from across the room. Dave couldn’t read his expression. Not smug. What the hell was it? Anxious?
Cecil tugged Dave’s wrist. “Don’t spoil it. It will be a good job, the pay will be great, it will make me feel righteous, like I was somebody fit for you to love.”
“You were that before,” Dave said.
“If you care how I feel,” Cecil said, “you will sit down. If all you care about is knocking Edwards upside his head, go on.”
Dave sat down. “I care how you feel,” he grumbled.
“I couldn’t just live off you,” Cecil said gently. “You know that wouldn’t be right.”
“I wish they’d go the hell home,” Dave said, “so I could get you to bed and talk some sense into you.”
6
I T WAS LONELY COUNTRY, lifting gently toward ragged mountains through low hills velvet with new green from winter rains, hills strewn with white rocks and clumps of brush, and slashed here and there by ravines dark with big live-oaks. An eight-lane freeway had brought him into the hills from the seacoast, forty clean, sleek miles of new cement leading God knew where, nobody driving it but him, under low-hanging clouds, dark and tattered, spattering the windshield with squalls of rain one minute, the next minute letting shafts of sunlight through.
He began to pass vineyards that striped the hills, then shaggy groves of avocado, leaves and limbs drooping from the heaviness of the rain. He rolled down the window of the Triumph to breathe the clean air, the smell of rain on soil. Rain touched his face. A meadowlark sang. He wished that Cecil were with him. Then here was the green-and-white road sign warning him that Buenos Vientos could be reached by taking the next off-ramp. The off-ramp was a graceful, broad curve, but it brought him to a meager strip of worn and winding blacktop.
This climbed out of the groves, the vineyards, into the first and least of the mountains. Patches of snow began to show under clumps of brush and to the lee sides of rock outcrops. The sky darkened and the good winds for which the place was named turned mean, buffeting the little car, chilling him. He rolled up the window. After a while, he came among pines, scrubby at first, scattered, twisted by winds—then growing closer together, straighter, taller. They sheltered the little town. A clutch of shake-sided houses, a fieldstone filling station, a raw plank stable that rented out horses, a general store and post office with a long wooden covered porch, a bat-and-board café, BEER in small red neon in a window. From between the pumps of the filling station, a white-eyed husky barked at the Triumph as it passed.
The music camp was five miles farther on, a loose collection of raw pine buildings in a meadow. One of the buildings was large, two-storied, with glass in its windows—probably the dormitory and mess hall. The rest were one-or two-room practice sheds. Downhill beyond a screen of pines could be seen the lofting wooden arc of an orchestra shell. A faded, dented Gremlin stood under a big ponderosa pine beside the farthest of the practice sheds. Snow lay under the car. Dave pulled the Triumph up behind it and got out stiffly into the cold air.
He looked through the doorway into the little building. No piano, not now. A sleeping bag in a far corner, propped beside it a duffel bag, flap open. He turned and looked all around the little meadow. No sign of anyone. He called Lyle Westover’s name. It came back to him in echoes from the silent slopes. He poked his head into the other practice sheds. Empty. His heels knocked hollowly when he climbed to the log-railed porch of the main building. From their solidity when he pounded on the plank double doors, he judged they were barred. Vacant rooms sent back the noise of his fists.
The car was unlocked. Nothing unexpected, nothing that gave answers. In the shed, he rummaged through the duffel bag—underwear, sweaters, wool shirts, corduroys. Also cans—baked beans, beef stew, Spam, a jar of
Cecil tugged Dave’s wrist. “Don’t spoil it. It will be a good job, the pay will be great, it will make me feel righteous, like I was somebody fit for you to love.”
“You were that before,” Dave said.
“If you care how I feel,” Cecil said, “you will sit down. If all you care about is knocking Edwards upside his head, go on.”
Dave sat down. “I care how you feel,” he grumbled.
“I couldn’t just live off you,” Cecil said gently. “You know that wouldn’t be right.”
“I wish they’d go the hell home,” Dave said, “so I could get you to bed and talk some sense into you.”
6
I T WAS LONELY COUNTRY, lifting gently toward ragged mountains through low hills velvet with new green from winter rains, hills strewn with white rocks and clumps of brush, and slashed here and there by ravines dark with big live-oaks. An eight-lane freeway had brought him into the hills from the seacoast, forty clean, sleek miles of new cement leading God knew where, nobody driving it but him, under low-hanging clouds, dark and tattered, spattering the windshield with squalls of rain one minute, the next minute letting shafts of sunlight through.
He began to pass vineyards that striped the hills, then shaggy groves of avocado, leaves and limbs drooping from the heaviness of the rain. He rolled down the window of the Triumph to breathe the clean air, the smell of rain on soil. Rain touched his face. A meadowlark sang. He wished that Cecil were with him. Then here was the green-and-white road sign warning him that Buenos Vientos could be reached by taking the next off-ramp. The off-ramp was a graceful, broad curve, but it brought him to a meager strip of worn and winding blacktop.
This climbed out of the groves, the vineyards, into the first and least of the mountains. Patches of snow began to show under clumps of brush and to the lee sides of rock outcrops. The sky darkened and the good winds for which the place was named turned mean, buffeting the little car, chilling him. He rolled up the window. After a while, he came among pines, scrubby at first, scattered, twisted by winds—then growing closer together, straighter, taller. They sheltered the little town. A clutch of shake-sided houses, a fieldstone filling station, a raw plank stable that rented out horses, a general store and post office with a long wooden covered porch, a bat-and-board café, BEER in small red neon in a window. From between the pumps of the filling station, a white-eyed husky barked at the Triumph as it passed.
The music camp was five miles farther on, a loose collection of raw pine buildings in a meadow. One of the buildings was large, two-storied, with glass in its windows—probably the dormitory and mess hall. The rest were one-or two-room practice sheds. Downhill beyond a screen of pines could be seen the lofting wooden arc of an orchestra shell. A faded, dented Gremlin stood under a big ponderosa pine beside the farthest of the practice sheds. Snow lay under the car. Dave pulled the Triumph up behind it and got out stiffly into the cold air.
He looked through the doorway into the little building. No piano, not now. A sleeping bag in a far corner, propped beside it a duffel bag, flap open. He turned and looked all around the little meadow. No sign of anyone. He called Lyle Westover’s name. It came back to him in echoes from the silent slopes. He poked his head into the other practice sheds. Empty. His heels knocked hollowly when he climbed to the log-railed porch of the main building. From their solidity when he pounded on the plank double doors, he judged they were barred. Vacant rooms sent back the noise of his fists.
The car was unlocked. Nothing unexpected, nothing that gave answers. In the shed, he rummaged through the duffel bag—underwear, sweaters, wool shirts, corduroys. Also cans—baked beans, beef stew, Spam, a jar of
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