Doc sore enough at me to have my parole canceled, his plan, whatever it is, would fall through. I’d be right back where I started and all his time and effort would be wasted. Of course, I know he’s unreasonable about her, but—”
“Think, Pat. Can’t you think of a set of circumstances where it might be profitable to anyone for you to be returned to Sandstone?”
I stared at him blankly. He nodded, narrow-eyed.
“I can see that you can’t,” he said. “But you will. You’ll see that and the other angle, as well. When you do, when you begin to get an inkling of their significance, we’ll have a talk.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I shook hands limply.
“You’ll be all right for the time being. There’s this Arnholt matter. Nothing’s going to happen until that’s wound up.”
“I’m glad to know that,” I said.
“You can depend on it. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can do about getting Mrs. Luther off your neck. She’s rather fond of me, you know.”
He winked and poked me in the ribs. I let him lead me out the hall door of his office.
“I trust our little talk will remain confidential,” he said, as he shook hands with me again.
He gave me a final smile and nod, and very gently closed the door.
14
S uddenly everything was all right again. As right as it had been in the beginning. I didn’t have to avoid Lila Luther; she made a point of keeping out of my way. And on those rare occasions when we did encounter each other she was barely polite.
Almost overnight the constraint which I had seen building up in Doc disappeared. He became the old Doc, alternately slangy and grammatical, flippant and profound; generous, good natured: a man who made the best of a shabby situation.
I got paid the week following my visit to Hardesty, on Friday, as I remember. I hadn’t worked a full month, but I was paid for one.
I gave the check to Doc to cash for me, and he brought the money back to my room the next night. Smiling, he refused to take a cent of it.
“Just hang onto your money, Pat,” he said. “You won’t want to stick in one of those political jobs always, and you probably won’t be able to, anyway. Hang onto it, and you’ll have something to operate on when your parole runs out.”
“I wonder if I should start a bank account?” I said.
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “We’ll do that some day soon when I can spare the time to go down and introduce you.”
I left the house every morning at a reasonably early hour, and never returned before five in the afternoon. Usually I spent an hour or so at Madeline’s. The rest of the time I saw picture shows or read in the public library or drove around.
One morning, a few days after payday, I drove out to the place where Doc and I had stopped my first night out of Sandstone: the place where the sludge from the oil wells had widened the river into an expanse of stinking and treacherous mud. I don’t think I sought the spot consciously; it was no attraction which would justify a drive of ten or twelve miles. But I found myself there suddenly, and I pulled the car off the road and walked up to the stone bench. I sat down on it, and leaned forward, carefully. I scooped up a handful of pebbles and began dropping them down into the mud.
Now and then I caught the faint, dull clatter of pipe tongs, or the muted “Deee-ropp itt!” of some faraway roughneck. And the bank after bank of quadruple boilers belched lazy smoke into the air. And even here, where I was, there was a rhythmic tremble to the earth, a constant shivering as the mud-hog pumps growled and spat out their burden.
I took a long, deep breath and slowly let it out again. It was good to be here, here or any place that wasn’t Sandstone. Every day I realized a little more how good it was. To be able to be off guard; to smile or laugh when you wanted to; just to breathe—easily; to think instead of scheme.
I leaned forward and smiled down into the black surface below; and back