The crowds walk much more slowly on the streets in the evening. They
aren’t going anywhere; they haven’t anything to do. For the same reason,
perhaps, the autos seem to loiter as they pass the people on the
pavements. They aren’t going anywhere much. They’re open to suggestion.
Two by two the people walk; sometimes there are more; hardly ever are
there less.
Large groups of young boys all too young to smoke; all smoking. Little
groups of girls looking in the shop windows. Two girls especially,
looking in the windows for lack of something better to do. Not exactly
discontented, not consciously bored. Just looking. Just walking.
Among the cars is one that goes a little more slowly even than the rest.
It is a middle-aged Dodge touring car with two boys in the front seat,
very much on the lookout. They pass the two little girls and call out
experimentally cheerful and more or less expectant of rebuff. One of the
girls looks oblivious and yet slightly more scornful, but the other
smiles a little. On the chance of success, the driver of the car goes
around the block and passes them again. As he disappears around the
corner for the second time, the scornful girl suddenly relaxes.
“If they come back again, let’s,” she says.
“Sure,” says the other, indulgently. “They look all right.”
A third time you call to them, and this time the girls stop walking and
stand waiting as the car comes to a halt. The boy who is not driving
jumps out and opens the back door. Ruthie, the scornful girl, steps in
while Rosie gets into the front seat, and the car speeds away. It has
not taken a moment.
“Well, where to?” you call from the back seat.
“I don’t care,” answers Bill. “What do you say?” he adds, turning to
Rosie. “Got any favorite drives?”
“No,” says Rosie, “I don’t know much about the roads. What do you say,
Ruthie?”
“Ruthie. It’s a nice name,” you say, and put your arm around the owner
of it. She does not cuddle down, but sits up more swiftly than before.
“Why,” she says, with a surprising decision, “the Jamestown road is
pretty good as far as the fence with the vine on it. When you get that
far you better turn back.”
Bill turns the car toward the Jamestown road and settles down to
driving, while Rosie curls up in the other corner of the seat and
watches him. They both wait for the other one to start talking. At
last——
“Gee,” she says admiringly, “you sure go fast. You ought to be careful
in the city. I got a cousin who was pinched yesterday.”
“Yeah? Never mind; I know the cop on this road. It ain’t so much the
speed, it’s what they call reckless driving they pinch you for. If a
fellow knows his business you can be pretty sure they leave him alone.
They don’t care for no speed limits.”
“I guess you’re right,” says Rosie.
* * * * *
“Why not?” you ask. “You don’t have to hit me in the Adam’s apple,
neither.” Ruthie does not answer, but looks out of the car with
unmitigated scorn. Pull your arm away from her shoulder and sulk. The
car bowls merrily over the rough road until it reaches the fence with
the vines, and it shows no signs of slowing up. Rosie does not seem to
notice, but Ruthie calls promptly from the back seat:
“It’s time to turn back.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Bill over his shoulder. He stops the car, pulls on the
brake, and in a very business-like manner he puts his arm around Rosie
and slumps down in the seat to a position where he can watch the sky
without craning his neck. Ruthie waits a minute uncertainly, then turns
away from you and stares with dignity at the fence and the field beyond
it.
In the front seat the couple manage to find a comfortable position as
close together as possible. You glance at them, then back at your own
girl.
“What you so crabby about?” you ask, aggrieved. “I ain’t pulled any
rough stuff. What do you think I am? You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Well, what do you think I am?” she demands. “You guys think that just
because a girl comes for a ride....”
“Oh, can it,” wearily. “Of course I don’t.”
“Well....” she says, as you pull her over to him, “It really is getting
sort of late.”
“It’s early,” you say. She shakes her head, looking very uncomfortable
hunched up against your shoulder. She suffers it for a while, but her
mind is elsewhere.
“We have to go back,” she suddenly announces. “Right away. Rosie, we
have to go back.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Rosie assents, cheerfully. It all seems to be the
same to Rosie. “We gotta go, Bill.”
“Oh, wait a minute, can’t you?” you say, exasperated. “It isn’t late at
all.”
Adamant, your girl shakes her head and looks expectantly at the driver.
You and Bill glance at each other and raise your eyebrows.
“You wait a minute,” you say, meaningly, and Bill obligingly turns back
and looks at the scenery in front of the car.
“Now listen,” you say. “You’re a long ways from home.”
“Yeah?” says Ruth, calmly.
“Yep. See? Well, are you gonna be nice?”
She compresses her lips. “You bet I’m gonna be nice, big boy. Come on,
Rosie,” and she opens the door of the car and steps out to the road.
Rose hesitates, looking inquiringly at Bill. She reaches tentatively for
the door-catch.
Ruthie stamps her foot. “Come ON, Rosie. You ain’t got any sense at
all.”
Rose hesitates no longer, but steps hastily out of her seat.
“Wait a minute,” you call together, as your respective maidens start
down the road toward town.
“We were only kidding,” says Bill. “Come on back.”
“All right,” assents Rosie, joyfully and with obvious relief, and she
climbs back to her place. Ruth follows more slowly. Nor does she deign
to look at you until you are back in the city street where you met.
“Now where?” calls Bill. “Want some chop suey?”
“We want to get out just where we got in,” she answers with chilly
sweetness. As the car stops—“Come on, Rosie,” she says. And as Rose
trots faithfully after her, with only one wistful backward glance——
“Nice ride,” she adds, over her shoulder.
You and Bill look at each other.
“You weren’t so smart,” says Bill.