Dorothy Belle Hughes - In a lonely place

For Charlotte

Its in a lonesome place you do have to be talking with someone, and looking for someone, in the evening of the day.

J. M. Synge

It was good standing there on the promontory overlooking the evening sea, the fog lilting itself like gauzy veils to touch his face. There was something in it akin to flying; the sense of being lifted high above crawling earth, of being a part of the wildness of air. Something too of being closed within an unknown and strange world of mist and cloud and wind. Hed liked flying at night; hed missed it after the war had crashed to a finish and dribbled to an end. It wasnt the same flying a little private crate. Hed tried it; it was like returning to the stone ax after precision tools. He had found nothing yet to take the place of flying wild.

It wasnt often he could capture any part of that feeling of power and exhilaration and freedom that came with loneness in the sky. There was a touch of it here, looking down at the ocean rolling endlessly in from the horizon; here high above the beach road with its crawling traffic, its dotting of lights. The outline of beach houses zigzagged against the sky but did not obscure the pale waste of sand, the dark restless waters beyond.

He didnt know why he hadnt come out here before. It wasnt far. He didnt even know why hed come tonight. When he got on the bus, he had no destination. Just the restlessness. And the bus brought him here.

He put out his hand to the mossy fog as if he would capture it, but his hand went through the gauze and he smiled. That too was good, his hand was a plane passing through a cloud. The sea air was good to smell, the darkness was soft closed around him. He swooped his hand again through the restless fog.

He did not like it when on the street behind him a sudden bus spattered his peace with its ugly sound and smell and light. He was sharply angry at the intrusion. His head darted around to vent his scowl. As if the lumbering box had life as well as motion and would shrink from his displeasure. But as his head turned, he saw the girl. She was just stepping off the bus. She couldnt see him because he was no more than a figure in the fog and dark; she couldnt know he was drawing her on his mind as on a piece of paper.

She was small, dark haired, with a rounded face. She was more than pretty, she was nice looking, a nice girl. Sketched in browns, the brown hair, brown suit, brown pumps and bag, even a small brown felt hat. He started thinking about her as she was stepping off the bus; she wasnt coming home from shopping, no parcels: she wasnt going to a party, the tailored suit, sensible shoes. She must be coming from work; that meant she descended from the Brentwood bus at this lonely corner every night athe glanced to the luminous dial of his watchseven-twenty. Possibly she had worked late tonight but that could be checked easily. More probably she was employed at a studio, close at six, an hour to get home.

While he was thinking of her, the bus had bumbled away and she was crossing the slant intersection, coming directly towards him. Not to him; she didnt know he was there in the high foggy dark. He saw her face again as she passed under the yellow fog light, saw that she didnt like the darkness and fog and loneness. She started down the California Incline; he could hear her heels striking hard on the warped pavement as if the sound brought her some reassurance.

He didnt follow her at once. Actually he didnt intend to follow her. It was entirely without volition that he found himself moving down the slant, winding walk. He didnt walk hard, as she did, nor did he walk fast. Yet she heard him coming behind her. He knew she heard him for her heel struck an extra beat, as if she had half stumbled, and her steps went faster. He didnt walk faster, he continued to saunter but he lengthened his stride, smiling slightly. She was afraid.

He could have caught up to her with ease but he didnt. It was too soon. Better to hold back until he had passed the humped midsection of the walk, then to close in. Shed give a little scream, perhaps only a gasp, when he came up beside her. And he would say softly, Hello. Only Hello. but she would be more afraid.

She had just passed over the mid hump, she was on the final stretch of down grade. Walking fast. But as he reached that section, a car turned at the corner below, throwing its blatant light up on her, on him. Again anger plucked at his face; his steps slowed. The car speeded up the Incline, passed him, but the damage was done, the darkness had broken. As if it were a parade, the stream of cars followed the first car. scratching their light over the path and the road and the high earthen Palisades across. The girl was safe; he could feel the relaxation in her footsteps. Anger beat him like a drum.

When he reached the corner, she was already crossing the street, a brown figure under the yellow fog light marking the intersection. He watched her cross, reach the opposite pavement and disappear behind the dark gate of one of the three houses huddled together there. He could have followed but the houses were lighted, someone was waiting for her in the home light. He would have no excuse to follow to her door.

As he stood there, a pale blue bus slid up to the corner; a middle-aged woman got out. He boarded it. He didnt care where it was going; it would carry him away from the fog light. There were only a few passengers, all women, drab women. The driver was an angular, farm-looking man; he spun his change box with a ratcheting noise and looked into the night. The fare was a nickel.

Within the lighted box they slid past the dark cliffs. Across the width of the road were the massive beach houses and clubs, shutting away the sea. Fog stalked silently past the windows. The bus made no stops until it reached the end of that particular section of road where it turned an abrupt corner. He got out when it stopped. Obviously it was leaving the sea now, turning up into the dark canyon. He stepped out and he walked the short block to a little business section. He didnt know why until he reached that corner, looked up the street. There were several eating places, hamburger stands; there was a small drugstore and there was a bar. He wanted a drink.

It was a nice bar, from the ships prow that jutted upon the sidewalk to the dim ships interior. It was a mans bar, although there was a dark-haired, squawk-voiced woman in it. She was with two men and they were noisy. He didnt like them. But he liked the old man with the white chin whiskers behind the bar. The man had the quiet competent air of a sea captain.

He ordered straight rye but when the old man set it in front of him, he didnt want it. He drank it neat but he didnt want it. He hadnt needed a drink; hed relaxed on the bus. He wasnt angry with anyone any more. Not even with the three noisy sons of bitches up front at the bar.

The ships bells behind the bar rang out the hour, eight bells. Eight oclock. There was no place he wanted to go, nothing he wanted to do. He didnt care about the little brown girl any more. He ordered another straight rye. He didnt drink it when it came, he left it there in front of him, not even wanting to drink it.

He could go across to the beach, sit in the sand, and smell the fog and sea. It would be quiet and dark there. The sea had appeared again just before the bus turned; there was open beach across. But he didnt move. He was comfortable where he was. He lit a cigarette and idly turned the jigger of rye upon the polished wood of the bar. Turned it without spilling a drop.

It was his ear caught the word spoken by the harsh-voiced woman. He wasnt listening to her but the word spun and he thought the word was Brub. He remembered then that Brub lived out this way. He hadnt seen Brub for almost two years; hed spoken to him only once, months ago when he arrived on the coast. Hed promised to let Brub know when he was settled but he hadnt.