four deep lacerations were visible, like harrow tracks in smooth soil. An attempt had been made to hide them with some kind of cream, but the cream was too light in color.
"You should have stayed home today, pal," Keith said. "How you feeling?"
"Not bad. I know what I look like, but it does not pain very much."
"It sure looks painful enough." Keith turned to peer at the car. "You know, you really take care of this machine, pal. It sings."
Instead of smiling at the compliment, Vin said solemnly, "Well, yes, I suppose it does."
"I wish mine were in the same condition."
"It can be. If you would like me to work on it sometime . . ."
They were talking to hold back the silence, Keith realized. Both were foolishly embarrassed by the condition of Vin's face. This wouldn't do. Never one to tiptoe for long around the edge of an uncomfortable situation, he strode straight in to get it over with. "Vin, I want to ask you just one thing about last night. Was Jerri asleep before she turned on you? Could she have been dreaming?"
Without hesitation Vin said, "No, that is not possible. She was humming with the music. Those Scott Joplin rags they were playing, we have them on a record."
"I see."
"Believe me, I wish I could say yes to that question. I have thought about it—don't think I have not. But she was wide awake. Where she got the notion that I was touching her I just do not know, Keith. I could never do such a thing."
The awkward silence returned.
"Let's get at that citrus, shall we?" Keith said. "It's going to be a long job."
They budded citrus most of the day, transforming young lemon trees, grown from seed, into assorted orange and grapefruit trees. Keith had obtained the seed from a friend who owned a coffee plantation in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, where that particular wild lemon had proved to be an exceptionally sturdy, disease-free stock on which to graft scions of more sophisticated citrus. He wanted to try it.
Interruptions were frequent, of course. A good thing too, for interruptions meant business. Every little while a car turned in at the gate and rolled down the nursery road to the office near the house. People wanted plants and shrubs. They sought vines. They inquired about fruit trees or ornamentals. Some also wanted to talk.
A Mrs. Maude Vetel was one of the talkers. Much overweight and florid of face, the lady was a person of importance in one of the town churches and came to see about having some flowering shrubs planted around the church parking lot. "Is that Mister Otto I see working over there?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.
Keith was instantly on guard. "In the citrus, Mrs. Vetel? Yes."
"Really? After what happened in the park last night? I don't think I understand."
"In the park, Mrs. Vetel?"
"You were there, Mister Wilding. Very much there. Right in the midst of it, I'd say. That's what I've been told, at least."
Keith affected a shrug. "It was much ado about nothing, we think."
"Nothing, Mister Wilding?"
"Well, it seems the child was dreaming and woke up screaming. You know how kids are. Dreams can be pretty real to them." Oh Lord, Keith thought at once, how did I get lured into saying that. Now she'll have it all over town and people will ask Vin if that's what happened and he'll say no because he's so damned honest. "Anyway," he hedged, "that's what I think. And, as you say, I was right there on top of it."
"Your Miss Skipworth was there too," the lady said, somehow making the word your sound like an accusation. "Is it also what she thinks?"
"Yes, it is."
"And the child? Does she now say she was dreaming, after the terrible things she screamed in the park?"
Keith's anger was lava rising in a volcano, close to the top now and about to erupt. He stoppered the volcano by drawing in a slow, deep breath but knew nothing would keep it capped much longer with such pressure building up. "Mrs. Vetel," he said, "she doesn't remember the incident." Incident was a good word, properly
"You should have stayed home today, pal," Keith said. "How you feeling?"
"Not bad. I know what I look like, but it does not pain very much."
"It sure looks painful enough." Keith turned to peer at the car. "You know, you really take care of this machine, pal. It sings."
Instead of smiling at the compliment, Vin said solemnly, "Well, yes, I suppose it does."
"I wish mine were in the same condition."
"It can be. If you would like me to work on it sometime . . ."
They were talking to hold back the silence, Keith realized. Both were foolishly embarrassed by the condition of Vin's face. This wouldn't do. Never one to tiptoe for long around the edge of an uncomfortable situation, he strode straight in to get it over with. "Vin, I want to ask you just one thing about last night. Was Jerri asleep before she turned on you? Could she have been dreaming?"
Without hesitation Vin said, "No, that is not possible. She was humming with the music. Those Scott Joplin rags they were playing, we have them on a record."
"I see."
"Believe me, I wish I could say yes to that question. I have thought about it—don't think I have not. But she was wide awake. Where she got the notion that I was touching her I just do not know, Keith. I could never do such a thing."
The awkward silence returned.
"Let's get at that citrus, shall we?" Keith said. "It's going to be a long job."
They budded citrus most of the day, transforming young lemon trees, grown from seed, into assorted orange and grapefruit trees. Keith had obtained the seed from a friend who owned a coffee plantation in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, where that particular wild lemon had proved to be an exceptionally sturdy, disease-free stock on which to graft scions of more sophisticated citrus. He wanted to try it.
Interruptions were frequent, of course. A good thing too, for interruptions meant business. Every little while a car turned in at the gate and rolled down the nursery road to the office near the house. People wanted plants and shrubs. They sought vines. They inquired about fruit trees or ornamentals. Some also wanted to talk.
A Mrs. Maude Vetel was one of the talkers. Much overweight and florid of face, the lady was a person of importance in one of the town churches and came to see about having some flowering shrubs planted around the church parking lot. "Is that Mister Otto I see working over there?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.
Keith was instantly on guard. "In the citrus, Mrs. Vetel? Yes."
"Really? After what happened in the park last night? I don't think I understand."
"In the park, Mrs. Vetel?"
"You were there, Mister Wilding. Very much there. Right in the midst of it, I'd say. That's what I've been told, at least."
Keith affected a shrug. "It was much ado about nothing, we think."
"Nothing, Mister Wilding?"
"Well, it seems the child was dreaming and woke up screaming. You know how kids are. Dreams can be pretty real to them." Oh Lord, Keith thought at once, how did I get lured into saying that. Now she'll have it all over town and people will ask Vin if that's what happened and he'll say no because he's so damned honest. "Anyway," he hedged, "that's what I think. And, as you say, I was right there on top of it."
"Your Miss Skipworth was there too," the lady said, somehow making the word your sound like an accusation. "Is it also what she thinks?"
"Yes, it is."
"And the child? Does she now say she was dreaming, after the terrible things she screamed in the park?"
Keith's anger was lava rising in a volcano, close to the top now and about to erupt. He stoppered the volcano by drawing in a slow, deep breath but knew nothing would keep it capped much longer with such pressure building up. "Mrs. Vetel," he said, "she doesn't remember the incident." Incident was a good word, properly
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