A Singular Man

12

TALL blue Miss Tomson lonely and aloof. Descending the stairs and crossing the hall of Pomfret. She stood trembling among the silent guests. Biting her stiffened lips. Eyes moist. White lids thinly holding back the tears. On the dark floor the light blood. Fumes of gunpowder in the air. As she walked up to George Smith and said, take me out of here.

Outside and beyond the stone shadowy porch of Pomfret. Smith standing with Miss Tomson. A wind and purple stormy clouds in a moonlit sky. Along by the cars collected like dark animals crouched on the drive. Her white pearls on her throat she wore months ago on the train. Sad gangling arms from her blue dress. Tears trickling down her face.

Smith driving Miss Tomson's long sleek black vehicle slowly away. Car lights flashing across spruce trees, faint flower beds and a gabled shingled dog house, a figure throwing a glittering dog collar in the window.

"Smith the only thing 1 ever owned was that dog. And that shit shot him. Thoughtful some bastard giving me the collar back."

"Your dog was winning."

"That was no reason to kill him. Men stink. What's left for me."

"Miss Tomson it's not the end of the world to be dogless. I had a dog when I was a little boy, called Brownie."

"Was he shot."

"No. He died a natural death of disease."

"Well then Smith how do you know. I just saw my dog killed."

"Which way do I turn."

"I don't care just get us away. They can push me dead on a cart down a long hall of some hospital."

"Don't say that Miss Tomson, please."

"Guys use you. If you love him. Give him everything and they want to get rid of you. You're a chain around his neck. I always had Goliath. Jesus. Any good guy's already married with kids. Already with a padlock and chain. I don't want to be fine. Or beautiful. I want a baby. A rocking chair. A porch in the country undoing my sweater to put it on the nipple. Who wants to be fine. The rats win."

"That's not always true, Miss Tomson."

"You just don't know, Smith. What were you doing at that lousy party,"

"A neighborly invite to a jamboree."

"Don't shit me Smith. I'm just too depressed. What were you doing there."

"Tell me about these gears. This right for third."

"You're doing fine. Just drive. You got a license."

"No. But I learned about gear shifting as a child."

"Jesus."

Smith motoring north. Past another entrance to Pomfret. Row of granite farm buildings on the road. Down a steep hill through the woods. High wire fence. Locking in Bonniface. Who as I drove Miss Tomson's car out of Pomfret seemed to be a shadow reeling beside the road, arms outstretched, coatless and shouting.

Stop

I am Bonnif ace

Disposer of dead

Calvin helper of

The maimed

Clementine, the

Illustrious

Banjaxed and cuckolded

And Cedric too.

Stop.

You bastard Smith.

In these trying times. Of swindles, dog death and utter loneliness, where just another sad body naked next to mine can mean a whole world of peace and tenderness. Miss Tomson who gives money to beggars, violinists, street corner kids jigging with a homemade band, the mute and blind. Any helpless thing she would lift up and love. Like all tall women. When I became a bum drowned in drink. And walk that wasteland street like all the others kicked out of family and home, severed, unshaved, unlaundered and unpressed. Miss Tomson will take my tattered leery self, say O Jesus Smith, you poor poor guy. Feed from the crumbs in the palm of her hand. Lift up my faint face. To hers so fair.

"How many cylinders have we here, Miss Tomson."

"Eight."

"My."

Lonely headlights far away on another road. A red Barn. Stone wall above a sunken field. Hides of cows grazing in the night. Use a glass of milk with this cake beside me. Branches bending over the road, grey upturned leaves in the headlights. Monstrous purring engine whispering under this long black hood charging through the dark. Toting this peach, strawberry and cream. My delirious appetite.

"All the best steak I bought him. Perfect report on his three medical checkups. Never even had worms. Could have shown him in the dog show."

"Mustn't dwell on it Miss Tomson. You look terribly good tonight."

"You really mean it Smith. Do I look O.K."

"You do. There's a road house. Let's stop. Get you a drink."

First few fat drops of rain. Speckling the steps up to a porch under a neon sign. Jerry's Night Spot. Dark interior. Smith tripping over legs, leading Miss Tomson to the dim bar. White coated bar tender, eyes full of I know more than you think. Here come two pupils.

"What'll it be."

"Scotch for me Smith."

"Two scotch."

"Rightio."

"Smith you look kind of handsome. Wish it wasn't that my dog gets killed just when I see you out of the blue again. You made the papers, even. How are you doing with your enemies."

"They have vowed to get me. I will escape by submarine."

"Ha ha."

"Good to see you laugh again, Miss Tomson."

Smith surveying her in the faint light. Not so sad now. Lanky arms nearly to her knees. Hair a blond blowable softness. Cool long fingers of her hand. Must touch so lightly the dashboard of her car, quietly lit panorama of switches, clocks and dials. My little dog I owned had big brown spots on the lids when he closed his eyes. Never cried when he died. Bonniface back in Pomfret. Paralysis in his extremities. Upheaval in the keester. I steal away north and east under the aristocratic weeping rain. With thick wads of fresh treasury bills clutched under the armpits. Looking for homecooked food. While building a little empire. House in the country. Flat in town. Retreats in the woods. Sultry with peace and other things. Thank you spider.

"Smith do you get any letters anymore."

Smith extracts an envelope. Handing it to Miss Tom-son. Who holds it up in the purple tinted light. A yellow paper, address embossed in red.

Eel Street

Easter

(There is no time like the present)

George Smith,

c/o The Game dub

South Park Side

Dear Sir,

It has come to our attention that you would wish to wrestle. We are not without strength. But rather we would wish you wasn't to insist to a grapple. We hope you will forget you thought you was able to take on anybody.

We remain not kidding,

A. M. D. C.

(For The Committee)

"Very interesting. Have you answered itff

"No."

"Tell them Smith you're a mountain girl and not a guy at all. And hope they're gentlemen and supply chaperones. A debutante. And when you wrestle reporters might be watching. These initials be a name like Al Moygrain Diltor Cranzgot. Ask him if he wants to try some thigh trembling. Sign your letter, the knee."

"Miss Tomson, wish you still were working for me."

"I know, it's sad."

"You take the horror away."

"But now Smith. Your picture and write up in the papers. Made you kind of famous. Take the pressure off. I mean they worry a little more about giving you a pair of cement shoes to walk across the river with. Down there in the mud people would wonder where you are."

Miss Tomson handing the letter back to Smith. Giving the paper one final flick with her long nail. You know Smith I got something to tell you but not now. Smith sneaking a look at his present shoes. And up again at her face. As she stares into her drink. Twisting it. Cubes of ice spinning around. Rocking and clinking on the tall sides of the glass. Seemed blue shadows round her large eyes. Go back to get Miss Martin. Or Bonniface. Never. Sniff the wheat drifting up through soda bubbles. This Miss Tomson. God was cruel to make just one of her.

"Smith, this true you putting up a memorial to yourself. Isn't that kind of conceited. And expensive. What's the point. What does it matter what happens when you die."

"It matters all the days you live, Miss Tomson."

"Looking at you Smith like this you're a strange one."

"What would make you happy, Miss Tomson."

"A guy with a large soul. Not the small sneaky rats careening around these days. You got some more grey hairs Smith. Why don't you get married before you turn white. Tonight for me is curtains. I'm beginning to understand a guy like you. I could never be faithful to one guy. Even if he was steady and dependable. What is a guy anyway but just a prick and you write your name on it with a wedding. And he goes looking for more names. And no wedding. What is a guy. But just a prick. That's the way it is, Smith."

"Miss Tomson, I've left Miss Martin and a friend back there."

"What's she doing up here, Smith. Sony. Maybe it's personal or something. They'll be all right. In that skunk's house. Smith, you move on a lot of levels. Can even drive a car. I'm amazed. I like you driving me too, I feel safe. You know I've never really had a chance to talk to you before."

Miss Tomson standing, this night now, Saturday, north, rain sprinkling tree tops in the wood, a new decision on her face. Miss Tomson, your confidence makes me feel I've turned over a new safe leaf with cars.

"Smith, will you pardon me while I go and powder off my tears."

Smith down from his stool A litde bow. Her rear. Agony to have it near again. In my own litde lonely world. Touch one of those spheres. Have to get drunk to get brave. To descend easily to the cheap antics. Never get my hands on her. Oceans apart. She breezes right into my life and suddenly I'm standing up to my hips. In mystical shit. She can see and smell. Twisting every little word to make me sound deep, strong, preferably on the brow of the hill, yes, thank you, a little wind through the grey flecked locks, thank you, sunset please, music, some serious variations, low chords please, for Smith's earth shaking meaningful thoughts. And I just know my fly would be open.

"Smith wake up. I'm back. You look like you're in a trance."

"Sorry, Miss Tomson."

"Smith, I like you. You cheer me up. Nice tie you're wearing."

"Thanks."

Suggesting another scotch each for the road. Before stepping out in the night shuddering with high wind. Lightning zigzagging the black heaven as they left. Miss Tomson taking Smith's arm, running together across the cinder parking lot to her car. Inside warm and dry. She said well Smith. Well Miss Tomson.

"Gee let's just drive. Just anywhere for awhile in all this rain."

Long black machine pulling away. Across a sidewalk and out on the concrete road. Smith at the gleaming controls. Rain musically on the roof. Flooding down on the windscreen, twin wipers flashing back and forth. She turns sideways, facing me. Her dry sweet smell, light blue.

"Smith do you think I'll ever have a chance. Be like other women. That's what I know, I'm crippled by what I want, because I don't know what it is. Go down that aisle with a bunch of lillies in my arms with some jerk. Where do you find a real man today. I ought to hold interviews."

Smith's hands gripped to the steering. Eyes searching out through the rain and yellow beam of headlights reaching in the blackness. Miss Tomson's bullets. Land in the heart. After a long day, with all sorts of mystery. And brain throbbing just above the ears. Miss Tomson I'm an applicant begging for an interview. I drive. See. So smoothly down this road cut out of rock. Could help you in the fight for a fair share of human thrills. In the hall of Pomfret you chose me of all the crowd. My composure nearly exploded. Wish I had just once patted Goliath. But in those Golf Street office days I needed all my fingers. My heart is not all cold and black. And if it were. We could make a good mixture and color scheme.

Hesitate a moment before smashing the hopes of another. Sally. Tiny smudge of purple on your lids. Never say you'll die. Such an expensive car. All this soft black leather. Black angel. You'll have wings. And up on top of my tomb. You'll stand as a statue. I'll put you there. A sentinel. All sad and Sally.

Dashboard's calm clock ticking after two. Air comes in warm over the engine. Swish sound as Miss Tomson uncrosses her legs. A car approaching on this strange winding road. Which straightens now round this turn through the sheets of rain. And cracking thunder. Fox and toads and woodchucks cowering everywhere. Always find time to think of little animals. Even while guiding all this horsepower.

"Smith aren't you a little on the wrong side of the road."

"I rather think not."

"I think you are. There's a car coming."

"He seems to have more than his share."

"But you're on the wrong side Smith."

"Nonsense this vehicle approaching obviously contains a road hog."

"This is my car. You're on the wrong side of the road."

"Please Miss Tomson I'm present commander of this tank. Stubborn rascal. If he thinks for one second I'm going to swerve to avoid his oncoming rush he has one vast foolish figment of his imagination to endure."

"No. George."

"Get into your own lane you wretch."

"O no."

Squeal of tires. Crumpling of steel fabric. Abrupt meeting of bumpers fenders and headlamps. Lights go out and on again. To illuminate this complicated outing. And eight cylinder concussion.

Small curly headed man ejecting himself onto the road. Falls. Slowly picking himself up, wiping the wet from his person. Raising an outstretched finger pointing as he advances in the glaring head lights and plummeting rain.

"Jesus Christ Miss Tomson, you're quite right I'm on the wrong side of the road. Let me handle this." the wrong side of the road. Let me handle "First it's my dog. Now it's my car."

"Just leave this to me Miss Tomson."

George Smith drawing a card from his wallet Handing it out through an opened inch of window to the curly headed man momentarily stopping his cascade of words bordering on vituperation. The man reading in the cloudburst.

DEAF MUTE — WATCH MY SIGNS.

"Come on mister. Hey lady, who's going to pay for die damage to my car. You were right on the wrong side of the road."

Smith handing out another card. Man holding it up in his wavering headlights.

LADY IS MUTE BUT CAN HEAR.

"Jesus Christ lady. Make him a sign language will you. Who's going to pay for the damage. What's this country coming to, guy's out on the road, can't talk, can't hear. O.K. I know it's a crying shame to be without voice and that kind of affliction but who's paying for the damage."

HAVE YOU EVER FOOLED AROUND IN THE HORSE LATITUDES.

"Hey lady, read this while I'm getting soaked, see what he's said to me. I'm going to get the cops. Let's see your license."

I WILL THRASH YOU FROM COAST TO COAST

"You don't scare me buddy. Where's your license. Yeah, that's it, how can you have one if you're afflicted. Signal him that lady. Who's going to pay for the damage. I don't want any more of these messages. Who's going to pay. Just let me get your number."

Smith emitting a long low squeal, body in animal motion, canines showing, hands flashing up stretched in claws. Curly headed man jumping back from the car. Smith switched into gear. Dousing lights. Press down on the pedal. Miss Tomson's car leaping forward. A cry behind them. Roaring off in the dark down the rainy road. In the mirror the rear red glow of lights of the crash victim.

"Smith what are you doing."

"We must flee."

"You bastard if he's got my number I'm in prison for life. Police will be looking for us. He'll come after us."

"If he tries to turn around in that road he'll be in the mud for months."

"Front of the car must be ruined. I'm scared."

"Gende dents, absolutely have them put right for you. I am sorry about this. We'll take this turning. Looks a friendly, empty road. I don't want to alarm you further Miss Tomson but I think we might best get both the car and ourselves in out of the rain."

Miss Tomson sitting eyes cast down. Hands folded quietly in her lap. Poor sorrowful girl. On a stormy night like this. Back in those days when she sat at her desk in Golf Street. Taking odd items of paper out of her drawers, which she slowly tore up. Then sat thinking hard. Until she would pick up her phone to call the hairdressers or Goliath at the kennels to whom she went woof woof, sweetie. With the marble replica of Miss Tomson on my tomb I will add Goliath on a leash. Have a little elevator to raise me up and down to view them once in awhile. Hello Sally, hi ya Goliath. Then get lowered to rest again. All automatic. Never need stir. Now she's next to me a few fabrics away. A good sport about the crash. Didn't even ask to drive. Touch her now and I will light up like electric. All so sweet heart. Pain in my chest of sadness. This car feels like driving a speed boat. I will stop in open sea and have a laugh with a perfect stranger passing in another racy craft.

"Miss Tomson, I think I'm lost."

"God."

"Think you better drive and I'll direct the way."

Smith pulling to the side of the road. Near an apple tree. Stone wall and bushes and pines. Miss Tomson sliding across. Discreet Smith, opening his door, taking one momentary look at one momentary pair of knees. Lightning brightening up the sky.

"I'll survey the damage, Miss Tomson,"

Shielding eyes against the head lamps. Feeling the front bumpers and fenders. Patting them. Backing the front tires in an off hand professional manner as one has seen Herbert the Chauffeur do.

"Miss Tomson, glad to say. Not bad fettle. Crack in the head lamp. Few dents. Obviously our adversaries car was of inferior quality."

Smith climbing back into the long vehicle. Faint dog smell of Goliath. His hairs on the floor carpet. Think of somewhere to go. Behind Miss Tomson's ear. With lips. And travel a nose into her hair. Slight sprinkle of mud on her would be more beauty than ever. To see her feet without shoes, my God. She lights a cigarette. Go down with that smoke into her lungs and lie there. Buried in her blond chest. Be her baby. Infantile though that be. Her dog shot down in warm blood, her car in collision. And she sits so calm.

"Miss Tomson before we drive off. I want to say I think you're a real sport."

"Do you."

"Yes. You could have blamed me. You had every right to do so. To lash out with words."

"Smith."

"Yes."

"You want the truth."

"Please."

"I am going to lash out."

"O."

"I'm windy about that guy we hit. He might be looking for a small source of income for life. Like dear Sir we would like to bleed you white, taking it in easy stages, so the blood lasts, you know what I mean Smith."

"I think so, Miss Tomson."

"Someone gets crosseyed trying to look in your window while you're undressing and they sue you for it."

Lips widening on Miss Tomson's jaw. A smile like the whole world is going to break down in general laughter. I die to put my mouth on hers. Touch each one of those white white teeth.

"You're not bitter Miss Tomson."

"No Smith."

"What makes you smile."

"Just thought of that newspaper report about you. I want to know, did you really fart or something on the steps of Dynamo House. Report it to the Sanitation Department, that was rich. I read it about twenty times. Sweet, a crowd gathering around to watch you. Smith you should find some nice girl marry and have kids."

Miss Tomson starting the immense engine. Any wind she made would be mystical. Not like some of the dust raisers Bonniface has sent up in his time, blowing out window panes, joining a little group known as the Musical Dynamiters. He lies when he says membership is confined to those who can backfire in morse code.

An exquisite driver Miss Tomson. Hands so lightly on the steering. Each cog enslaved by her touch. Ahead a house behind three great pines. White porch. Closed up for night.

"Miss Tomson. I'll find out where we are."

"Gee we just can't bang on someone's door. You'll get shot this time of night."

"Nonsense. I know how to handle hicks."

Smith in the rain. Softening now. Faint flash of moon. Miss Tomson's black vehicle purring under these high evergreens. Tall gate in the iron fence. Hammock tied between two pines. Stone path round the house and another to the wide porch. All the pine cones. Windows from ceiling to floor. Saturday with all Sunday ahead. My throat is dry. Squeak up courage. How can I say it. I want her body next to mine. Hide from all the coming snows. Taste her golden juice. A hidden spring in the nicest little mound of hair in all the world. Go out of my mind thinking like this. Come back realism, big monolithic friend. Miss Tomson says find some nice girl. Have kiddies. Gather little problems, drown in one big one. Rap this door five times. Way to deal with hicks out here, let them know one is a slicker right off. Have a correspondence while waiting.

Dear Sir,

Where are you. So much cash is missing, we would feel better if we knew.

Yours,

Those Who Had Faith

In YouP.S. We abided by your regulations, won't you even give us an inkling.

Dear Investors:

It so happens I was reflecting in my mop closet near my office and I regard your greedy communication as a breach of faith. Therefore I am absconding with the funds.

(Up) Yours (If necessary)

G.S.

Inside this white clapboard mansion, foot steps approaching, down stairs, and along a hall. Help a stranger lost on the road. Tomato garden and great barn down an incline with the woods behind. Flicking hayseed from the hair. Filling their quiet rural moments with bushwacking and wang pulling. In Cinder Village there's a hick called puller Pete, whispered with one so long, took ten minutes to unfurl. Just see the glow of Miss Tomson's cigarette in the car as it brightens. Nor will she ever know how I kept one of her long golden hairs she left behind in Golf Street as a bookmark.

"Who is it, out there."

"I'm lost on the road can you tell me where I am."

"You're right here, stranger. You got me out of bed. Clear off before I sprinkle your ass with buckshot."

"I beg your pardon."

"You heard me."

Smith retreating backwards a step. Not going to be easy to gain a foothold of rapport here.

"It's a dire emergency."

"Don't try to be a smart cookee stranger."

Smith shifting weight. Turning briefly to survey the rear for running. It would finish me forever with Miss Tomson to be caught coward. This double grey door. Through which the buckshot will come. This is no moor of college days setting forth with Bonniface arsebone in heather, gamekeeper toting the decanter of sherry. All kinds of crazy game raining out of the sky. Please mister behind that door. You've got me wracked with fear, and I've got Miss Tomson the most exquisite human of them all sitting out there in the car.

"All I want is the general geographic location of this spot."

"Clear off. How do I know that's all you want."

"I'd like to make a phone call, too."

Lace on the window. This hick won't see the reason of the slicker. Kind who wears a shirt with the detached collar. Life seems to be out of doors these days. This critter inside might really let go with a barrel, if I whisper lilly livered in the keyhole. Or slip a mute card under the door.

DON'T BE A SHID AS WELL AS A HICK.

A hand laid itself upon George Smith's shoulder. Stiffening without letting out a squeal. Turning. Miss Tom-son nodding her head back to the car. Smith enough's happened already without you getting shot. Reaching the iron fence gate. A voice from the house.

"OK. Stranger, you can use the telephone."

Tomson and Smith stopping under the pines.

"Ah see Miss Tomson."

"Guess you're just a sweet guy Smith."

"Miss Tomson, I may as well ask you right here. Will you come with me to a port in this storm."

She stood still and tall and strange under the pines, lips apart. Eyes crinkling. Looking into the eyes of George Smith. At his lips. Nose and into the left eye and then the right. Hers with flecks of so many colors, yellow with green making a magic blue. Dripping rain drops spotting her dress. One silver slipper, one gold. How do I say now, forget it. I was kidding. Just one of those things you suddenly blurt out. Just wanted a port to be safe. And it sounds so stark and maybe even sneaky. Speak. I take it back. Right into my mouth again, down my throat and into my heart where it came from near the bottom. Let me go Miss Tomson. Let me run.

"You poor guy, Smith. You really want me to come to a port with you don't you. I like that.'1

Night. Rain and her black car sitting on the road, glistening with a few bumps and scratches too. A carpet of brown needles and pine cones. Two of us. Besides the hick with the shot gun. Her eyes light up because every single part of her lives there. I swallow mouth juices. Head full of tears. Pressing on my eyes. Hardly speak ever again. But must because if I don't the world will go rushing on without us.

"Yesh."

All so quiet now. Famished and lonely adrift at sea. And land on a shore. She says yesh and I can't believe my luck, or ears. This blond flower circled by so many bees. And your long strand of hair I've kept all these months. Each time I took it from the book I would let it gently curl in my hand and feel it between my lips. And some voice breaks this stillness.

"Hey you out there, you want this telephone or don't you."

Smith with a large leap took the four grey stairs landing on the porch at speed. A commotion inside. Hick levelling the blunderbuss at this sudden assaulting shadow. One thing to be squeezed out in a population explosion and distinctly another to be blasted for sprightliness.

The double grey doors on the porch opening. A squat man with strands of grey in the hair. Under a blue woolly dressing gown his shirt showing with the detached collar missing. Shuffling ahead of Smith, heels of his slippers clacking. Telephone hanging on the wall. Next to a colored white bowl with a great green flower.Wow, little spine shiver, seen one other flower like that. Just one second before the alligator tried to clamp its jaws on my arm in the Jiffy conservatory. And how does one work this antique telephone.

"Just wind her up mister."

"I see."

"Operator's usually asleep this time of night. Sorry I kinda levelled my gun at you. You came up them steps kinda fast."

"Where are we here."

"This is called Green Flower Corners. After the flower."

"O."

"Down the dirt road three miles, is the main route. Past the cemetery. Turn left follow the dirt road. You'll see signs."

"Thank you. Hello. Operator."

"Hello."

"Operator, I want the Hotel Boar."

"Sir, don't you know the number."

"I think it's Bug 2-7222. But there's a life at stake. Do please look it up."

"Please spell that, caller."

"B for bugger, U for unseemly, G for goose."

"Pardon but gee I like your voice, it's really cultured. I'll connect you."

"Thank you, operator."

Little clicks, strange small sounds of voices on these wires over fields and through deserted woods.

"Here's your party, sir."

"Hello, this is George Smith, I want to speak to the maitre de hotel."

"He's asleep, this is Norbert can I help yon, Mr. Smith."

"Hello Norbert, this is an emergency. I require a suite within the hour."

"O sure, like the last time you needed it £ast."

"I beg your pardon."

"Sorry Mr. Smith, I was meaning maybe the same suite. Saw your picture in the papers. Gee, just like to ask a question, what's your recipe for success Mr. Smith."

"Keep your mind free of emotional ingredients when looking for profits."

"Gosh. Simple as that."

"Yes. I'm in rather a hurry, if you wouldn't mind organising."

"O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about."

"I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite."

"Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night."

"Morning."

"Yeah morning."

"And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency."

"O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried."

"If you don't mind Norbert, the suite. Flowers and hot punch if you will."

"Sure, Mr. Smith. Good to hear from you again. Just goes to shows, my whole life I've been getting all emotional looking for a profit. The key will be in the tunnel entrance."

"In the door of the suite, please."

"Sure Mr. Smith, anything you want, you know me, boy I'll bet you've got some doll tonight—"

Smith lightly hanging the little ear piece on the fragile hook. Hick turning from the door where he was peering out in the night. At what must be Miss Tomson. That gun makes me nervous. Don't suppose he's ever seen her likes before in tight blue satin, slippered in gold and silver twiddling a pine cone in this vague neck of the woods. He may make bombs in his attic. George Smith tendering a crisp treasury bill.

"Nope stranger."

Smith taking leave gently on the grey porch. With a thanks a million. Once is enough stranger. And stepping down three steps to the hard path underneath the three great trees at the fork of this road. Turning to look back. The shadow standing in the light of the hall, gun at port arms. People who live in the country like strangers to call out of the blue.

The dirt road goes down winding, twisting and turning. Lights flooding the passing woods enclosed in an endless wire fence. A small pond. Up on a hill again faint grave stones of a cemetery. Apples must grow there and drop on the dead in summertime full of flavour. Handfuls of hair round Miss Tomson's head. Turn right at this turn, Miss Tomson, left at the next. Silent cruising through the night. South. Catching up with the storm splashing down the heavy rain. A rabbit popping on the road, Smith isn't that sweet that rabbit.

"Miss Tomson what were you going to tell me, back there in the bar."

"It was nothing."

"Come on tell me."

"It embarrasses me now."

"Please tell me."

'Well. You know when I was working for you. Saw you get all those letters, and the pathetic little set up you had and all, in Golf Street. I can't tell you. Seems too silly. Might make you sore."

"O."

"You'll get sore if I don't tell you."

"No I won't."

"I just used to add money to the petty cash box because I thought you were really having it rough. You'd come out and when you thought I wasn't looking you'd take it back into your office and count it and come back looking so pleased because it was more instead of less."

"I never did."

"You're getting sore. Real sweet, the way you used to look with that cash box. Even cried one night over my pay check but next morning I thought what the hell, this is a jungle, and paid it into my account. Which way do I turn."

"Go straight."

Smith slumped back on the leather. The tiny sound of windscreen wipers fanning across the glass. And down into a valley. A swollen river. Raindrops flickering through the light beams. Across a stone bridge and train tracks into a sleeping town. Spread across a hillside, a hotel, terraces built out on the jutting rock. Car mounting an incline towards a great brown door.

"Smith, where we going can't you see the door's closed."

"Drive on, it'll open. Watch."

"Gee."

Hollowing bubbling sound of Sally Tomson's long black car sliding in out of the dark rain. Three moss green armoured bullion trucks. Vast concrete wasteland. Miss Tomson turning and looking at George Smith. Her hand slowly sliding across the black leather to his. Entwining his fingers. Her face a little flower. As the lids lift up on the eyes. Her voice so soft and low. Saying O and O and O.

In the vast underground garage. Their voices echoing. Smith with a finger raised. Beckoning. Come Miss Tom-son. Cross this chill interior. Your legs. Watch you walk ahead of me through life. To open doors, buy my lamb-chops and pay the milkman.

"Where are we, Smith. This is crazy. I feel they move dead bodies in and out this door."

"For God's sake, Miss Tomson."

"I just was thinking this place is built for death."

"This way."

"This elevator is like a little church, Smith."

In Miss Tomson's eyes, down the steps, at the bottom, is her soul. When she was a little girl she had a little boy friend who looked up her dress every Friday after school to see if anything had changed. Easy joys of childhood.

"Smith."

"What."

"I know I said yesh. About a port. In the storm and all."

"Miss Tomson, what's the matter."

"Please take me back down. I'm going to try to get back to town."

"Miss Tomson I can't let you go out in the stormy night again. Might be trees down across the roads."

"This the down button."

"I wish more than anything you wouldn't press it. Wanted to bring you somewhere dry."

"Smith. I just wish it wasn't you. I just wish that tonight wasn't tonight. Don't be sad. Come on, don't be."

"I'm all right."

"I know it's silly but the tunnel. I'm nervous, a litde scared. Smith I've been thinking I've got you figured. I haven't got you figured at all. Face to face like this. I'm a coward. I've been bluffing. Like I'm some sort of careless society girl. I'm a hick."

"Please Miss Tomson."

"And I'm just scared."

Paneled door sliding back. The tunnel The steps to the underground garage. Miss Tomson's beige medallion on her tan finger. Wet tire tracks of her car. Worship the cement she walks on. Across this entrance of death. Night time nearly over. Smacked up her car. Stood by while her dog got killed. Mustn't cry. Just watch her drive away through clear, cool eyes. Got to be hard. Let her go alone. Never see her again. Milk truck bumping, grinding by outside. Her door clicks, engine roars and she spins the wheel. Backing and turning around. Don't go. Look back at me. Please. Standing here. With the nice tie you said I was wearing. Two little corners of a hanky I pulled up to show from my breast pocket. To look natty for you. Wave. Goodbye. Into the faint light of morning. Goes Sally Tom-son's car.

Sad

Starts

Under the eyes

As age begins

With lies

Laughing hardly at all

The way to

The grave.