about the atomic explosions and how they were a great point of controversy locally. He pointed to a sign near the restaurant entrance. It read, “This air filtered for your protection.” Some locals worried about atomic fallout, even though the government insisted there was no danger at all.
“I wondered about that,” said Cledge. “Then why wouldn’t this Remus fellow …?”
“He’s also deaf as a mule,” Mildred interrupted and laughed again.
“Then how …?”
Dubykky explained, “Dale claims he can feel the radiation pass through his body. That’s the way he knows when there’s been a test.”
A strange expression flitted across Cledge’s face. He suspected he was being made the butt of a joke. “No,” he said uncertainly.
“Fact.” Mildred grinned. “Oh, there are nuttier characters around here than Mr. Remus,” she went on. “Odder, old and young,” she added after a hesitation.
Dubykky eyed her curiously.
Noting it with satisfaction, Mildred began, “At the library today, well, you know how windy it’s been? I hope it doesn’t blow any radiation our way. Ha, ha. Well, there I was and … this was late afternoon …”
“Milly,” Will interrupted, a touch of scolding in his voice.
“Yes, of course.” Mildred had a tendency to wander. She concentrated. “There was this boy. I was reading the latest Saturday Evening Post, an article about Cocteau—no, wait, maybe that was two weeks ago in the March fifth issue. It really was a disappointing article, and all the disappointing articles sort of run together in my head, and I don’t like the man’s films at all anyway.” At a look from Dubykky, she said hastily, “Oh, yes. Certainly. The boy. Imagine! The wind is so shrieky I can hardly hear over it, and I look up. There he is. Abracadabra! Smack in front of my desk. I didn’t hear a whisper of him coming in. It was just like that, there he is, and, oh, Will, he was such an odd little boy.”
Mildred described the boy minutely, dwelling especially on the four-digit hand he held up when Mildred asked his age. The reactions of the two men could hardly have contrasted more. Dubykky appeared distracted, as if his mind had drifted off. Cledge grimaced. Mildred couldn’t blame him. Disfigurement in a child so young was difficult to accept.
“Well, I assumed he came to get a book, naturally, though I couldn’t get anything from him in reply to my questions except nods and blank stares. When I asked his name, all I got was garbled sounds, like chalk on a blackboard, but I think I figured it out finally. So I filled out a child’s membership card for him.”
“What name?” Dubykky asked, a perfunctory politeness, as though he were simply chipping in to keep the conversation rolling.
“Oh, yes. What a surprise! Matthew Gans. Or so I think. I named people with similar sounds: Matilda Gosse, Mitchell Garrison, Manuel Gonzales, Matthew Gans. He seemed to react to the last, especially when I wrote them all down.
“You know, Will—that Matt Gans who teaches shop at the high. The boy seems to be his kid. Matt Gans, Junior.”
A furrow appeared between Dubykky’s brows at the admiring tone she used when pronouncing the father’s name.
Mildred was poised to continue elaborating the incident, the only noteworthy one of her day, but Dubykky, despite his apparent lack of interest, surprised her, asking, “Did this Matthew Gans, Junior, check out a book?”
“Why, yes.”
“Which book?”
Mildred did not expect such curiosity on the subject of children’s literature and was a little unsettled. Dubykky was staring at her. “Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. It’s brand new, part of a well-thought-of series. Every Child’s Omnibus of Sports, Every Child’s Omnibus of Science—have you heard of those? Anyway, this one’s a very interesting volume, full of rhymes and riddles and fables, all with clear moral lessons. Just what a young boy like him needs.”
While Milton Cledge struggled not to look confused and uninterested at the same time, Dubykky’s stare was positively disturbing. Mildred didn’t know how to describe it, or what to make of it. It compelled her to continue without his evincing any pleasure from what she said. So she explained how the book was a Beginner Book, one meeting the publisher’s policy to introduce new readers to a basic vocabulary of 350 words. She admitted that the contents were quirky and that the book probably did not adhere to that policy strictly, but then she stumbled to a halt.
Dubykky had turned and was looking out the window, which presented a view of Highway 95. Mildred did so, too. A long-haul truck was moving past, but when it was out of the way, a boy was revealed standing in front of Simpson’s Jewelers. He wore the very same kind of checked shirt as had Matthew Gans, Junior. Mildred looked at him more carefully. Tucked under one arm was a thin strip of color. With a start, Mildred realized it was the spine of Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. The series’ book covers had a shade of burnt orange instantly recognizable, even from a distance.
“It’s him!” she exclaimed, practically squeaking.
Dubykky neither said anything in reply nor moved, but Cledge, following their eyes, squinted, then reaching inside his suit jacket took out a pair of glasses with heavy black rims. A small part of Mildred’s mind registered this disapprovingly as Cledge unfolded them and put them on. Even with the glasses on, he squinted.
“Where?” he asked, scanning the street.
“There.” Mildred pointed. “Across Main.”
“I don’t see anybody across the street at all,” he said in a cross tone, because he again suspected that he was being made the dupe for an obscure joke.
Mildred turned to him, impatient. “You don’t see the boy? He’s straight across the street. There.” But when Mildred looked back, the boy was not there. She swung her head, searching. Nobody at all was out on the sidewalks. “Huh,” she admitted after a moment, “how strange. I’m sure I saw him. Now he’s gone and he seemed to be looking right at us. He certainly moves fast! Didn’t he move fast, Will?” Despite herself, she coughed a short, nervous laugh.
Mrs. Rooney arrived with their salads right then, settling them on the table with much clattering. Right behind her was the bartender, dressed immaculately in black and white like Mrs. Rooney, but looking spruce where Mrs. Rooney was dowdy—but also blank-faced while Mrs. Rooney’s eyes darted among her customers, shrewdly assessing the gossip value of Cledge, the newcomer. The bartender set out the drinks. At this Cledge frowned, an indication of restaurant savoir-faire that pleased Mildred. As swanky as the El Cap purported to be, the staff didn’t know to bring the alcohol before the salad course. The three ate in silence, a silence that continued after her lamb chop and their two steaks were served. Though he dug into his food, Cledge seemed vaguely uncomfortable, whether because of the silence or the food quality Mildred could not divine, but it evoked a twinge of sympathy. Poor man, she thought, Will Dubykky and Mildred Warden must seem strange sorts for first acquaintances way out here in lonely Hawthorne.
She smiled reassuringly at him when he glanced up, then uncertain about the boldness of that, studied the level of wine in her glass. It had declined a little too quickly to last through the meal, so when Mrs. Rooney returned to check on their progress, Mildred glanced at the wine glass and then at Dubykky. He shook his head minutely. He himself had not touched his
