would not go with him. He would push in the opposite direction, northeast.
“Good riddance,” said Hardwick.
“I’m taking the horse,” the Englishman’s boy said.
Hardwick had only jerked the cinch on his saddle a little tighter.
“I earned it,” the boy said.
Hardwick walked away from him.
Now there was only one thing left to do. They had buried Ed Grace under the floorboards of the fort and were going to burn it down over him. If they didn’t, said Hardwick, the Assiniboine would find the body, maul and mutilate it so his own mother wouldn’t know him.
They all sat their horses in expectation of the torching. Hardwick doused the floorboards with kerosene, came out and splashed the remainder of the can up and down the outside walls. Just as he struck a match, the Englishman’s boy darted his eyes frantically over the assembly and shouted, “Where’s the girl?”
Hardwick touched the match to the doorsill. There was a whoosh like a passing train and blue flame shot out around the sill, then sucked back into the mouth of the door like a fiery tongue. The Englishman’s boy threw himself off his horse and ran to the post, snatched at Hardwick’s arm, screaming, “Where’s the girl?”
Hardwick yanked his arm free and walked to his horse.
He stumbled to a door framed like a picture in wreaths of fire, tried to drive through it, but the furnace-blast sent him reeling back. He tore his jacket off, held it up to shield his face, and threw himself blind at the doorway. For a moment, he teetered on the threshold, then staggered back whimpering, the tweed singed and smoking. Tossing aside the jacket he peered into the rippling air and curling smoke. She was crouched on the countertop like a cat in a flood, the floorboards beneath her awash in fire. Briefly, smoke glutted the doorway; he lost sight of her. He wiped his eyes. The door cleared. She was drawing herself up to spring, spring down into the flames. He aimed and fired the pistol empty. Reloaded mechanically and emptied it again into the billowing smoke, even though there was nothing to see.
Outside he ran in circles, yelling for Hardwick. The grass, the trees, the creek were his only company and they could not be killed. He sank to the ground and watched the post burn to nothing. When night came down he walked among the glow of the dying embers, boots smoking. Of Grace and the Indian girl he found nothing.
Hours later, he mounted his horse and three times circled the ruins of the post, dabbed here and there with sparks like the sky was dabbed with stars. A dumb, holy prayer for the two of them. Then he turned his horse northeast, like an Indian, to seek in the wilderness.
30
Two days after Chance and Fitz pay me their nocturnal visit I go to see Rachel Gold. It’s been a long time since we have had any contact. I think she has phoned several times; the telephone rang so persistently, so doggedly, I concluded it had to be either her or Fitz, and I didn’t want to speak to either of them. But now, cornered by my conscience, I ride a streetcar to her pink stucco apartment building with its Spanish courtyard. It’s as if when my illness, my fever broke, something broke loose in me too, sending things floating to the surface, things I have to deal with.
My knock gets no answer, despite the fact I can hear somebody moving around inside. I bang the door, loudly.
“Pedlar begone!” she shouts imperiously.
“It’s me, Rachel. Harry. Open up.”
The sound of rapid, thudding footsteps and the door is flung open. She’s wearing a Chinese-looking robe, red dragons on a black satin ground. She is barefoot and the famous black hair is alive. So is her face, registering shock at my appearance.
“God, Harry, where’ve you been? Why haven’t I heard from you? What’s happened? You look like hell.”
“I’ve been sick,” I say curtly, inviting myself in, walking past her.
She trails concern after me into the living room. “You look like you could use something to eat. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“No, I don’t want anything to eat.” I sag down into an armchair. I’m nervous because of what I’ve come to say; my eyes drift around the apartment, avoiding hers, the anxiety in her face. “This won’t take long. I have something to tell you. And a favour to ask.”
“Shoot,” she says. I hear her settling on the sofa across from me. I’m reluctant to start; a strained, expectant silence forms.
“Harry, look at me.”
I do.
“What’s the matter?”
I begin, “Remember that day on the beach? When you told me I had to decide? Well, I’ve decided.”
“What have you decided, Harry?”
“I acted on impulse that day and I made a fool of myself. I’m sorry, but I’m acting on impulse again. There’s something that’s been eating at me. Something I didn’t tell you. About Chance.”
She shoots me a penetrating look. “What didn’t you tell me about Chance?”
I want to make this clear. “I’m not taking revenge on him,” I continue awkwardly, “and the last thing I want to do is hurt you, but I think you have a right to know.”
“Forget the pussyfooting. Out with it.”
“Remember what you said about Fitz in the Cocoanut Grove -that he was an anti-Semite?” I hesitate. “Well, so is Chance. In earnest. I’ve heard him say things.”
Rachel stiffens visibly, someone prepared for a slap in the face. She knows what is coming. “What kind of things?” she demands, voice brittle.
“Don’t ask me to spell it out. Take it from me. You don’t want to hear.”
Rachel draws the robe a little tighter around her shoulders. “A drink might help take the bad taste out of my mouth,” she says disgustedly. “Unfortunately for me, I quit drinking.” Her lips twist slightly, struggling to summon up an ironic smile. “But looking on the lighter side, maybe this cloud has a silver lining. When I hand the son of a bitch my resignation, I’ll be free to write that novel I’ve been threatening the public with for as long as you’ve known me.”
“Sure.”
“But I won’t,” she says quietly, more to herself than me.
I don’t contradict her. We both know she’s right on that score. Rachel says nothing else, sits absolutely still and quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She glances up at me. “That’s the second time you’ve said sorry this afternoon, Harry. Don’t be a parrot.” She moves now, abruptly, leans over and plucks a cigarette from a lacquer box on the coffee table, lights it with a flick of a match. Rachel back to business, the decisive close to a distasteful subject. Chance dismissed like a fly. “You mentioned a favour,” she says, shaking out the match, tossing it into an ashtray. “What is it?”
“I want you to visit my mother.”
Her eyes lift quizzically. “Of course. When would you like to go?”
“Not the both of us. Just you.”
She scrutinizes me closely. “Now what the hell is all this about?”
It seems lately there are no clear explanations. The best I can offer is, “I can’t face her right now.” I lay my hands on my kneecaps and watch them shake there uncontrollably.
“You’re a
That word, whenever she used to apply it to me, would make me angry and envious. I would have preferred to be one of her gigolos. Now it fills me with despair. The debris of a lot of mistakes has floated to the surface in the past couple of days. It seems I have a long history of betrayals. “I let her down once before, Rachel,” I whisper
