Finding a Girl in America Read Online Free

down the hall with her smile in his mind, wondering: was that when they were both playing around and she was smiling like that at him and they were happy, even sometimes, making it worth it? He recalled her eyes, the pain in them, and he was conscious of the circles of love he was touching with the hand that held the revolver so tightly now as Strout stopped at the door at the end of the hall.
    â€˜There’s no wall switch.’
    â€˜Where’s the light?’
    â€˜By the bed.’
    â€˜Let’s go.’
    Matt stayed a pace behind, then Strout leaned over and the room was lighted: the bed, a double one, was neatly made; the ashtray on the bedside table clean, the bureau top dustless, and no photographs; probably so the girl—who was she?—would not have to see Mary Ann in the bedroom she believed was theirs. But because Matt was a father and a husband, though never an ex-husband, he knew (and did not want to know) that this bedroom had never been theirs alone. Strout turned around; Matt looked at his lips, his wide jaw, and thought of Frank’s doomed and fearful eyes looking up from the couch.
    â€˜Where’s Mr. Trottier?’
    â€˜He’s waiting. Pack clothes for warm weather.’
    â€˜What’s going on?’
    â€˜You’re jumping bail.’
    â€˜Mr. Fowler—’
    He pointed the cocked revolver at Strout’s face. The barrel trembled but not much, not as much as he had expected. Strout went to the closet and got the suitcase from the floor and opened it on the bed. As he went to the bureau, he said: ‘He was making it with my wife. I’d go pick up my kids and he’d be there. Sometimes he spent the night. My boys told me.’
    He did not look at Matt as he spoke. He opened the top drawer and Matt stepped closer so he could see Strout’s hands: underwear and socks, the socks rolled, the underwear folded and stacked. He took them back to the bed, arranged them neatly in the suitcase, then from the closet he was taking shirts and trousers and a jacket; he laid them on the bed and Matt followed him to the bathroom and watched from the door while he packed his shaving kit; watched in the bedroom as he folded and packed those things a person accumulated and that became part of him so that at times in the store Matt felt he was selling more than clothes.
    â€˜I wanted to try to get together with her again.’ He was bent over the suitcase. ‘I couldn’t even talk to her. He was always with her. I’m going to jail for it; if I ever get out I’ll be an old man. Isn’t that enough?’
    â€˜You’re not going to jail.’
    Strout closed the suitcase and faced Matt, looking at the gun. Matt went to his rear, so Strout was between him and the lighted hall; then using his handkerchief he turned off the lamp and said: ‘Let’s go.’
    They went down the hall, Matt looking again at the photograph, and through the living room and kitchen, Matt turning off the lights and talking, frightened that he was talking, that he was telling this lie he had not planned: ‘It’s the trial. We can’t go through that, my wife and me. So you’re leaving. We’ve got you a ticket, and a job. A friend of Mr. Trottier’s. Out west. My wife keeps seeing you. We can’t have that anymore.’
    Matt turned out the kitchen light and put the handkerchief in his pocket, and they went down the two brick steps and across the lawn. Strout put the suitcase on the floor of the back seat, then got into the front seat and Matt got in the back and put on his glove and shut the door.
    â€˜They’ll catch me. They’ll check passenger lists.’
    â€˜We didn’t use your name.’
    â€˜They’ll figure that out too. You think I wouldn’t have done it myself if it was that easy?’
    He backed into the street, Matt looking down the gun barrel but not at the profiled face beyond it.
    â€˜You