II
She found no inspiration but she did find a dependable
kindness in Mrs. Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old
woman's receptivity and had relief in sobbing the story of
Bea.
Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely
a pleasant voice which said things about Charles Lamb and
sunsets.
Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs.
Flickerbaugh, the tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney.
Carol encountered her at the drug store.
"Walking?" snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why, yes."
"Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that
retains the use of her legs. Come home and have a cup o'
tea with me."
Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she
was uncomfortable in the presence of the amused stares which
Mrs. Flickerbaugh's raiment drew. Today, in reeking early
August, she wore a man's cap, a skinny fur like a dead cat,
a necklace of imitation pearls, a scabrous satin blouse, and a
thick cloth skirt hiked up in front.
"Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope
you don't mind the house looking like a rat's nest. You don't
like this town. Neither do I," said Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why—"
"Course you don't!"
"Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find
some solution. Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find
the hexagonal hole." Carol was very brisk.
"How do you know you ever will find it?"
"There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman—
she ought to have a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston
—but she escapes by being absorbed in reading."
"You be satisfied to never do anything but read?"
"No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town
always!"
"Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll
die here—and I'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a
business woman. I had a good deal of talent for tending to
figures. All gone now. Some folks think I'm crazy. Guess
I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and sing hymns. Folks
think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing and
ironing and mending socks. Want an office of my own, and
sell things. Julius never hear of it. Too late."
Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could
this drabness of life keep up forever, then? Would she some
day so despise herself and her neighbors that she too would
walk Main Street an old skinny eccentric woman in a mangy
cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt that the trap had
finally closed. She went into the house, a frail small woman,
still winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with the
weight of the drowsy boy in her arms.
She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that
Kennicott had to make a professional call on Mrs. Dave
Dyer.
Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the
street was meshed in silence. There was but the hum of
motor tires crunching the road, the creak of a rocker on the
Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand attacking a mosquito, a
heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the precise rhythm
of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen—sounds that
were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of the
world, beyond the boundaries of hope. Though she should sit
here forever, no brave procession, no one who was interesting,
would be coming by. It was tediousness made tangible, a
street builded of lassitude and of futility.
Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and
bounced when Cy tickled her ear in village love. They strolled
with the half-dancing gait of lovers, kicking their feet out
sideways or shuffling a dragging jig, and the concrete walk sounded
to the broken two-four rhythm. Their voices had a dusky
turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on the porch of
the doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt that
everywhere in the darkness panted an ardent quest which she
was missing as she sank back to wait for— There must be
something.