it Miss Martin."
"But you're crooked already."
Smith's steely asian eyes. Muscles dropping on his face. General rigidity. Bleak silence.
"I don't mean that. Now I've ruined everything. I put words into my mouth I don't mean. You're not crooked. No. Mr. Smith I swear you're not crooked."
"Thanks."
"You're not,"
"I'm glad you think that."
"Gee. I don't know why I said it."
"Pass me the corn Miss Martin. When one proceeds straight in life there is always an obstruction."
"You're an honest and good person. Mr. Smith."
"This is great corn."
"Mr. Smith pass me the peas."
"Certainly."
"I didn't mean what I first said."
"It's all right, Miss Martin."
"Gee you're so different in the country."
Smith ladling up the yellow kernels. Outside a breeze in the leaves. Yellow light flooding out the door. Music featuring a variety of horns. Lifts the spirit. Suddenly one can look at Miss Martin and see her in all her glory as a cook. Out here with all this good loneliness. Wafts away that feeling of the haunted hunted dog. Until the telephone rings. That black thing. Bouncing in the corner. Of this primeval forest.
"Let it ring, Miss Martin."
Little jangling bell. Phone tilts to the side. Bounces. Trembling to the edge of the shelf rigged to the corner of the wall. And falls on the floor. Talking handle sliding across the maple.
"Ah Jesus."
"Mr. Smith."
"Shush Miss Martin. We're trapped. Put your hand over the speaker."
Miss Martin picking up the phone. Putting the part to the ear. Frowning.
"Mr. Smith. It's someone saying what the hell is the matter with you George."
"Nothing is the matter with me."
"Shall I hang up Mr. Smith."
Smith rotating his hands. Looking across the room at Miss Martin as she stands both hands gripped over the talking instrument. Times in one's life when you think there is good news. And you listen.
"Mr. Smith. He says he's catching the train. That he has little or no money. And is presently trying to sell his shoes to pay for the ticket. And four embroidered handkerchiefs which he sold this morning for the price of a glass of ersatz orange juice. He says he just wants to talk. And why, O dear, he just said an awful word, the hell are you behaving in this extraordinary matter. Why are you trying to hide. Is there something the matter. I must say something, Mr. Smith."
"Tell him I've shifted further north."
"I can't do that, Mr. Smith. He's a cultivated gentleman on the phone."
"Do as I say."
"I will not. He's saying, why are you listening and saying nothing. I've got to say something, Mr. Smith, he says he is in an unbelievable nightmare. That all he wants is just a few hours away from it all."
"All right. Miss Martin. Tell him I'll meet him tomorrow morning. An eleven o'clock train comes from the coast. Tell him alight at Cinder Village."
"Hello. Yes. Yes. Mr. Smith says he will meet you on the eleven o'clock train tomorrow morning at Cinder Village. Yes. Mr. Smith is all right. He's here. It's only that he's not available at the moment. I'm sorry you've had to sell your shoes. Yes. Certainly. God's goodly wishes to you too. Goodbye."
"God."
"Mr. Smith he sounds like a real gentleman."
Smith with sad reflective eyes. Outside the bark of a fox in the wood. Miss Martin picking up the dishes. Brings them to the sink in the kitchen. Runs the water. Break her long fingernails. Peace. Dark. An evening chill. Another log on the fire. Smell the orange glow and woody fume.
"Miss Martin, let me help with the dishes."
"No Mr. Smith. Just sit and be comfortable."
Smith reclining. Placing the wicker chair near the fire. Reaching behind the bottles. Taking a long cigar from the humidor. Lighting up. Blow a cloud of whiteness out. Flick off the electric light. Moths from everywhere. Bumping the screens. Light is hope. And everyone is after hope. And away from the sad desperation. To become grasping hearts after emoluments. Riches, trusting nothing else. Bonnif ace sold his shoes.
Bedtime hour. In the woods. Miss Martin came shyly out of the kitchen. Paused looking over the reflective Smith puffing on his cigar. Smith rising.
"Miss Martin, do sit"
"It's late, Mr. Smith, isn't it. Perhaps I'd better make up the beds. Are there sheets/'
"In the bathroom cupboard. But you shouldn't. I'll do that."
"No Mr. Smith I'll do it. I'd like to."
Smith took a little smoke down into the lungs. Let it pause there a few seconds. Purifies the blood. The trembletude and strain sleeping alone. Need something to hold on to. A