that everything was all right with her. Such an attentive man! Of course, everything was all right, if a little lonely.

What else?

He took the hint. They agreed upon dinner in the restaurant of the El Capitan, the biggest casino in town. To Mildred, this was daring, just a little. The El Cap boasted the county’s only fine dining and was beyond her means except for really special occasions. But not beyond Will’s. Like her, he was of the professional class, yet unlike her he was a type of professional who actually made a lot of money. An attorney-at-law. Also, it was a Thursday night, not a day that Mildred normally allotted to dining out, yet again this was Will, and so the departure from her routine moved Mildred to romantic thoughts. Maybe Will was finally getting interested in being something more to her than an ersatz uncle.

On the way to the El Cap, after locking the library’s front door, having carefully negotiated the three concrete steps to the sidewalk, she nearly toppled off her high heels. The wind was becoming especially fierce. One glance at the mountains to the west of town and it wasn’t so hard to imagine a hurricane about to strike. The Wassuk Range rose straight up thousands of feet from the desert floor like gargantuan waves about to overwhelm the feeble human settlement, an illusion enhanced by the cap of snow on them, like foam on breaking surf.

Mildred hurried downtown, unable to stop herself reflecting on what a shame it was that Will was not more like Matt Gans, the teacher. Matt was handsome, lively. Dashing, even. Such a big wide smile he had, she had been all but blinded by the whiteness of his teeth. Will posed a contrast. Not that Will was a bad-looking man. Not at all! But where Matt was muscular-manly, Will was slender. Where Matt was animated, Will was impassive. Where Matt glowed with health, Will hinted of having some disability that diminished his vitality, perhaps related to wounds he had received in Korea. Pizzazz was not a word she could associate with him. Unflappable, maybe: the unflappable William Dubykky. Not so romantic, that.

Mildred sought the protection of the commercial buildings on Main Street, squinting against the grit in the air while gusts manhandled her. Once in front of the hardware store, she slowed her pace, enjoying the relative calm and the air’s May softness. The snow in the mountains was beginning to melt. This meant that the winds carried some moisture with them, bringing an unusual fullness and tactile intimacy to the otherwise chalky high desert air.

She glanced at her watch, then checked it against the clock in the window of the jewelry store. She was a little early for the date, so she stopped and examined the rings and necklaces in the window display. She tried to keep her eyes off the earrings, especially the ones that were real earrings, the ones on slender posts, naked and silver, as opposed to the clasps. How her mother had ranted when Mildred returned home from the University of Nevada two years earlier. Pierced ears! Oh, horrors! The memory still made her blush. But it had been a little funny, too, when her mother, transported by rage, lost control of her syntax. “No daughter of mine—tricked out like a floozy—painted toes next—clasps like a good Lutheran woman—sitting on men’s laps—hophead beatniks!” Overcome by the shame of it, her mother retreated to the recliner oppressed by a headache. Really, it was 1960. Tastes were changing. Couldn’t she see that?

Mildred’s only set of earrings, modest silver maple leaves on posts and not at all anything racy like gold hoops, disappeared from her dresser soon afterward. Mildred had not dared buy anything else like them. The piercings in her ears had all but closed up.

Still, she could—she thought of Misty Gans, Matt’s wife. Misty had pierced ears and wore little garnet earrings. Very elegant. But of course the Ganses came from Los Angeles. They were sophisticated. The image of Matt came back to her, the twinkle of interest in his soft blue eyes.

Stop it, she chided herself, just stop. A married man! And they’d had only that one rencontre.

As for Will, his eyes were—well, there was certainly no twinkle to them. They were unreadable, usually. So dark brown that in all but the brightest light they seemed black. And that fact, against the habitual pallor of his face, gave them the appearance of bottomless depth. If Will hadn’t had such an interesting, dry sense of humor, those eyes might be frightening. And if he hadn’t been so caring. Since he had arrived in town after the Korean War, introducing himself as a friend of Mildred’s father, who had not survived the conflict, Will regularly looked in on her and her mother. A good friend, and never an undertone of illegitimate interest, even though at sixteen she fancied herself pert as a poppy. Since then she had grown up, been to college, and matured in her interests, while Will, in the way of older men, remained simply older. She would welcome a little illegitimate interest from him now and less of the “old family friend.” Still, he was only a possibility. There were other eligible men in Hawthorne of the right class and age, although, admittedly, far from a crowd of them.

Putting her hand over her pillbox hat, she bowed her head and dashed across Main Street, not easy to do on heels, exposed to wind and oncoming cars. Inside the El Cap, the air was blessedly still and cool, smelling of dust, cigarettes, lacquer, and alcohol. The penny and nickel slots already held up a solid wall of gamblers. Marge Dressler, an old high school classmate, hovered near to keep them stocked with change from the coin machine strapped over her groin. Marge’s eyes rested on Mildred for an instant then moved away, her face contemptuous.

That didn’t fool Mildred one bit. The coin machine wasn’t the only money associated with Marge’s crotch, a fact well known around town. It was simply spiteful envy on Marge’s part. Mildred was a professional, and Marge had nothing but her hands and her sex to make a living. At twenty-four she had already been married and divorced twice, once out of obvious desperation to a sailor stationed at the navy depot. Mildred by contrast was determined to be patient and choosy about men. She had set her cap for Mr. Right. She had no patience with women who simply made do, although of course she would never tell them so. Not directly.

She was still early for dinner but nonetheless found Will waiting for her in the restaurant. The booths were screened off from the clamor of the gaming floor by wavy, orange glass. Yet Will’s eyes were on her as soon as she came round the partition, as if he had somehow already seen her. She smiled at him. Then froze mid-step.

Sitting across from Will in the booth was a second man, a stranger. She inwardly said an unladylike word, the sort that never escaped the parentheses of her frankest feelings.

Several times previously Will had introduced young men to her, all of them of inelegant appearance, small prospects, limited education, and unappealing manners. Even seen from an oblique angle, on first glance this one appeared to be of the type. Although sitting, he was half a head taller than Dubykky. And hulking.

Probably loutish.

She paced her progress toward the booth to look him over. There was nothing to alter her first impression. His dark hair was crew-cut, a style she disliked as too square, too collegiate. His face was round and small, although the eyes were large and under brows surprisingly slender for a man. His ears stuck out. His lips were full to the point of babyishness, his nose unremarkable. Overall, he looked pleasantly plain, if immature. His expression was expectant, which made Mildred impatient. The nerve! Will was fixing her up again, and she wouldn’t have it. She was perfectly capable of finding a man on her own. She hesitated at the front of the booth, then sat on Will’s side.

“Hello, Milly,” Will said easily and, as was characteristic of him, without smiling. “I’d like you to meet my new partner, Milton Cledge.”

Partner? Another attorney in Will’s practice? Mildred’s attitude shifted. Brightened. She smiled shyly and, removing her gloves, extended her hand. Cledge’s grip was warm and gently firm, his smile charming. But, she realized, even despite the charming smile Cledge was still homely and he had a surprisingly rough hand, like a working man’s.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Cledge said.

Mildred’s attitude dimmed once more. Not only was it a stilted greeting but his voice was too creamy. Large light-brown eyes, round head, creamy voice—Mildred thought of Guernsey cows. She let the smile relax from her face. She shot Will arch looks as the three of them went through the pleasantries and background inquiries typical upon meeting someone for the first time.

Cledge, a graduate of McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento, had just passed the bar, Will explained, and was joining the office to specialize in land and tax law. At that point Mildred, losing interest in the conversation, largely ceased paying attention. The men talked law and local politics, to which, out of politeness, she added vague murmurs now and then while reading the menu. Or pretending to. It was short, and she had long had it by heart. What she was really doing inwardly was deciding how much anger she should reveal to Will later. Somehow she would have to tell him never to try fixing her up again but do it without alienating him.

The waitress appeared, old blobby Bobbie Rooney, and Will ordered a martini and Milton a whiskey soda. “And Milly will have a glass of Chianti,” Will told Mrs. Rooney. He winked at Mildred’s astonishment. “I called Gladys,” he assured her, “and it’s all right if you have just one glass.”

She was very pleased. She liked red wine. More than that she liked it that Will had gone to the trouble to make her feel at ease by getting permission from her mother first. Yet Mildred was also embarrassed. To say such a thing in front of a stranger! Milton Cledge couldn’t have been above three years older than Mildred, and here she was being made to look like a teenager who had to check in with her mother over every little thing.

Mrs. Rooney huffed and informed them that there was no chicken or pork available that night, only lamb and beef. So a chop and two steaks were the orders, and Mrs. Rooney hobbled away wearily, as if the food were already weighing her down. Now that Hawthorne had passed two thousand population—again—there were more outsiders, like the two lawyers, for a local gal to make time with. Rooney had always liked silly Milly Warden, so good luck to her. Except it would be better if these two were the tipping type of lawyers rather than the skinflint type.

Dubykky and Cledge spoke of Hawthorne, the ammunition depot at Babbitt next door, and Mineral County, including the Paiute reservation twenty-five miles north of Hawthorne in an elbow of the Walker River at Schurz. All from the angle of legal work. Dubykky looked more at Mildred than at Cledge, even though the discussion was meant for him. He was expecting her to chip in information, such as historical tidbits or local color, about which she was an authority. But she wasn’t having it. It was a bald ploy to make her be friendly to Cledge.

Finally, Dubykky said to her pointedly, “I talked to Dale Remus today, Milly.” He waited.

Mildred could not help herself. She stifled a giggle and had to cover it by asking, “What now?”

Dubykky was deadpan, something he did superbly, but there was a merry crinkle by his eyes. “Dale said there was another test shot this morning.”

Mildred replied airily, “Anybody would know that. It was announced in the papers.” Then Dubykky and Mildred burst out laughing.

The test detonation of an atomic bomb at the Nevada Proving Grounds two hundred miles to the south was always announced beforehand as a public service. Some people in Las Vegas liked to climb on top the tallest casinos and watch the mushroom cloud billow up from the desert.

“What’s so funny?” asked Cledge.

Mildred tried to keep a straight face as she replied, “Dale Remus forgot how to read almost as fast as he learned sixty years ago.”

The answer brought an odd expression to Cledge, part perplexity, part admiration and a dose of wariness. To Mildred it was cute. Dubykky explained about the atomic explosions and how they were a great point of controversy locally. He pointed to a sign near the restaurant entrance. It read, “This air filtered for your protection.” Some locals worried about atomic fallout, even though the government insisted there was no danger at all.

“I wondered about that,” said Cledge. “Then why wouldn’t this Remus fellow …?”

“He’s also deaf as a mule,” Mildred interrupted and laughed again.

“Then how …?”

Dubykky explained, “Dale claims he can feel the radiation pass through his body. That’s the way he knows when there’s been a test.”

A strange expression flitted across Cledge’s face. He suspected he was being made the butt of a joke. “No,” he said uncertainly.

“Fact.” Mildred grinned. “Oh, there are nuttier characters around here than Mr. Remus,” she went on. “Odder, old and young,” she added after a hesitation.

Dubykky eyed her curiously.

Noting it with satisfaction, Mildred began, “At the library today, well, you know how windy it’s been? I hope it doesn’t blow any radiation our way. Ha, ha. Well, there I was and … this was late afternoon …”

“Milly,” Will interrupted, a touch of scolding in his voice.

“Yes, of course.” Mildred had a tendency to wander. She concentrated. “There was this boy. I was reading the latest Saturday Evening Post, an article about Cocteau—no, wait, maybe that was two weeks ago in the March fifth issue. It really was a disappointing article, and all the disappointing articles sort of run together in my head, and I don’t like the man’s films at all anyway.” At a look from Dubykky, she said hastily, “Oh, yes. Certainly. The boy. Imagine! The wind is so shrieky I can hardly hear over it, and I look up. There he is. Abracadabra! Smack in front of my desk. I didn’t hear a whisper of him coming in. It was just like that, there he is, and, oh, Will, he was such an odd little boy.”

Mildred described the boy minutely, dwelling especially on the four-digit hand he held up when Mildred asked his age. The reactions of the two men could hardly have contrasted more. Dubykky appeared distracted, as if his mind had drifted off. Cledge grimaced. Mildred couldn’t blame him. Disfigurement in a child so young was difficult to accept.

“Well, I assumed he came to get a book, naturally, though I couldn’t get anything from him in reply to my questions except nods and blank stares. When I asked his name, all I got was garbled sounds, like chalk on a blackboard, but I think I figured it out finally. So I filled out a child’s membership card for him.”

“What name?” Dubykky asked, a perfunctory politeness, as though he were simply chipping in to keep the conversation rolling.

“Oh, yes. What a surprise! Matthew Gans. Or so I think. I named people with similar sounds: Matilda Gosse, Mitchell Garrison, Manuel Gonzales, Matthew Gans. He seemed to react to the last, especially when I wrote them all down.

“You know, Will—that Matt Gans who teaches shop at the high. The boy seems to be his kid. Matt Gans, Junior.”

A furrow appeared between Dubykky’s brows at the admiring tone she used when pronouncing the father’s name.

Mildred was poised to continue elaborating the incident, the only noteworthy one of her day, but Dubykky, despite his apparent lack of interest, surprised her, asking, “Did this Matthew Gans, Junior, check out a book?”

“Why, yes.”

“Which book?”

Mildred did not expect such curiosity on the subject of children’s literature and was a little unsettled. Dubykky was staring at her. “Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. It’s brand new, part of a well-thought-of series. Every Child’s Omnibus of Sports, Every Child’s Omnibus of Science—have you heard of those? Anyway, this one’s a very interesting volume, full of rhymes and riddles and fables, all with clear moral lessons. Just what a young boy like him needs.”

While Milton Cledge struggled not to look confused and uninterested at the same time, Dubykky’s stare was positively disturbing. Mildred didn’t know how to describe it, or what to make of it. It compelled her to continue without his evincing any pleasure from what she said. So she explained how the book was a Beginner Book, one meeting the publisher’s policy to introduce new readers to a basic vocabulary of 350 words. She admitted that the contents were quirky and that the book probably did not adhere to that policy strictly, but then she stumbled to a halt.

Dubykky had turned and was looking out the window, which presented a view of Highway 95. Mildred did so, too. A long-haul truck was moving past, but when it was out of the way, a boy was revealed standing in front of Simpson’s Jewelers. He wore the very same kind of checked shirt as had Matthew Gans, Junior. Mildred looked at him more carefully. Tucked under one arm was a thin strip of color. With a start, Mildred realized it was the spine of Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. The series’ book covers had a shade of burnt orange instantly recognizable, even from a distance.

“It’s him!” she exclaimed, practically squeaking.

Dubykky neither said anything in reply nor moved, but Cledge, following their eyes, squinted, then reaching inside his suit jacket took out a pair of glasses with heavy black rims. A small part of Mildred’s mind registered this disapprovingly as Cledge unfolded them and put them on. Even with the glasses on, he squinted.

“Where?” he asked, scanning the street.

“There.” Mildred pointed. “Across Main.”

“I don’t see anybody across the street at all,” he said in a cross tone, because he again suspected that he was being made the dupe for an obscure joke.

Mildred turned to him, impatient. “You don’t see the boy? He’s straight across the street. There.” But when Mildred looked back, the boy was not there. She swung her head, searching. Nobody at all was out on the sidewalks. “Huh,” she admitted after a moment, “how strange. I’m sure I saw him. Now he’s gone and he seemed to be looking right at us. He certainly moves fast! Didn’t he move fast, Will?” Despite herself, she coughed a short, nervous laugh.

Mrs. Rooney arrived with their salads right then, settling them on the table with much clattering. Right behind her was the bartender, dressed immaculately in black and white like Mrs. Rooney, but looking spruce where Mrs. Rooney was dowdy—but also blank-faced while Mrs. Rooney’s eyes darted among her customers, shrewdly assessing the gossip value of Cledge, the newcomer. The bartender set out the drinks. At this Cledge frowned, an indication of restaurant savoir-faire that pleased Mildred. As swanky as the El Cap purported to be, the staff didn’t know to bring the alcohol before the salad course. The three ate in silence, a silence that continued after her lamb chop and their two steaks were served. Though he dug into his food, Cledge seemed vaguely uncomfortable, whether because of the silence or the food quality Mildred could not divine, but it evoked a twinge of sympathy. Poor man, she thought, Will Dubykky and Mildred Warden must seem strange sorts for first acquaintances way out here in lonely Hawthorne.

She smiled reassuringly at him when he glanced up, then uncertain about the boldness of that, studied the level of wine in her glass. It had declined a little too quickly to last through the meal, so when Mrs. Rooney returned to check on their progress, Mildred glanced at the wine glass and then at Dubykky. He shook his head minutely. He himself had not touched his martini, so she felt reproved. Instead, Mildred ordered coffee and no ice cream for dessert. Cledge had ordered ice cream, but she had a figure to maintain.

Conversation resumed with the dessert. By then Cledge had forgotten about the boy and queried Dubykky and Mildred about local politicians. Mildred barely responded, which seemed to distress him. But Mildred did not have a problem with Cledge. It was just that nothing would fix in her mind except the sight of that strange boy across Main Street, his eyes trained right their way. Uncanny.

Cledge left first, shaking her hand and again assuming a stilted style of address to profess great pleasure in meeting her and sharing a meal. Watching him leave, she was interested to find him a sturdy figure and tallish, maybe five eleven, but a little ungainly in gait. Large feet. The soles of his wingtips, canted back at her as he stepped, were clean, hardly scuffed. She approved.

“Well, Milly,” said Dubykky, and Mildred snapped her eyes away from the retreating figure. Dubykky had a little smile, the one with just the very corners of his mouth turned up that he used to tease her sometimes. “What do you think of your future husband?”

Mildred flushed and spluttered protests. He just shook his head once and turned to watch out the window. Mildred was glad of the opportunity to switch the subject. Sometimes Will Dubykky just—she had been going to say to herself “went too far,” but the words didn’t suit her, and she balked. Her frank, inner voice finished the sentence with, acts like a weirdo. She compressed her whole face, which was how she got rid of unpleasantness in her mind. Back to the subject: “You saw him, didn’t you? The odd-looking boy?”

Dubykky nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Wasn’t it strange, though? I mean, there he was across the street. And looking right at us. Will?”

Dubykky continued to stare out the window. Mildred kept her eyes on his ear while she spoke, because with the approaching dusk she felt a compulsion not to look where he was looking. “Don’t you wonder why he was there? I do. Maybe he wanted something from me. But how would he know I was here in the restaurant? Will? And what could he possibly want from me now that the library is closed? Will? Say something!”

Dubykky sighed, which astonished Mildred. She had not heard such a sound from him before, a sigh that said something like, All right, there it is, I’ll have to attend to it. Or so it seemed to her.

At last he replied and did so in a tone hardly more than a murmur, but a tone nonetheless firm and clear, the tone he used when he told her something that she was absolutely supposed to take to heart. Sometimes, on the infrequent occasions when she heard that particular tone from him, Mildred wondered whether Dubykky regarded himself as a replacement father to her.

“It’s a warning,” he said.

Ridiculous as the remark sounded, a chill swept through Mildred.

“Nonsense,” she managed to say, prim and steady despite the frisson. “What warning would a boy want to give me?”

Now Dubykky took his eyes away from Main Street and directed them hard at her. The little teasing smile played on his lips for a moment, yet the fatherly tone was still there when he said, “A warning not to let yourself get interested in Matthew Gans, Senior.”

“William Dubykky! I never—”

But he cut her off, and playfully. “Milly, Milly. A married man. Really! What would Gladys say?”

That brought him exactly what Mildred expected he wanted: flurried protestations of surprise and dismay at the very idea. Of course, she would never, ever entertain … But even as Mildred was running through her denials, her absolute assurances of propriety, even then she understood that Dubykky had not been teasing her. The warning, whether the boy’s or just Dubykky’s or from them both, was genuine. After they parted, Mildred did not tarry to enjoy the sensuous evening air, now that the wind had slackened. The sky was darkening. Mildred wanted nothing more than to hurry home before night set in.

Nevada was the state of endurance and defiance. Nevadans endured nature and happily defied each other; they happily defied nature and endured each other. But no one with a grain of sense tempted the desert night, not without cause, not without trepidation. Outside the busy lights, boundless and bare, it mocked humanity.