The trailer was quite old, slightly larger than my own, set on its
own small plot of ground with a tiny cement patio and several square
yards of grass and garden, carefully tended. In spite of its age, the
trailer had a look of well-scrubbed cleanliness and perfect repair, an
air of privacy and pride. I remembered my mother's attempts to keep our
trailer clean and comfortable and homelike, and how restless and ill at
ease she had felt in the newer trailer we had bought after my father's
legacy to her, a modern trailer made of materials that shone without
cleaning, full of gadgets that made cooking effortlessly impersonal and
housework obsolete.
The blinds were not drawn in the Darrow trailer. I could see a man of
middle age standing in the living room before a three-dimensional TV
screen. He had his arm cocked in the pose of a football player about to
throw a pass. In the kitchen a plump little woman moved back and forth
busily, her back toward me. I saw no sign of Helen Darrow as I went up
the short walk to the door.
The man answered my knock. He had a short, spare figure and defeated
eyes surrounded by wrinkles that suggested he had once laughed a great
deal. He carried his shoulders erect and square with a suggestion of
defiant pride. At the moment the corners of his mouth were pulled down
in an expression of irritation. "What is it?" he snapped.
"Is Helen in?" I asked.
Curiosity stirred in the dull eyes. "Nope. But she'll be back in a few
minutes. We're just about to eat," he added pointedly.
"Ask the young man in," a voice called from within the trailer.
"Well, I don't want to interrupt your dinner," I said. "I just wanted
to talk to your daughter for a few minutes."
"Nonsense," the woman said, appearing suddenly beside the man. "Come
right in."
I hesitated. The man turned his back on me and trotted back to the TV
screen. The woman beamed cheerfully at me. I stepped inside, feeling
uncomfortable about my mission.
"My name is Cameron," I said awkwardly. "I--I'm an instructor at the
university."
"Well, isn't that nice, George? He's one of Helen's teachers."
"No, I'm not," I said quickly. "But I know her and--"
"Won't you stay for dinner? Have you eaten?"
"I couldn't do that."
"Rubbish," Mrs. Darrow said brightly. "There's plenty, and it's always
nice to have a guest when you're a good cook. And I am," she added with
unaffected pleasure.
I smiled. The odors of fresh vegetables cooking filled the small room.
"I'll bet you are," I said. "But I can't stay. I have another call to
make."
"You have to stop to eat sometime," she said placidly, ignoring my
protests and getting another plate from the built-in rack.
There was an unexpected thump from the living area. I turned to see
George Darrow rising from the couch and going through the motions of
dusting himself off. His eyes glittered with pleasure. I heard the
announcer's voice from the TV set talking excitedly about someone just
getting a pass away before being dumped. The pass was complete for
a fifteen yard gain. With a faint smile, I realized that Darrow was
one of those millions of sports addicts who lived for the synthetic
participation games so popular now on television.
"You can eat while you're talking to Helen," Mrs. Darrow said behind
me. "Unless it's private, of course...."
"No," I said quickly. "I really shouldn't be bothering her but I
thought she might be able to help me."
"You just go into the living room with father. Helen'll be here any
minute. George, isn't that game over yet?"
"We're in the last quarter," George Darrow said excitedly. "Watch that
safety man!"
I was in time to see a pass skip off the outstretched fingers of a
defensive halfback. Darrow sighed with heart-felt relief.
"That was close," he muttered. "We're playing the New York Bruins," he
added. "I'm with the Toronto Titans tonight."
I took a seat at the side of the room so as not to get in the little
man's way. It was remarkable how his eyes had lost their lifelessness.
They were avid, greedy with interest. He bent forward eagerly, calling
imaginary signals under his breath. The ball was snapped and it
seemed to spiral directly toward us in the startling illusion of the
dimensional screen. George Darrow reached to gather it in and faded
back a couple of steps to pass, looking for a receiver. The announcer's
voice rose in an animated description of the action.
I thought of the billions of men and sports-crazy youngsters throughout
the world who would be duplicating his actions, just as he imitated
the movements of the passer on the screen now, taking the passer's
place through the trickery of the television cameras. The participation
sports events provided a year round diet of baseball and football,
hockey and jai alai, and various other games and contests in which the
viewer could have the vicarious thrill of taking part. I had never
enjoyed them. I could only contrast the closed, air-conditioned,
private sports arenas, where the professional athletes played before
the eyes of the cameras alone, with the noisy confusion of the stadiums
I remembered from my childhood, where teams battled before live
audiences, where you saw the action itself and not an illusion of it.
But George Darrow's sports enthusiasm might prove useful to me. He
would probably not be at all reluctant to talk about Mike Boyle. I
waited impatiently for the game to end. Except for the announcer's
voice with its false excitement and George Darrow's quick breathing
and occasional grunts, the trailer's peace was disturbed only by the
small, familiar kitchen sounds of a woman preparing a family meal,
happy in the surprise addition of a guest. The place was full of her
warmly sentimental touches--frilly draperies, hand-crafted artifacts,
an elaborately framed telephone screen in rare genuine maple. My own
trailer in comparison was bare and cold and impersonal. I began to feel
more keenly the absurdity of any suspicion that this warm and modest
home, so typically human, could house an unearthly creature.
George Darrow pressed a chair button to turn off the TV set. The game
was over. The room was abruptly silent. He sank into a chair, staring
at me. After a moment he coughed, seemed about to speak, thought better
of it.
"You must know Mike Boyle pretty well," I said casually.
The man's eyes brightened again. "Mike? Sure do. Best roving tackle in
the country, that boy."
I had struck the chord. "Yes. I saw Mike this afternoon scrimmaging. A
couple of tough games coming up this weekend."
"We'll take 'em," Darrow said. "Mike should make All-American in a
walk, the kind of season he's having. He's the difference in our team."
He paused, then looked up happily. "Mike and Helen are going steady,
you know."
"Yes, I knew. That reminds me, did Helen see him last night? I heard
the coach talked to him about being out late, again, breaking training."
Darrow laughed. "They may talk to Mike but he don't listen. He does
just what he wants, that boy. Yeah, he and Helen had a date last night.
Like most nights. But they weren't out late, were they, mother?"
Mrs. Darrow carried a steaming bowl over to the table at one end of
the kitchen. "I'd say about eleven," she said. "Mike's a good boy, Mr.
Cameron. I never worry when Helen is out with him."
"I'm glad to hear that," a voice broke in.
We all turned toward the door. The slender brunette I had seen with
Boyle stood in the doorway watching me, her face unsmiling.