The bus pulled in close to the gas pumps in front of Breed’s store and stopped. The little boxing gloves, the baby shoe, swung back and forth in little pendulum jerks. Juan sat in the seat after the bus had stopped. He raced the motor for a moment, listening to it, and then he sighed and turned the key and the engine stopped.

“How long are you going to wait here?” Van Brunt asked.

“I’m going to take a look at the bridge,” said Juan.

“It’s still there,” Van Brunt said.

“So are we,” said Juan. He pulled the lever to open the door.

Breed came out of his screen door and walked toward the bus. He shook hands with Juan. “Aren’t you a little late?”

“I don’t think so,” said Juan, “unless my watch is off.”

Pimples climbed down and stood beside them. He wanted to be ahead so he could see the blonde get off the bus.

“Got any Coke?” he asked.

“No,” said Breed. “Few bottles of Pepsi-Cola.¹ Haven’t had any Coke for a month. It’s the same stuff. You can’t tell them apart.”

“How’s the bridge?” Juan asked.

Mr. Breed shook his head. “I think here goes your ball game. Take a look for yourself. I don’t like it.”

“There’s no break yet?” Juan asked.

“She could go like that,” said Breed, and he sideswiped the palms of his hands together. “She’s got a strain on her that makes her cry like a baby. Let’s take a look.”

Mr. Pritchard and Ernest climbed down from the bus and then Mildred and Camille, with Norma behind her. Camille was expert. Pimples didn’t see anything.

“They got some Pepsi-Cola,” Pimples said. “You like to have one?”

Camille turned to Norma. She was beginning to see how Norma could be valuable. “Like a drink?” she asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind,” said Norma.

Pimples tried not to show his disappointment. Breed and Juan strolled down the highway toward the river. “Going to look at the bridge,” Juan called over his shoulder.

Mrs. Pritchard called from the step, “Dear, do you think you could get me a cold drink? Just water if there isn’t anything else. And ask where the ‘you-know-what’ is.”

“It’s around back,” said Norma.

Breed fell into step beside Juan as they strode toward the bridge. “I’ve been expecting her to go out every year,” he said. “I wish we’d get a bridge so when a big rain came I could sleep at night. I just lay in bed and hear the rain on the roof, but I’m listening for the bridge to go out. And I don’t even know what kinda sound she’ll make when she goes.”

Juan grinned at him. “I know how that is. I remember in Torreón² when I was a little kid. We used to listen at night for the popping that meant fighting. We kinda liked the fighting, but it always meant my old man would go away for a while. And at last he went away and he didn’t come back. I guess we always knew that would happen.”

“What became of him?” Breed asked.

“I don’t know. Somebody got him, I guess. He couldn’t stay home when there was any fighting. He had to get in it. I don’t think he much cared what they were fighting about. When he came home he was full of stories every time.” Juan chuckled. “He used to tell one about Pancho Villa.³ He said a poor woman came to Villa and said, ‘You have shot my husband and now I and the little ones will starve.’ Well, Villa had plenty of money then. He had the presses and he was printing his own. He turned to his treasurer and said, ‘Roll out five kilos of twenty-peso bills for this poor woman.’ He wasn’t even counting it, he had so much. So they did and they tied the bills together with wire and that woman went out. Well, then a sergeant said to Villa, ‘There was a mistake, my general. We did not shoot that woman’s husband. He got drunk and we put him in jail.’ Then Pancho said, ‘Go immediately and shoot him. We cannot disappoint that poor woman.’ ”

Breed said, “It don’t make any sense.”

Juan laughed. “I know, that’s what I like about it. God, that river is eating around the back of the breakwater.”

“I know. I tried to phone and tell them,” said Breed. “I can’t get anybody on the phone.”

They walked together out on the wooden bridge. And the moment Juan stepped on the flooring he could feel the thrumming vibration of the water. The bridge shivered and trembled. And there was a deep hum in the timbers that was louder than the rush of the water. Juan looked over the side of the bridge. The supporting timbers were under water and the river foamed and bubbled under it. And the whole bridge trembled and panted, and there were little strained cries from the timbers where the iron turnbolts went through. As they watched, a great old live oak tree came rolling heavily down the stream. When it struck the bridge and turned, the whole structure cried out and seemed to brace itself. The tree caught in the submerged underpinning and there came a shrill, ripping sound from under the bridge. The two men moved quickly back off the bridgehead.

“How fast is she coming up?” Juan asked.

“Ten inches in the last hour. Of course, she might start to go down now. Might have reached flood.”

Juan looked at the side of the supporting streamers. His eye found a brown bolthead on the edge of the water and he kept his eyes on it. “I guess I could make it all right,” he said. “I could make a run for it. Or I could get the passengers to walk across and I could drive over and pick them up on the other side. How’s the other bridge?”

“I don’t know,” said Breed. “I tried to phone and find out but I can’t get anybody. And suppose you cross this one and the other one’s out, and you come back and this one’s out? You’d be trapped in the bend. You’d have some mighty sore passengers.”

“I’m going to have some mighty sore passengers anyway,” said Juan. “I’ve got one—no, two—that are going to raise hell no matter what happens. I know the signs. You know a man named Van Brunt?”

“Oh, that old fart! Yes, I know him. He owes me thirty-seven dollars. I sold him some alfalfa seed and he claimed it was no good. Wouldn’t pay for it. He’s got bills all over the county. Nothing he buys is any good. I wouldn’t sell him a candy bar on credit. He’d claim it wasn’t sweet. So you got him along?”

“I got him,” said Juan. “And I got a man from Chicago. Big business bug. He’s going to be pretty sore if things don’t come out the way he wants them to.”

“Well,” said Breed, “you got to make up your own mind.”

Juan looked at the threatening sky. “I guess it’s going to rain, all right. And with the hills full up it’ll all dump right into the river. I could get over all right, but about what chance have I got to get back?”

“About ten per cent,” said Breed. “How’s your wife?”

“Not too good,” said Juan. “She’s got a toothache.”

“It pays to keep your teeth up,” said Breed. “Should go to the dentist every six months.”

Juan laughed. “I know. Are you acquainted with anybody that does?”

“No,” said Breed. He liked Juan. He didn’t even consider him a foreigner.

“I don’t either,” said Juan. “Well, there’s one other way to stay out of trouble with the passengers.”

“What’s that?”

“Let them decide. This is a democracy, isn’t it?”

“They’ll just get to fighting.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that if they fight each other?” said Juan.

“You’ve got something there,” Breed said. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Whatever side everybody else is on, Van Brunt is gonna be on the other side. There’s a fellow wouldn’t vote for the second coming of Christ if it was a popular measure.”

“He’s all right,” said Juan. “You just gotta know how to handle him. I had a horse once that was so ornery that if you reined left he’d turn right. I fooled him. I did everything opposite and he thought he was getting his own way. You could get Van Brunt to do almost anything by disagreeing with him.”

“I’m going to forbid him to pay that thirty-seven dollars,” said Breed.

“It might work at that,” Juan said. “Well, the river isn’t at flood. That bolthead is covered. I’m going to see what the passengers want to do.”

Back in the store Pimples felt a little cheated. He had been maneuvered into buying both Norma and Camille a Pepsi-Cola. Try as he would, he couldn’t separate Camille from Norma. And it wasn’t Norma’s fault. Camille was using her.

Norma was flushed with pleasure. She had never been so happy in her life. This beautiful creature was nice to her. They were friends. And she didn’t say they’d live together. She said she’d see how things worked out. For some reason this gave Norma a great deal of confidence. People had not been nice to Norma. They had said “yes” to things and then wormed out of them. But this girl, who looked like everything Norma wanted to be, said “she’d see.” In her mind Norma could see the apartment they would get. It would have a velvet davenport and a coffee table in front of it. And the drapes would be wine-colored velvet. They’d have a radio and phonograph combination, of course, and plenty of records. She didn’t like to think past that. It was almost like spoiling her luck to think past that. There was a kind of an electric blue for the davenport.

She raised her glass of Pepsi-Cola and let the sweet, biting drink run down her throat, and in the middle of the swallow despair settled down on her like a heavy gas. “It won’t ever happen,” her mind cried. “It’ll get away! It’ll be just like always and I’ll be alone again.” She squeezed her eyes shut and wiped the back of her hand across them. When she opened her eyes again she was all right. “I’ll save it,” she thought. “Little by little I’ll make the apartment, and then if it doesn’t happen I’ll still have it.” A hardness came over her and an acceptance. “If any of it comes through it’ll just be gravy. But I can’t expect it, I can’t let myself expect it. That will take it away from me.”

Pimples said, “I’ve got plenty of plans. I’m studying radar. That’s going to be a very important job. Fellow that knows radar is going to be fixed pretty nice. I think a person’s got to look ahead, don’t you? You take some people, they don’t look ahead into the future and they end up right where they started.” A little smile was fixed on Camille’s lips.

“You’ve got something there,” she said. She wished she could get away from this kid. He was a nice kid, but she just wished she could get away from him. She could practically smell him. “Thank you very much for the drink,” she said. “I think I’ll just go and freshen up a little. You want to come, Norma?”

A look of devotion came on Norma’s face. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I guess I ought to freshen up too.” Everything Camille said was right, was dainty and fine. “Oh, Jesus Christ, let it happen!” Norma cried in her mind.

Mrs. Pritchard was sipping a lemonade. It had taken a little time to get it because they didn’t serve lemonade. But when Mrs. Pritchard had pointed out the lemons in the grocery section and had even offered to squeeze them herself—well, there was nothing Mrs. Breed could do, and she’d made it.

“I just can’t drink old bottled things,” Mrs. Pritchard explained. “I like just the pure fruit juice.” Mrs. Breed resentfully went down under this wave of sweetness. Mrs. Pritchard sipped her lemonade and looked through a rack of postcards on the novelty counter. There were pictures of the courthouse in San Juan de la Cruz and of the hotel in San Ysidro which was built over a hot spring of epsom salts.⁴ A fine old hotel much frequented by rheumatic people who bathed in the strong waters. The hotel was called a Spa on the postcards. There were other items on the novelty counter. Painted plaster dogs and glass pistols full of colored candy and bright kewpie dolls and fancy redwood boxes of glacée California fruits. And there were lamps whose shades turned when the lights were on so that the forest fires and ships under full sail moved and shone in a very lifelike manner.

Ernest Horton stood at the counter too and looked at the display with a certain amount of contempt. He said to Mr. Pritchard, “Sometimes I think I ought to open a novelty store with all new stuff. Some of this old stuff ’s been on the market for years and nobody buys it. Now my company has nothing but up-and-coming stock, all new.”

Mr. Pritchard nodded. “Gives a man confidence to work for a firm he knows is on its toes,” he said. “That’s why I think you might like to work for us. You could be sure we’re on our toes every hour of the day.”

Ernest said, “Excuse me, I’m going to get my case. I’ve got an item that really isn’t before the public yet but it’s gone like hot cakes to the trade already, just to the trade. I’d like to place a few here, maybe.”

He went out quickly and lugged his sample case in. He opened it and brought out a cardboard box. “Plain wrapping, you see. That’s for the surprise.” He opened the box and took out a perfect little high tank toilet twelve inches high. There was the box and a little chain with a brass knob on the bottom, and the toilet bowl was white. And it even had a little seat cover colored to look like wood.

Mrs. Breed had moved down in back of the counter. “My husband does all the buying,” she said. “You’ll have to see him.”

“I know,” said Ernest. “I just want you to look at this item. It sells itself.”

“What’s it for?” Mr. Pritchard asked.

“You just watch,” said Ernest. He pulled the little chain and immediately the toilet bowl flushed with a brown fluid. Ernest lifted the toilet seat right out of the bowl and it was a small glass. “That’s one ounce,” he said triumphantly. “If you want a double shot, say for a highball, you pull the chain twice.”

“Whisky!” cried Mr. Pritchard.

“Or brandy, or rum,” said Ernest. “Anything you want. See, here in the tank is the place you fill it, and the tank is guaranteed plastic. It knocks ’em cold. I’ve got orders for eighteen hundred of this little item already. It’s a knockout. It gets a laugh every time.”

“By George, that’s clever,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Who thinks these things up?”

“Well,” Ernest explained, “we’ve got an idea department. Everybody puts ideas in. This item was suggested by our salesman in the Great Lakes area. He’ll make himself a nice bonus. Our company gives two per cent of the profits to any employee who sends in a workable idea.”

“It’s clever,” Mr. Pritchard repeated. In his mind he could see Charlie Johnson when he first saw it. Charlie would want to rush right out and get one for himself. “What do you get for them?” Mr. Pritchard asked.

“Well, this one retails for five dollars. But if you don’t mind my making the suggestion, we have a model that sells for twenty-seven fifty.”

Mr. Pritchard pursed his lips.

“But look what you get,” Ernest went on. “This one is plastic. The better item is—well, the box is oak and is made of old whisky barrels so that it’ll take the liquor fine. The chain is real silver and it has a Brazilian diamond for a knob. The bowl is porcelain, real toilet quality porcelain, and the seat is hand-carved mahogany. And on the box there’s a little silver plate for, if, like you wanted to present it to a lodge or a club, your name goes on that.”

“It sounds like a good value,” Mr. Pritchard said. His mind was made up. He knew how he would get the better of Charlie Johnson now. He would give one of the toilets to Charlie. But on the plate he would put “Presented to Charlie Johnson, the all-American soandso, by Elliott Pritchard,” and then let Charlie show off all he wanted to. Everybody would know who had the idea first.

“You haven’t got one with you, have you?” he asked.

“No, you have to order.”

Mrs. Pritchard spoke up. She had moved close, quietly. “El liott, you’re not going to get one of those. Elliott, they’re vulgar.”

“I wouldn’t have it around if there were ladies, of course,” said Mr. Pritchard. “No, little girl. Know what I’m going to do? I’m gonna send one of them to Charlie Johnson. That’ll get back at him for sending me that stuffed skunk. Yes, sir, I’ll fix him.”

Mrs. Pritchard explained. “Charlie Johnson was Mr. Pritchard’s roommate in college. They have the wildest jokes. They’re like little boys when they get together.”

“Now,” said Mr. Pritchard seriously, “if I ordered one, could you have it sent to an address I’ll give you? And could you have it engraved? I’ll write what I want you to put on the plate.”

“What are you going to say?” Bernice asked.

“Little girls keep their noses out of big man’s business,” said Mr. Pritchard.

“I’ll bet it’ll be awful,” said Bernice.

Mildred was in the dumps. She felt heavy and tired and she wasn’t interested in anything. She was sitting in a twisted wire candy-store chair all by herself at the end of the counter. Cynically she had watched Pimples trying to get the blonde alone. The trip had let her down. She was disgusted with herself and what had happened. What kind of a girl was she if a bus driver could set her off? She shivered a little with distaste. Where was he now? Why didn’t he come back? She smothered her impulse to get up and go look for him. Van Brunt’s voice sounded beside her so that she jumped.

“Young lady,” he said, “your skirt shows. I thought you’d like to know.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”

“You might have gone all day thinking you were all fixed up if somebody didn’t tell you,” he said.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” She stood up and, leaning backward, pushed her skirt against her legs so that she could see. There was an inch of slip showing behind.

“I think it’s better to be told things like that,” Van Brunt said.

“Oh, it is. I guess I broke a shoulder strap.”

“I don’t care to hear about your underwear,” he said coldly. “My only remark is—and I repeat it—your skirt shows. I don’t want you to think I had any other motive.”

“I don’t,” said Mildred helplessly.

Van Brunt went on, “Too many young girls get self-conscious of their legs. They think everybody is looking at them.”

Suddenly Mildred was laughing wildly like a sick woman.

“What’s so funny?” Van Brunt demanded angrily.

“Nothing,” said Mildred. “I just thought of a joke.” She had remembered that Van Brunt had never missed any show of legs all morning.

“Well, if it’s that funny, tell it,” he said.

“Oh, no. It’s a personal joke. I’ll go out and fix my strap.” She looked at him and then, deliberately, she said, “You see, there are two straps on each shoulder. One is for the slip and the other supports the brassière and the brassière holds the breasts up firmly.” She saw Van Brunt’s color come up out of his collar. “There isn’t anything below that until the panties, if I wore panties, which I don’t.”

Van Brunt turned and walked away quickly and Mildred felt better. Now the old fool wouldn’t have a comfortable moment. She could watch him and maybe later trick him and catch him in the act. She got up, laughing to herself, and went out around the back of the store to the lean-to marked “Ladies.”

A lattice covered the door and the morning glory was beginning to climb up. Mildred stood in front of the closed door. She could hear Norma talking to the blonde inside. She listened. Maybe this would make the trip worth while, just listening to people talk. Mildred liked to eavesdrop on people. Sometimes her liking to bothered her. She could listen to inanities with interest. But of all the listening, the best was in women’s rest rooms. The freedom of women in any room where there was a toilet, a mirror, and a washbowl had interested her for a long time. She had once written a paper in college, which had been considered daring, in which she had maintained that women lost their inhibitions when their skirts were up.

It must be either that, she thought, or the certainty that man, the enemy, could never invade this territory. It was the one place in the world where women could be certain there would be no men. And so they relaxed and became outwardly the people they were inwardly. She had thought a great deal about it. Women were more friendly or more vicious to one another in public toilets, but on personal terms. Perhaps that was because there were no men. Because, where there were no men, there was no competition, and their poses dropped from them.

Mildred wondered whether it was the same in men’s toilets. She just didn’t think it was likely, because men had many competitions besides women, while most of women’s insecurities had to do with men. Her paper on the subject had been returned marked “Not carefully thought out.” She planned to do it over again.

Out in the store she had not been friendly toward Camille. She just didn’t like her. But she knew her dislike would not carry into the rest room. She thought, “Isn’t it strange that women will compete for men they don’t even want?”

Norma and Camille were talking on and on. Mildred put her hand on the door and pushed it open. In the small room were a toilet stall and a washbowl with a square mirror over it. A dispenser of paper seatcovers was on one wall, and paper towels beside the basin. A slot machine for sanitary pads was on the wall beside the frosted glass window. The concrete floor was painted dark red and the walls were thick with layers of white paint. There was a sharp smell of perfumed disinfectant in the air.

Camille was seated on the toilet and Norma stood in front of the mirror. They both looked at Mildred as she came in.

“Want to get in here?” Camille asked.

“No,” said Mildred. “I’ve got a drooping strap on my slip.”

Camille looked down at the skirt. “You have all right. No, not that way,” she said to Norma. “You see the way your hair line goes? Well, make the eyebrows go up a little on the outside, just a little. Wait, honey. Wait a minute and I’ll show you.”

She stood up and moved to Norma. “Turn around so I can see you. There, now. And there, now look at yourself. See how it kind of brings down your hairline a little bit? Your forehead’s high so you try to bring it down. Now look, close your eyes.” She took the eyebrow pencil from Norma and rubbed it gently on the lower lids just below the lashes, making the line a little darker as it passed the outside corners.

“You’ve got the mascara on too thick, honey,” she said. “See how the lashes stick together? Use more water and take a little more time. Wait a minute.” She brought out of her purse a little plastic case of eyeshadow. “Now you go careful with this stuff.” She dipped her finger into the blue paste, rubbed a little on each of Norma’s upper eyelids, making it heavier toward the outside corners. “Now, let me see.” She inspected her work. “Look, honey, you keep your eyes too wide, like a rabbit. Let your upper lids down a little bit. No, and don’t squint. Just let your upper lids droop down a little bit. There, like that. Now look at yourself. See the difference?”

“My God, I look different,” Norma said. Her voice was awed.

“Sure you do. Now, you’ve got the lipstick on all wrong. Look, honey, your lower lip is too thin. So is mine. Bring the lipstick down a little bit here, and a little here.”

Norma stood still like a good child and let her work.

“See? Heavier in the corners,” Camille said. “Now your lower lip looks fuller.”

Mildred said, “You’re good. I could use some advice too.”

“Oh, well,” said Camille. “It’s pretty simple.”

“That’s theatrical make-up,” Mildred said. “I mean it’s a kind of theatrical type make-up.”

“Well, you know, dealing with the public—dentists use their nurses almost like receptionists.”

“Oh, damn it!” Mildred exclaimed. “This strap isn’t loose, it’s broken.” She peeled her dress off her shoulder and she had a little silken string in her hand.

“You’ll have to pin it,” Camille said.

“But I haven’t got a pin and my needle and thread’s in one of the suitcases!”

Camille opened her purse again, and in the lining were half a dozen tiny safety pins. “Here,” said Camille, “I always go heeled.” She unfastened one of the pins. “You want me to fix it for you?”

“If you don’t mind. My damned eyes. I can’t see anything.”

Camille pulled the loose slip up, folded the end of the strap, and pinned it firmly to the edge of the slip. “That’s hardly all right, but at least it doesn’t show. It’s still a pin job. You always been shortsighted, honey?”

“No,” said Mildred. “I was all right until—well, right when I was about fourteen. One doctor said it had to do with puberty. He said some girls get their eyesight back when they have their first baby.”

“That’s tough,” said Camille.

“It’s a damn nuisance,” Mildred said. “I don’t care how much they make new shapes of glasses. They still aren’t very good looking.”

“Ever heard of that kind that fit right down against the eyes?”

“I’ve thought about it and I haven’t done anything about it. I guess I’m scared to have anything touch my eyes.”

Norma was still regarding herself with wonder in the mirror. Her eyes had suddenly become larger and her lips fuller and softer and the wet rat look had gone from her face.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” Norma said to no one. “Isn’t she just wonderful?”

Camille said, “She’s gonna be a pretty kid when she learns a few tricks and gets some confidence. We’ll touch up that hair, honey, as soon as we get in.”

“You mean you’ve thought it over?” Norma cried. “You mean we’ll get the apartment?” She whirled on Mildred. “We’re going to have an apartment,” she said breathlessly. “We’re going to have a davenport and Sunday morning we’ll wash and set our hair—”

“We’ll see,” Camille broke in. “We’ll just have to see how things work out. Here’s the two of us without jobs and already she’s got a duplex rented. Hold your horses, honey.”

“It’s a funny trip,” Mildred said. “We’re on our way to Mexico. Everything’s gone wrong from the start. My father wanted to see the country. He thinks we might settle in California some time. So he wanted to take the bus to Los Angeles. He thought he could see the country better.”

“Well, he can,” said Camille.

“He can see too much of it maybe,” Mildred said. “But did you ever see such a collection of people as we’ve got?”

“They’re all about the same,” said Camille.

“I like Mr. Chicoy,” said Mildred. “He’s part Mexican, you know. But that boy! I’ve got a feeling he’d climb all over you if you weren’t careful.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” Camille said. “He’s just a little goaty. Most kids are like that. He’ll probably get over it.”

“Or maybe he won’t,” said Mildred. “Did you take a good look at that old fellow, Van Brunt? He didn’t get over it. It just ingrew. That’s a pretty filthy man in his mind.”

Camille smiled. “He’s pretty old,” she said.

Mildred went into the little cubicle and sat down. “There’s something I wanted to ask you,” she said. “My father thinks he’s seen you somewhere. He’s got a pretty good memory. Did you ever see him?”

For a second Mildred saw the hostility in Camille’s eyes, saw the tightened mouth, and she knew she’d touched something sore. And instantly Camille’s face was placid again.

“I think I must look like somebody else,” she said. “This time he’s made a mistake unless he saw me in the street somewhere.”

“On the level?” Mildred asked. “I’m not trying to catch you now. I just wondered.”

The friendliness, the companionship, the relaxation, slipped from the room. It was as though a man had entered. Camille’s eyes stabbed at Mildred. “He made a mistake,” she said coldly. “You can take that any way you want.”

The door opened and Mrs. Pritchard came in. “Oh, there you are,” she said to Mildred. “I thought you’d wandered off.”

“Oh, I broke a strap on my slip,” said Mildred.

“Well, hurry up. Mr. Chicoy’s back and there’s quite an argument going on—Thank you, dear,” she said to Norma, who had moved away from the basin to make room for her. “I’ll just moisten my handkerchief and take a little of the dust off—Why don’t you have a lemonade?” she said to Mildred. “That nice woman doesn’t mind making them at all. I told her she’d be quite famous if she just served pure fruit juices.”

Suddenly Camille said, “I wish we could get something to eat. I’m getting hungry. I’d like something good.”

“So would I,” said Mrs. Pritchard.

“I’d like a cold cracked crab with mayonnaise and a bottle of beer,” Camille said.

“Well, I’ve never had crab that way,” said Mrs. Pritchard, “but I wish you could have tasted the way my mother fried butterfish. She used to take an old-fashioned cast-iron skillet—and the fish, it had to be very fresh and very carefully trimmed. She’d make a batter with brown toasted crumbs—bread crumbs, not cracker crumbs—and she’d put a whole tablespoon—no, two tablespoonfuls—of Worcestershire sauce in a beaten egg. I think that was the secret.”

“Mother,” said Mildred, “don’t start on the butterfish recipe.”

“You’d better have a lemonade,” said Mrs. Pritchard. “It’d clean up your skin. A good long trip makes a person blotchy.”

“I wish we’d get moving,” Mildred said. “We can get lunch in the next town. What’s its name?”

“San Juan de la Cruz,” said Norma.

“San Juan de la Cruz,” Mrs. Pritchard repeated softly. “I think the Spanish names are so pretty.”

Norma took a long, astonished look at herself in the mirror before they went out. She drooped her eyes. It was going to take practice to remember to do that all the time, but it changed her whole appearance and she liked it.