CHAPTER XXVII

by Sinclair Lewis

　　IA LETTER from Raymie Wutherspoon, in France, said that he had been sentto the front, been slightly wounded, been made a captain. From Vida'spride Carol sought to draw a stimulant to rouse her from depression.Miles had sold his dairy. He had several thousand dollars. To Carol hesaid good-by with a mumbled word, a harsh hand-shake, "Going to buy afarm in northern Alberta--far off from folks as I can get." He turnedsharply away, but he did not walk with his former spring. His shouldersseemed old.It was said that before he went he cursed the town. There was talkof arresting him, of riding him on a rail. It was rumored that at thestation old Champ Perry rebuked him, "You better not come back here.We've got respect for your dead, but we haven't got any for a blasphemerand a traitor that won't do anything for his country and only bought oneLiberty Bond."Some of the people who had been at the station declared that Miles madesome dreadful seditious retort: something about loving German workmenmore than American bankers; but others asserted that he couldn't findone word with which to answer the veteran; that he merely sneaked up onthe platform of the train. He must have felt guilty, everybody agreed,for as the train left town, a farmer saw him standing in the vestibuleand looking out.His house--with the addition which he had built four months ago--wasvery near the track on which his train passed.When Carol went there, for the last time, she found Olaf's chariot withits red spool wheels standing in the sunny corner beside the stable. Shewondered if a quick eye could have noticed it from a train.That day and that week she went reluctantly to Red Cross work; shestitched and packed silently, while Vida read the war bulletins. And shesaid nothing at all when Kennicott commented, "From what Champ says,I guess Bjornstam was a bad egg, after all. In spite of Bea, don'tknow but what the citizens' committee ought to have forced him tobe patriotic--let on like they could send him to jail if he didn'tvolunteer and come through for bonds and the Y. M. C. A. They've workedthat stunt fine with all these German farmers."IIShe found no inspiration but she did find a dependable kindness in Mrs.Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old woman's receptivity and hadrelief in sobbing the story of Bea.Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely a pleasantvoice which said things about Charles Lamb and sunsets.Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs. Flickerbaugh,the tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney. Carol encountered her atthe drug store."Walking?" snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh."Why, yes.""Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that retains the useof her legs. Come home and have a cup o' tea with me."Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she wasuncomfortable in the presence of the amused stares which Mrs.Flickerbaugh's raiment drew. Today, in reeking early August, she wore aman's cap, a skinny fur like a dead cat, a necklace of imitation pearls,a scabrous satin blouse, and a thick cloth skirt hiked up in front."Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope you don't mindthe house looking like a rat's nest. You don't like this town. Neitherdo I," said Mrs. Flickerbaugh."Why----""Course you don't!""Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find some solution.Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find the hexagonal hole." Carolwas very brisk."How do you know you ever will find it?""There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman--she ought tohave a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston--but she escapes bybeing absorbed in reading.""You be satisfied to never do anything but read?""No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town always!""Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll die here--andI'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a business woman. I hada good deal of talent for tending to figures. All gone now. Some folksthink I'm crazy. Guess I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and singhymns. Folks think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing andironing and mending socks. Want an office of my own, and sell things.Julius never hear of it. Too late."Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could this drabnessof life keep up forever, then? Would she some day so despise herselfand her neighbors that she too would walk Main Street an old skinnyeccentric woman in a mangy cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt thatthe trap had finally closed. She went into the house, a frail smallwoman, still winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with theweight of the drowsy boy in her arms.She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that Kennicott hadto make a professional call on Mrs. Dave Dyer.Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the street wasmeshed in silence. There was but the hum of motor tires crunching theroad, the creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a handattacking a mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, theprecise rhythm of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen--soundsthat were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end ofthe world, beyond the boundaries of hope. Though she should sit hereforever, no brave procession, no one who was interesting, would becoming by. It was tediousness made tangible, a street builded oflassitude and of futility.Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and bounced when Cytickled her ear in village love. They strolled with the half-dancinggait of lovers, kicking their feet out sideways or shuffling a draggingjig, and the concrete walk sounded to the broken two-four rhythm. Theirvoices had a dusky turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on theporch of the doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt thateverywhere in the darkness panted an ardent quest which she was missingas she sank back to wait for----There must be something.