Vic nodded. "All right." He had known Brian was going to say that. He had known from the first line that the poem had been inspired by Melinda, and that the poet's objectivity to his own work had allowed Brian not only to show the poem to him but to ask him to deliver it.
In the remaining minutes they walked slowly up and down the platform, Vic keeping an eye on Brian's small suitcase for him, because Brian was not watching it at all. Brian stretched himself tall as he walked, his hands in his pockets and his eyes looking into the distance everywhere with the eager, planless, undoubting optimism of youth, just as he had looked when he had arrived in Little Wesley, Vic remembered. Vic wondered if he had given much of a thought to what Cameron might mean in his and Melinda's life, or whether his meeting with Melinda had been sufficient unto itself—like one of those brief infatuations Goethe had so often had with chambermaids and barmaids and people's cooks, which had always struck Vic as 'infra dignitatem' and somehow ludicrous, though they had netted Goethe a poem or even two. Biology was really the major miracle of existence. That this dedicated young man with a heart like a clean pane of glass had, at any rate for a few hours, fallen under the spell of Melinda. How glad he was that Brian was not staying up here! So glad, that he began to smile.
The tram was coming in.
Brian whipped his hand out of his pocket suddenly. "I'd like to give you this."
"What?" Vic said, not really seeing anything in the boy's bony fist.
"It's something that belonged to my father. I've got three pairs of them. I value them very much, but I intended—if I liked you—to give you a pair. I hope you'll take them. I do like you, and you're the first person to publish—to publish my first book." He stopped as if he were choked off. His fist was still extended.
Vic put out his hand, and Brian dropped something wrapped in wrinkled tissue paper into it. Vic opened it and saw two bloodstone cufflinks set in gold.
"My father always encouraged me to write poetry," Brian said. "I didn't tell you much about him. He died of tuberculosis of the throat. That's why he took so much trouble to make me like the out-of-doors." Brian glanced at the train that was stopping. "You will take them, won't you?"
Vic started to protest, but he knew Brian would be displeased. "Yes, I'll take them. Thank you, Brian. I feel very honored."
Brian smiled and nodded, not knowing what to say now. He climbed the train steps with his suitcase, and stopped to wave back at Vic, wordless, as if they were miles apart.
"I'll send you the galleys the day they're done!" Vic called. He put the cufflinks into his jacket pocket and walked back to his car, starting to wonder if Melinda was up yet, to wonder if she had an appointment to meet Cameron in Ballinger, or wherever she was going to start the divorce business. Melinda would not actually go into a lawyer's office with Cameron, but she would probably have him wait outside for her. Vic knew her well. She would wake up with a hangover today, full of nervous, remorseful, destructive energy, and she would start the thing rolling. Vic could imagine the face of the lawyer to whom she would speak, in Ballinger or wherever. It would be somewhere near—she might even do it in Wesley after a bolstering visit to the Wilsons'—and the lawyer would undoubtedly know of Victor Van Allen. Little Wesley's number one cuckold. Vic lifted his head and began to hum. For some reason, he hummed "My Old Kentucky Home."
Driving through the main part of Wesley, he looked around for Don Wilson, and for June Wilson. He saw Cameron. Cameron was coming out of a cigar store, yelling back and smiling at somebody and stuffing something into a trousers pocket. Vic saw him when he was about half a block in front of him on the right side of the street, and not really knowing what he was about, Vic stopped his car in the middle of the block at just the place where Cameron was about to cross the street.
"Hello, there!" Vic called cheerfully. "Need a lift?"
"Well! Hi!" Cameron grinned. "No, my car's right across the street."
Vic glanced over. Melinda was not in the car.
"If you've got a few minutes—get in and let's have a little chat," Vic said.
Cameron's smile collapsed suddenly, and then as if he thought he ought to pull himself together and face it like a man, he gave the belt of his trousers a hitch and smiled and said, "Sure." He opened the car door and got in.
"Fine day, isn't it?" Vic said genially, moving the car off. "Fine, fine."
"How's the work going?"
"Oh, great. Mr. Ferris isn't too pleased with the speed, but—" Cameron laughed, and laid his big hands on his knees. "I suppose you're used to that from clients."
The conversation went on like that for several more exchanges. It was the kind of conversation that Cameron enjoyed, the only kind, Vic supposed. Vic had decided not to mention Melinda, not even in the most casual way. He had decided to take Mr. Cameron to the quarry. It had come into his mind all at once, lust after he had said, "If you've got a few minutes—" There was lots of time, lots of time still to be in Ballinger for Trixie's performance with the chorus. Vic was suddenly calm and collected.
They talked of the growth of Wesley in the last few years. The dull aspect of this conversation was that it hadn't particularly grown in the last few years.
"Where're we going?" Cameron asked.
"I thought
