'Maybe from Phoenix,' I said. 'It was rather fleshpotty in the old days' 'Or Tombstone, maybe?' suggested Peter. 'It was even more so.' 'Did Tombstone have a railway?' I asked, lifting my cup. 'I don't remember seeing a depot there even nowadays. I think Benson would be the closest.' 'Maybe it wasn't by rail,' said Peter. 'Maybe freight. You know, those big wagons.' 'It was by rail,' I said, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee. Peter laughed. 'Well,' I said, 'I don't like cold coffee.' 'It wasn't that,' said Peter. 'You're sure her name is Gayla and that she came home by rail, but you can't remember whether or not Tombstone has a depot and we were through there last week!' 'Peter,' I said through the pluming steam of a fresh cup of coffee. ''That brings up something interesting. This-this thing is progressive. First I only saw still things. Then moving things. Then people. Then I heard thoughts. Today I heard two people talk out loud. And now I know something about them that I didn't see or hear. How far do you suppose-' Peter grabbed both my hands, sloshing coffee over our tight fingers. 'Don't you dare!' he said tensely, 'Don't you dare take one step into whatever this is! Look if you want to and listen when you can, but stay out of it!' My jaw dropped. 'Peter!' My breath wasn't working very well. 'Peter, that's what you said when I was going to go into that store. Peter, how could I hear then what you didn't say until now? Or are you just saying again what you. said then-Peter!' Peter mopped my hands and his. 'You didn't tell me that part about the store.' So I did. And it shook him, too. Peter suddenly grinned and said, 'Whenever I said it, it's worth repeating. Stay out of this!' His grin died and his hands tightened on mine. His eyes were troubled. 'Let's go home,' I said, tears suddenly biting the back of my eyes. 'I don't call this enjoying.' . As we left the cafe, I said, 'Peter, do you think that if we went back up there we could pick up the procession:. again and follow it again-' 'No,' he said. 'Not unless we could duplicate everything-time, temperature, humidity, mental state-maybe even the color of lipstick you had on once today.' He grinned at me. 'You look a little bedraggled.' 'Look bedraggled?' I eased myself into the car. 'How do you suppose I feel? And the bicycling hasn't helped matters, either. I think I sprained something.' Later that week I was trying to find an address in a new subdivision of curved streets, cul-de-sacs too narrow to turn in, and invisible house numbers. Finally I even forgot the name of the stravenue I was looking for. I pulled up to park along a school fence on Fort Lowell Road. I was rummaging in my purse, trying to find the paper I had written the address on, when I stopped in mid-rummage. From the corner of my eye I could see the school grounds-hard packed adobe around a swing and teetertotter, and the front door of a tiny, one-roomed schoolhouse. The children were outside for a ghostly recess. I heard no sound. I studiously kept my eyes on the city map spread out on the steering wheel as I counted twelve children, though one hyper-active little boy might have been number one, nine and twelve, he moved so fast. I was parked next to a three-strand barbed-wire fence lined by chaparral more than head-high in places. It formed a rough hedge around the school grounds. Right by my car was a break in the brush through which I could see the school. Clouds were stacking above the school in tumbled blue and white. Over the Catalinas a silent lightning flicked and flicked again. With the squeal of the children spattered by a brief gust of raindrops, the audio of the scene began to function. The clang of a handbell caught all the children in midstride and then pulled them, running, toward the schoolhouse. I smiled and went back to comparing the map that stubbornly insisted that the east-west stravenue I sought was a north-south calle, with the address on the paper. A side movement brought the playground back into my periphery. A solid chunk of a child was trudging across the playground, exasperation implicit in the dangling jerk of her arms as she plodded, her nondescript skirts catching her shins and flapping gracelessly behind her. She was headed straight for me and I wondered ruefully if I was going to get walked through, body, bones and car. Then the barbedwire fence and the clumps of brush focused in. Gayla-I knew her as I would a long-time acquaintance-was crouched under a bush on ground that had been worn floor-hard and smooth by small bodies. She was hidden from the school by the bushes but sat, leaning forearms –careful of the barbs-on the second strand of wire that sagged with repetitions of such scenes. She was looking, dreamy-faced, through me and beyond me. 'Make my own way,' she murmured. 'Doesn't that sound lovely! A highway. Make my own way along the highway, away, away-' 'Gayla!' The plodding girl had reached the bushes. 'The bell rang a long time ago! Miss Pederson's awful mad at you. This is the third time this week she's had to send for you! And it's going to rain-' The girl dropped to all fours and scrambled by one of the well-worn paths into the tiny room-like enclosure with Gayla. 'You better watch out!' She snatched her wadded skirts from under her knees. 'Next thing you know she'll be telling your Aunt Faith on you.' 'Aunt Faith-' Gayla stirred and straightened. With both hands she put back the dark curling of her front hair. 'Know what she said this morning, Vera? This is my last year in school. She said I'm getting old enough to make my own way-' She savored the words. 'Oh, Gayla!' Vera sank back against her heels. 'Isn't she going to let you finish with me? Only another year and then we'll be fourteen-' 'No. I've been a burden long enough, she said, taking food out of her own children's mouths. No-' Her eyes dreamed through me again. 'I'm going to make my own way. To the City. I'm going to find a job there-' 'The City!' Vera laughed shortly. 'Silly! As if your Aunt would let you go! And what kind of job do you think you could find, being so young?' 'Ben Collins is looking for a girl again. I'll bet your Aunt Faith-' 'Ben Collins!' Gayla's startled face swung about to look at Vera. 'What's the matter with Ruth?' 'She's going to live with her uncle in Central. She'd rather milk cows and chop cotton than tend that Collins bunch. You think sleeping four to a bed is crowded. At least there's room for two at each end. At Collins' you'll sleep five to a bed-cross-wise. 'Come on, Gayla! Miss Pederson's throwing a fit' She began to back out of the playhouse. 'If Aunt Faith tries to make me go there, I'll run away.' Gayla was following slowly, the two girls face to face on hands and knees. 'And don't you go telling, either, Vera. I'll run away to the City and get rich and when I come back, she'll be sorry she was so mean. But I'll forgive her and give her a magnificent gift and she'll cry and beg my 'Your Aunt Faith cry!' Vera snickered. 'Not that I believe for one minute that you'll ever run away, but if you do, don't ever come back. You know your Aunt Faith better than that!' The two girls emerged from the bushes and stood erect. Vera towed the reluctant Gayla toward the schoolhouse. Gayla looked wistfully back over her shoulder at the dusty road leading away from the school. Make my own way. I heard the thought trail behind her like a banner. Seek my fortune, and someone who'll love me. Someone who'll want me. Lightning stabbed out of the darkening sky. A sudden swirling wind and an icy spate of stinging raindrops that came with the thunder jolting across the hills, sent the two girls racing for the schoolhouse and- My windshield was speckling with rain. I blinked down at my street map. There was my stravenue, right under my thumb, neither north-and-south nor east-and-west, but sidling off widdershins across the subdivision. I started my car and looked for a moment at the high cyclone fence that now enclosed the huge sprawl of the modern school. 'Her own way! Was it her way-' I suppose I could have started all sorts of scholarly research to find out who Gayla was, but I didn't, mostly because I knew it would be unproductive. Even in my birthtime, a birth registration was not required around here. Neither were death certificates or burial permits. It was not only possible, but very commonplace in those days to be one whose name was 'writ in water.' And an awful lot of water had been writ in since the turn of the century-if so she lived then. Then, too, I didn't care to make a cold black and white business of this seeing business. I agreed with Dr. Barstow. I preferred to enjoy. I'd rather have Gayla and girl friend swept away from me diagonally across a
