then strayed downwards momentarily.
She looked at the mirrored wall, at the pictures of sandwiches fixed to it. The grill was directly opposite her. 'A cheeseburger,' she said, looking back at him. His eyes were on hers again. 'And a cup of coffee.'
'Cheeseburger and coffee,' he said, and smiled. It was a stiff smile that vanished quickly, as though his facial muscles were unaccustomed to the exercise. He turned and opened a locker under the grill, taking out a patty of meat on a piece of waxed paper. Kicking the locker door shut, he slapped the meat onto the grill and peeled the waxed paper off its back. The meat sizzled. He took a hamburger roll from a bin next to the grill and began slicing it down the center with a long knife. She watched his face in the mirror. He glanced up and smiled again. She returned the smile faintly; I am not interested, but I am not completely uninterested. He put the two halves of the roll face down beside the hamburger and turned to Ellen. 'Coffee now or later?'
'Now, please.'
He produced a tan cup and saucer and a spoon from under the counter. He arranged them before her and then moved a few paces down the gangway, to return with a glass pot of coffee. He poured the steaming liquid slowly into her cup. 'You go to Stoddard?' he asked. 'No, I don't.'
He rested the coffee pot on the marble and with his free hand brought a jigger of cream up from under the counter. 'You?' Ellen asked.
Down the counter a spoon chinked against glass. Powell answered the call with the sullen compression returning to his lips.
He was back a minute later, picking up a spatula and turning the hamburger. He opened the locker again and took out a slice of American cheese which he put on top of the meat. They looked at each other in the mirror as he arranged the roll and a couple of slices of pickle on a plate. 'You haven't been in here before, have you?' he said.
'No. I've only been in Blue River a couple of days.'
'Oh. Staying or passing through?' He spoke slowly, like a circling hunter.
'Staying. If I can find a job.'
'As what?'
'A secretary.'
He turned around, the spatula in one hand, the plate in the other. 'That should be easy to find.'
'Ha,' she said.
There was a pause. 'Where you from?' he asked.
'Des Moines.'
'It should be easier to find a job there than it is here.'
She shook her head. 'All the girls looking for jobs go to Des Moines.'
Turning back to the grill, he lifted the cheeseburger with the spatula and slid it onto the roll. He set the plate before her and produced a bottle of ketchup from below the counter. 'You have relatives here?'
She shook her head. 'Don't know a soul in town. Except the woman in the employment agency.'
A spoon tapped glass again down the counter. 'Damn,' he muttered. 'Maybe you want my job?'
He stalked away.
In a few minutes he returned. He began scraping the top of the grill with the edge of the spatula. 'How's the cheeseburger?'
'Fine.'
'You want something else? Some more coffee?'
'No, thanks.'
The grill was perfectly clean but he continued scraping it, watching Ellen in the mirror. She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. 'Check, please,' she said, He turned, taking a pencil and a green pad from a clip on his belt. 'listen,' he said, not looking up from his writing, 'there's a very good revival at the Paramount tonight. Lost Horizon. You want to see it?'
'I...'
'You said you didn't know anybody in town.'
She seemed to debate for a moment. 'All right,' she said finally.
He looked up and smiled, this time effortlessly. 'Swell. Where can I meet you?'
'The New Washington House. In the lobby.'
'Eight o'clock okay?' He tore the check from the pad. 'My name is Dwight,' he said. 'As in Eisenhower. Dwight Powell.' He looked at her, waiting.
'Mine is Evelyn Kittredge.'
'Hi,' he said, smiling. She flashed a broad smile in return. Something nickered over Powell's face; surprise?... memory?
'What's wrong?' Ellen asked. 'Why do you look at me that way?'
'Your smile,' he said uneasily. 'Exactly like a girl I used to know...'
There was a pause, then Ellen said decisively, 'Joan Bacon or Bascomb or something. I've been in this town only two days and two people have told me I look like this Joan-'
'No,' Powell said, 'this girl's name was Dorothy.' He folded the check. 'Lunch is on me.' He waved his arm, trying to attract the attention of the cashier up front. Craning his neck, he pointed to the check, to Ellen and to himself, and then tucked the check into his pocket. 'All taken care of,' he said.
Ellen was standing, putting on her coat. 'Eight o'clock in the New Washington lobby,' Powell reiterated. 'Is that where you're staying?'
'Yes.' She made herself smile. She could see, his mind following the path; easy pick-up, stranger in town, staying at a hotel... 'Thanks for lunch.'
'Don't mention it.'
She picked up her purse.
'See you tonight, Evelyn.'
'Eight o'clock,' she said. She turned and walked towards the front of the store, keeping her pace slow, feeling his eyes on her back. At the door she turned. He lifted a hand and smiled. She returned the gesture.
Outside, she found that her knees were shaking.
Ellen was in the lobby at seven-thirty, so that Powell would not have the occasion to ask the desk clerk to ring Miss Kittredge's room. He arrived at five of eight, the thin line of his mustache glinting over an edgy smile. (Easy pick-up... stranger in town...) He had ascertained that Lost Horizon went on at 8: 06, so they took a cab to the theater although it was only five blocks away. Midway through the picture Powell put his arm around Ellen, resting his hand on her shoulder. She kept seeing it from the corner of her eye, the hand that had caressed Dorothy's body, had pushed powerfully... maybe... The Municipal Building was three blocks from the theater and less than two from the New Washington House. They passed it on their way back to the hotel. A few windows were lighted in the upper floors of the looming facade across the street 'Is that the tallest building in the city?' Ellen asked, looking at Powell.
'Yes,' he said. His eyes were focused some twenty feet ahead on the sidewalk.
'How high is it?'
'Fourteen stories.' The direction of his gaze had not altered. Ellen thought: When you ask a person the height of something that's in his presence, he instinctively turns to look at it, even if he already knows the answer. Unless he has some reason for not wanting to look at it They sat in a booth in the hotel's black-walled soft-pianoed cocktail lounge and drank whiskey sours. Their conversation was intermittent, Ellen pushing it against the uphill slope of Powell's slow deliberate speech. The taut buoyancy with which he had begun the evening had faded in passing the Municipal Building, had risen again on entering the hotel, and now was waning steadily the longer they sat in the red-upholstered booth.
They spoke about jobs. Powell disliked his. He had held it for two months and planned to quit as soon as he could find something better. He was saving his money for a summer study tour of Europe.
What was he studying? His major was English. What did he plan to do with it? He wasn't sure. Advertising, maybe, or get into publishing. His plans for the future seemed sketchy.
They spoke about girls. 'I'm sick of these college girls,' he said. 'Immature... they take everything too seriously.' Ellen thought this was the beginning of a line, the one that leads straight to 'You place too much importance on sex. As long as we like each other, what's the harm in going to bed?' It wasn't though. It seemed to
