block I heard the sirens.
I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and pound against the concrete until every breath was agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an intersecting street. The car started to turn toward me, and just before the headlights swept over me I dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my face. My arm was against something metallic and uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.
More cars went up the street, swinging spotlights. I didn’t know how long I lay there. After awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little, fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep, but something made me get up to my hands and knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a long time. I climbed through the hedge and started walking. After a few blocks my teeth started chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I didn’t believe your teeth chattered when you were freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything mechanically now, and for long periods I would forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, I told myself. Remember that. Phone booth.
I was standing under a street light. I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped myself on the face and looked again. It must be stopped, or I was drunk. It couldn’t be that late. Lousy watch, always stopping. I looked across the street and realized I was staring at a big green clock in the window of a filling station, and that it said ten minutes of five. And in the shadows beside the station was a phone booth. I focused on it, hard, and managed to break into a run.
A for Able, H for Happy. I got the directory open somehow and fumbled through it with nerveless fingers. Patton . . .
Patton, Alvis W. . . .
Patton, A. H. . . . I repeated the number, prodded the dime into the slot, and dialed.
She answered almost immediately. “Yes?” she said eagerly.
“I’m—” I said. “I’m—uh—”
She sighed. “God, I’ve been waiting all night. He said he gave you the message hours ago. Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait.” I dropped the receiver and stepped out of the booth to look up at the sign on the edge of the cantilever roof above the driveway BARRETT’S SHELL SERVICE, it said.
I repeated it.
“All right,” she said quickly. “I’ll have to look it up, so I don’t know how far away it is. It may take five minutes or thirty. Stay right there, or as near as you can and still be out of sight. I’ll come by on that side of the street with my right-hand turn signal blinking. If everything is clear, come out and get in. If not, I’ll go around six or eight blocks and try again. All right?”
“Y-yes,” I said. I hung up. I went around behind the station in the deep shadows and leaned against the wall. My skin hurt all over the way I imagined it did in spots when you had gout. I couldn’t really be freezing, I thought; you never hurt then. Time went by. I began to dream I was on the bridge of the Dancy off Hatteras in a snowstorm. No, that couldn’t be right. I was never wet on the bridge. We had oilskins. I heard a car coming. I went to the corner and peered up the street. The car’s turn signal was blinking. I ran out. She stopped abruptly, and I got in. I doubled over, holding my arms, shaking violently and trying to keep from touching the wet clothes anywhere with my skin.
She drove fast. “Only a few minutes, Irish,” she said. I thought numbly she must have got that from Red. He always called me Irish.
I didn’t know how much later it was we were going down a ramp into a garage. It was shadowy, like a big cavern. Then she was helping me out. I went up the ramp after her, trying to walk without touching my clothes. We went past