Echoes. Roger Arthur Smith

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for Will, his eyes were—well, there was certainly no twinkle to them. They were unreadable, usually. So dark brown that in all but the brightest light they seemed black. And that fact, against the habitual pallor of his face, gave them the appearance of bottomless depth. If Will hadn’t had such an interesting, dry sense of humor, those eyes might be frightening. And if he hadn’t been so caring. Since he had arrived in town after the Korean War, introducing himself as a friend of Mildred’s father, who had not survived the conflict, Will regularly looked in on her and her mother. A good friend, and never an undertone of illegitimate interest, even though at sixteen she fancied herself pert as a poppy. Since then she had grown up, been to college, and matured in her interests, while Will, in the way of older men, remained simply older. She would welcome a little illegitimate interest from him now and less of the “old family friend.” Still, he was only a possibility. There were other eligible men in Hawthorne of the right class and age, although, admittedly, far from a crowd of them.

      Putting her hand over her pillbox hat, she bowed her head and dashed across Main Street, not easy to do on heels, exposed to wind and oncoming cars. Inside the El Cap, the air was blessedly still and cool, smelling of dust, cigarettes, lacquer, and alcohol. The penny and nickel slots already held up a solid wall of gamblers. Marge Dressler, an old high school classmate, hovered near to keep them stocked with change from the coin machine strapped over her groin. Marge’s eyes rested on Mildred for an instant then moved away, her face contemptuous.

      That didn’t fool Mildred one bit. The coin machine wasn’t the only money associated with Marge’s crotch, a fact well known around town. It was simply spiteful envy on Marge’s part. Mildred was a professional, and Marge had nothing but her hands and her sex to make a living. At twenty-four she had already been married and divorced twice, once out of obvious desperation to a sailor stationed at the navy depot. Mildred by contrast was determined to be patient and choosy about men. She had set her cap for Mr. Right. She had no patience with women who simply made do, although of course she would never tell them so. Not directly.

      She was still early for dinner but nonetheless found Will waiting for her in the restaurant. The booths were screened off from the clamor of the gaming floor by wavy, orange glass. Yet Will’s eyes were on her as soon as she came round the partition, as if he had somehow already seen her. She smiled at him. Then froze mid-step.

      Sitting across from Will in the booth was a second man, a stranger. She inwardly said an unladylike word, the sort that never escaped the parentheses of her frankest feelings.

      Several times previously Will had introduced young men to her, all of them of inelegant appearance, small prospects, limited education, and unappealing manners. Even seen from an oblique angle, on first glance this one appeared to be of the type. Although sitting, he was half a head taller than Dubykky. And hulking.

      Probably loutish.

      She paced her progress toward the booth to look him over. There was nothing to alter her first impression. His dark hair was crew-cut, a style she disliked as too square, too collegiate. His face was round and small, although the eyes were large and under brows surprisingly slender for a man. His ears stuck out. His lips were full to the point of babyishness, his nose unremarkable. Overall, he looked pleasantly plain, if immature. His expression was expectant, which made Mildred impatient. The nerve! Will was fixing her up again, and she wouldn’t have it. She was perfectly capable of finding a man on her own. She hesitated at the front of the booth, then sat on Will’s side.

      “Hello, Milly,” Will said easily and, as was characteristic of him, without smiling. “I’d like you to meet my new partner, Milton Cledge.”

      Partner? Another attorney in Will’s practice? Mildred’s attitude shifted. Brightened. She smiled shyly and, removing her gloves, extended her hand. Cledge’s grip was warm and gently firm, his smile charming. But, she realized, even despite the charming smile Cledge was still homely and he had a surprisingly rough hand, like a working man’s.

      “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Cledge said.

      Mildred’s attitude dimmed once more. Not only was it a stilted greeting but his voice was too creamy. Large light-brown eyes, round head, creamy voice—Mildred thought of Guernsey cows. She let the smile relax from her face. She shot Will arch looks as the three of them went through the pleasantries and background inquiries typical upon meeting someone for the first time.

      Cledge, a graduate of McGeorge School of Law in Sacramento, had just passed the bar, Will explained, and was joining the office to specialize in land and tax law. At that point Mildred, losing interest in the conversation, largely ceased paying attention. The men talked law and local politics, to which, out of politeness, she added vague murmurs now and then while reading the menu. Or pretending to. It was short, and she had long had it by heart. What she was really doing inwardly was deciding how much anger she should reveal to Will later. Somehow she would have to tell him never to try fixing her up again but do it without alienating him.

      The waitress appeared, old blobby Bobbie Rooney, and Will ordered a martini and Milton a whiskey soda. “And Milly will have a glass of Chianti,” Will told Mrs. Rooney. He winked at Mildred’s astonishment. “I called Gladys,” he assured her, “and it’s all right if you have just one glass.”

      She was very pleased. She liked red wine. More than that she liked it that Will had gone to the trouble to make her feel at ease by getting permission from her mother first. Yet Mildred was also embarrassed. To say such a thing in front of a stranger! Milton Cledge couldn’t have been above three years older than Mildred, and here she was being made to look like a teenager who had to check in with her mother over every little thing.

      Mrs. Rooney huffed and informed them that there was no chicken or pork available that night, only lamb and beef. So a chop and two steaks were the orders, and Mrs. Rooney hobbled away wearily, as if the food were already weighing her down. Now that Hawthorne had passed two thousand population—again—there were more outsiders, like the two lawyers, for a local gal to make time with. Rooney had always liked silly Milly Warden, so good luck to her. Except it would be better if these two were the tipping type of lawyers rather than the skinflint type.

      Dubykky and Cledge spoke of Hawthorne, the ammunition depot at Babbitt next door, and Mineral County, including the Paiute reservation twenty-five miles north of Hawthorne in an elbow of the Walker River at Schurz. All from the angle of legal work. Dubykky looked more at Mildred than at Cledge, even though the discussion was meant for him. He was expecting her to chip in information, such as historical tidbits or local color, about which she was an authority. But she wasn’t having it. It was a bald ploy to make her be friendly to Cledge.

      Finally, Dubykky said to her pointedly, “I talked to Dale Remus today, Milly.” He waited.

      Mildred could not help herself. She stifled a giggle and had to cover it by asking, “What now?”

      Dubykky was deadpan, something he did superbly, but there was a merry crinkle by his eyes. “Dale said there was another test shot this morning.”

      Mildred replied airily, “Anybody would know that. It was announced in the papers.” Then Dubykky and Mildred burst out laughing.

      The test detonation of an atomic bomb at the Nevada Proving Grounds two hundred miles to the south was always announced beforehand as a public service. Some people in Las Vegas liked to climb on top the tallest casinos and watch the mushroom cloud billow up from the desert.

      “What’s so funny?” asked Cledge.

      Mildred tried to keep a straight face as she replied, “Dale Remus forgot how to read almost as fast as he learned sixty years ago.”

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