... AND DANCE, AND SONG, AND JOY Reed Coray A car turned in the graveled lane leading from the highway to the tourist camp. It wavered for a moment, undecisive, then swung in next to the gas pump. The boy trotted out from the cabin and around the car to the driver's side. "Good afternoon, sir." The boy tipped his cap in awkward imitation of city gas-station attendants. The driver looked down the tapering line of the hood of his car. "Where can I find out about cabins for the night?" A wet sponge, halfway up to the windshield, paused and then slackly fell. "Ask at the first building on the left. They'll be glad to show you something." "Thank you," said the woman next to the driver. The car started away as the boy again tipped his cap. In his haste he smeared his face with the wet sponge. A girl in the back seat, dressed in shorts and a halter, giggled nervously. The boy scowled at her through the back window of the car. Slowly he walked to the door of the station and entered. The room he entered was a small cubicle. Slick columns of oil cans rose to the ceiling on two sides. A third had a large window and a desk. Against the other wall were a cot, a chest, a row of littered shelves. As the boy sat down on the cot it sagged dejectedly and squeaked in a minor key. Turning over a book which lay face down on the pillow, he began to read quietly and quickly. The book was a translation of "Plutarch's Lives." Hot sunlight reflecting on the flakes of dust in the air shone through the window in a cone of light blanketing the book, his face, and one lank strand of hair plastered down his forehead. In the middle distance was the hum of a motor boat coming in off the lake, the whine of a car on the highway to the east, the muted, abjectly broken sobbing of a child. Beating down on everything, the somnolent sun. White pages swishing; particles in the dust-laden air slowly eddying and swirling. . Everything drowsy and sleep - drugged save the circling, droning flies. . . . The pages ceased to flick; the boy dropped his head in his arms and dozed. A blue-bottle fly buzzed mercilessly over his head, tickling his wrists, his ears, his neck, wherever the sticky skin was exposed. The boy twitched convulsively and brushed at the pertinacious insect with an apathetic hand. Another car swerved into the cabin camp and stopped by the bright red gasoline pumps. The boy fourteen lifted his head, dropped it again, then jerked upright and ran out the door brushing the sleep from his hair and putting on his cap as he ran. He put five gallons of gas in the car, whispering curses to himself when he spilled gas on the fender. When all four people in the car suddenly began asking him questions, he answered them slowly and deliberately. "Ladies' rest room in the rear to the left, ma'am." "Yes you're still in the state of Wyoming." "I can't tell you what town is next until you tell me which way you're going." "No ma'am, there's nothing I can do about the curves in the road." "North is over in that direction." Oil, tires, windshield, battery. "Yes, we have some stickers. Here's one of Yellowstone Park." "Here's your change. One dollar twenty, twenty-five, fifty, two, and three is five. Thank you." Touch the visor and back away with a smile. Starter, choke, gears, clutch. Another tourist benefits from spontaneous Western hospitality. The boy muttered under his breath and spit through his teeth at the neat little pattern of tire tracks etched in the dust. He walked over to the veranda of the main lodge where Christine, one of the waitresses in the lodge dining-room, was sitting in the porch swing. She was a handsome blonde girl; her dress fitted tightly at her waist and arms; her voice was a melodious contralto. In the hollow of her throat was a warm pulsating tremor. She looked up at the boy and flashed her teeth in a smile. "What are you reading?" he asked. "I was looking through my yearbook," she said. "Would you like to see it?" The boy sat down beside her and took the proffered book. The "Fobrihi." He riffled through the pages of crude caricatures and misty miniatures. "Where are you?" he asked lightly. Flipping the pages, she moved close to him. Her presence was heavy and warm and moist. "Here," she said. Personalities Christine Landers. There she was, full length, in a Montgomeryward formal, straining to look exotic and glamorous. But her hair was wrong, her posture was wrong, her limply held handkerchief was wrong. The boy smiled in back of his lips and continued down the page. We are proud of her . . . queen of the Harvest Prom . . . first string basketball guard . . . sensitively portrayed Katherine . . . highest scholastically of graduating girls . . . boy friend, Paul Evericki . . . ambition, none. The boy looked up from the book to her face. He was impressed. "Quite a girl, aren't you?" "I can do some things," she said simply. "Are you going to college?" he asked. "I'm alternate for a scholarship to Laramie, but there's not much chance." Listlessly they sat and read the silly captions. "Let's go swimming," said the girl. "That's a good idea," said the boy. "I'll get Ed to watch the station." "I'll meet you on the dock in three minutes," said Christine and slipped away. In the station the boy quickly stripped his clothes and pulled on a pair of bathing trunks from a box beneath the cot. Ed came in as he was about to leave. He ran down the boardwalk to the boathouse and the dock. When he saw her coming, he dived from the fringe of the dock. One minute he was in the air hot and sticky; the next he was beneath the frigid water numb from shock, a change so intense that it was beyond discomfort. Rising to the top he headed for one of the boats anchored to the buoy not far offshore. He swam awkwardly as if unaccustomed to the water. Christine passed him, stroking smoothly, before he reached the boat. They clung to its side and rested. Then they began to swim again in a broad circle touching all the anchored boats, Christine always ahead, always waiting for him when she reached the boats. Finally, exhausted, they climbed into the big motor launch. She lay on one of the seats, feet dangling over the side. The boy lay chin in hands on the decked-over prow, basking in the sun and breathing heavily from the exertion. A deer fly alighted on Christine's leg. "Damn," she said and slapped it. With thumb and forefinger she flicked the dead fly away and watched the red drop of blood spread on her wet skin. He struggled to make conversation. "Wouldn't you like to go to college?" "Not very badly," she answerd. "It sounds kind of nice but it doesn't make much difference to me, and there's no way for me to make it." "Won't your folks help you?" he blurted. "No," she said. "You see, my parents are divorced. I haven't seen my real father for ten years, and I don't get along very well with my step-father." "Oh," he said weakly. "Don't let it worry you; I'll get along all right." For an immeasurable period there was silence between them, only the sea gulls overhead, planing into the wind and calling their lonesome, timeless cry. Finally she broke the pause. (Continued on following page) Fifteen