Nocturne By Elva K. Wardleigh It was almost dark when Sharon left the house. Like an animal, fearful of pursuit, she had scuttled across the porch and through the yard. Now, halfway down the block, her poise returned. A look of crafty triumph came into her eyes as she readjusted the hat with its burden of violets, whose precarious balance had been disturbed by her flight. Her bracelets jangled metalically as they slipped from wrist to elbow on her uplifted arm. Keeping within the shadow of the elms that bordered the street, she walked townward with slow deliberation, her hips swinging in exaggerated rhythm, her little behind wig-wagging a come-on. The western sky was washed with a thin, watered--down green. The arc lights poured their ineffective golden light between the new, rosette like leaves of the elms and made a pale, perforated pattern on the sidewalk. Sharon moved on. The evening stillness amplified the clatter of her high heels on the pavement and she glanced worriedly back towards the house, but distance and the deepening dusk hid it. Only the glimmer of a white picket fence marked its boundary. Down the street toward her came a man, and with hand on hip and an air of feigned familiarity she closed in for a practice encounter. "Hi, baby! Too bad you're not going my way," he greeted, giving her a long conspiratorial wink. She glanced at him obliquely beneath mascara coated lashes. The wink made her feel good, as if the two of them were partners in understanding. "Sharon! Sharon!" From a distance she heard her name being called. She turned momentarily toward the sound and saw that the man had stopped and was looking over his shoulder at her. "Sharon!" Once more the voice came, heavy with inquiry, but she contracted her eardrums and squeezed out the sound. She continued her walk under the elms, not hurrying, but keeping in the shadow. Two women came toward her out of the gloom, their rapid steps beating on the sidewalk. They looked startled as they peered into her upturned masklike face. The older woman glanced at the sky where the first stars glimmered and then at the thickening web of shadows under the trees. "That young lady will bear watching," Sharon heard her emphasize. "When they're that age you don't dare let them out of your sight." She moved forward toward an expanding point of brilliance down the avenue. Strollers, indifferent or amused, passed her, but as if reserving her wiles for a particular quary, she didn't intrude upon them. Once more she thought she heard her name being called, but she was so far from the house that it could have been imagined. The line of elms ended abruptly, and across the wide thoroughfare the town began. She took her stand at the base of the last tree and marveled at the synthetic rainbow that arched Main Street. She knew that out of that core of brilliance would walk her helpless, unsuspecting prey. So absorbed was she in contemplation she failed to see the policeman who had spotted her from across the street. She ducked behind the tree and pressed her back hard against the fissured bark, but her concealment came too late, and the policeman grasped her arm. He looked down at her, then up at the sky, now completely dark, at the arclight whose full radiance failed to penetrate the shadows, and then back at the girl, his open Irish face a study in astonishment. "The saints preserve us," he ejaculated. "What might ye be doin' here?" "Waiting," was her noncommittal reply. "Sure, and that I can see unless these two eyes deceive me. And who might it be you're watin' for?" "A man." "Faith, and I should have guessed that myself, judgin' by the looks of ye! What if the wrong one comes along?" His voice was dark with suggestion. "The right one will come." Her eyes were beaming pools of confidence. "Of that I'm not so sure. This is no place for ye, colleen. Go back where ye came from. Shoo! Run away with ye!" He gave her a spat on the fanny for emphasis. She shook her head, the hat with its crown of violets bouncing with vehement movement. He looked down at her, baffled by her defiance. "You win," he said helplessly. "But just for a little while, mind ye. It'll take about twenty minutes to walk my beat. Before I get back I want ye to turn yourself around and march yourself back down the street." His tone carried less command than concern. He left her standing there, her back once more flattened against the tree. From afar she heard the evening train warn of the highway crossing and then its series of agitated hoots as it threaded the town. For her it was a signal that the moment of fulfillment was at hand and her small body trembled with anticipation. She kept her eyes glued to the lighted facade of the station, a half block away, and her spine ached with tension as the first passengers streamed from the doorway. Suddenly, in a clot of people, she saw him, tall, hatless, briefcase in hand. Even from a distance she knew he was the man for whom she waited. For her, he was desirable above all others and as he moved even closer she made a soft yearning sound in her throat. She waited until he had crossed the street and was almost abreast, with deliberate timing she stepped from the shadow into his path. He nearly knocked her over and as he steadied her with his hand he breathed out a low whistle of amazement. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle! What on earth are you doing here?" he questioned. "Waiting for you." Her eyes, brimming with adoration, held also a shy sort of mirth. "But why here?" There was mild reproof in his voice. "I was lonesome." Her lips pouted. From his immense height he regarded her, a small caricature with a frivolous hat, a painted doll-like face, arm loaded with bracelets, high-heeled slippers with glittering buckles on her feet. His eyes filled with comprehension. "Well, here I am. No need to wait any longer. Let's get going." He took her hand in his and they moved together down the street under the black shadows of the elms, his crepe soles whispering an accompaniment to the staccoto of her high heels. When they reached the white picket fence, he led her through the gate. At the porch steps he lifted her tenderly in his arms. She settled herself into the curve of his shoulder with yielding acquiescence. One slipper clattered unheeded to the walk. Her hat, overburdened with violets, slid down her forehead and came to rest on the bridge of her nose. He opened the screened door and stood her gently on the nearest chair, then dropped his briefcase to the floor. His arms were around her waist, hers encircled his neck in triumphant possession and she pressed her thighs hard against his chest. At the back of the house a door slammed, hurried footsteps came toward them and a woman, her face strained with anxiety, crossed the threshold. "Hello! We're home!" the man greeted. "We?" She stood for a moment, blinking against the light, staring stupidly at the two. "We?" Then comprehending, she rushed over and hugged them both, her body swaying them with a sidewise, rocking motion. "Oh, Sharon, where have you been! I've looked all over for you." Relief and disapproval mingled in her voice. "She walked down town to meet me." "Darling, you shouldn't have. You're so little and that's so far away from home. Didn't you hear me call?" "Maybe ... I think so ... but ... " Sharon faltered helplessly. "But she was a big, big girl for awhile tonight out to meet her best boy friend and dressed fit to kill. You'll have to admit she's quite a glamor gal." He stepped aside and the mother saw the child's grotesque attempt at sophistication. "Well I'll be darned! Helena Rubinstein's dynamite and my best duds!" Her eyes twinkled. "Don't do it again, honey," she added, sobering. "You'll be grown up before you know it." "It won't be for ever and ever so long." "It will come too soon to suit me. Now run up and wash. There's chocolate cake for supper." "Beat you to the basin, chicken!" She jumped from the chair. The other slipper lay forgotten in the seat. The flowered hat fell unnoticed to the floor. The bracelets slid down her arm and over her fingertips as she raced swooping up the stairs.