The Lonesome Quarter. Richard Wormser

rattled the truck over a cattleguard, paying no attention to a sign that indicated that public parking was outside. Another sign said the office was to the left; he turned right and stopped alongside one of the uniformly tobacco-brown painted buildings; this one was a little larger than the rest, and there was civilian-looking porch furniture.

      The kids jumped out almost before he had stopped and went streaking down a hill toward a big garage where some men were working around a red-painted fire engine—which Lonnie would probably bawl her out for calling a fire engine.

      Her husband got out and waited for her to join him. Then they went up on the porch, and Lon knocked on the door, and again she got the idea that this was a kind of a ceremony.

      A man’s voice inside called out, “Come in,” and before she could stop him, Lon opened the door and pushed her in, by her elbow.

      A long-legged fellow about Lon’s age was sprawled on the floor, fiddling with a radio that he’d taken out of its mahogany case. He looked up with one eye, and said, “Oh, Lon. Wondered where you’d been keep—” and then saw Vera Mae and jumped to his feet. He stood there, brushing dust off his green pants and khaki shirt; he also wore a green tie and a bronze badge like the big signs.

      Lon stammered and stuttered something, but Vera Mae wasn’t listening; the badge had made her react in a way she hated. Badges were worn by cops and deputies, by truant officers and fire inspectors, by guys at state borders who looked at you twice and suggested a little trip out behind the station; and when you turned them down got mean and made you take all the hay out of your trailer so they could inspect it for bugs. Badges were worn by guys who were respectful to people who had houses and regular salaries and money in the bank, but were hell on people who lived by traveling, who didn’t pay taxes any place, who maybe separated the local marks from some of their money once in a while.

      Badges were worn by guys who came and got Kenny in the middle of the night and would have taken you along on general principles if you hadn’t—

      Lonnie was saying, “Oh, hell, Tommy, what I’m trying to say is, Vera Mae is Mrs. Verdoux; we got married this morning!”

      Tommy let out a whoop and yelled, “Dot!” Then he flung his long arms around Vera Mae and gave her a kiss on the cheek and a hug. She could feel his badge through her blouse. But this was Lonnie’s friend.

      He was still hanging on to her when a woman’s voice said, “Well—Lonnie—”

      Tommy took one long arm from around Vera Mae and swung around to face the kitchen door.

      The girl who was standing there was taller than Vera Mae, and thinner; she was about as thin a girl as was necessary. Her short-sleeved khaki shirt didn’t bulge, and her levi pants hardly did, either. She had black hair—one lock of which was hanging down over her eyes kind of damp—and no make-up on.

      And she didn’t take her eyes off her husband’s arm around Vera Mae while Lon repeated that he was married, that this was his wife. Then she said, “Well, congratulations, both of you. I’ve got to see about the soup,” and disappeared back through the swinging door.

      The two men seemed to realize that they’d done things all wrong. She was almost sorry for them as they stood there and looked at each other. Tommy said, “I was just trying to fix Dot’s radio, Lon. Know anything about them?”

      “Hardly at all,” Lon said. “But I could hold things for you—”

      Vera Mae forced back a laugh. They looked just like kids that had caught a nice mouse and given it to their teacher for a present. She said, “Maybe I can help with that soup,” and as she started after Dot for Dorothy, saw their faces brighten. As her back turned, they sat down on the floor with the radio.

      She burst into the kitchen saying, “Honey, I didn’t mean to pop into you like—” but her hostess wasn’t there. There was a pot of soup on the stove, all right; but no Dot stirring it. Idly, she lifted the lid of the pan and took the spoon off the drainboard to stir the brown liquid. Barley and celery and squares of carrots came swirling up, and the smell was lovely, and she realized that they hadn’t eaten since six that morning, and that it was almost three now. She took a spoonful of the soup up, and it tasted as good as it smelled.

      A current of air behind her told her she was being watched. She gulped the rest of the spoonful hurriedly and laid the spoon down on the drainboard. Dot was standing by the other door, watching her.

      Vera Mae said, “I’m sorry. I came out here to apologize to you for bouncing in the way we did, and then the soup smelled so good—”

      Dot’s eyes were cool, but she said, “It doesn’t matter.” She picked up the spoon and tasted the soup herself, and then put the spoon down, not on the drainboard the way Vera Mae had done, but hanging over the edge to drip into the sink.

      “You get the cheese out of the icebox and slice it,” Dot said. “If you want to help.”

      “Of course,” Vera Mae said.

      Dot said, “I’m having soup and Waldorf salad and toasted cheese sandwiches.”

      “All right,” Vera Mae said. “I’m not a great hand at cooking, but toasted cheese sandwiches I can manage. Doggone good thing you didn’t tell me just to whip up a Waldorf salad.”

      Dot’s hands were busy with a big knife at the breadboard, chopping up parsley. She slid the green dust on her knife and into the soup. “You’ll have to learn,” she said. “We always make the salads.”

      Vera Mae, being competent with packaged cheese and soft oleo and sliced bread, looked up. “We?”

      Dot got a salad bowl out of the icebox, already filled with things. She started throwing in nuts and sliced apples. “The Forest Service gals always bring the salads to the PTA,” she said. “The ladies from up at the hatchery make the cakes, and the independent girls bring all the rest of the junk. You know, Mother Trellis and the other ranchers, and Helen Clinto, though she really should be in with us, because Clint’s Department of Agriculture, just like the Forest Service.”

      Vera Mae felt uncertain. But this was the wife of Lonnie’s best friend, and she was being a lot nicer than Vera Mae would have been in the same circumstance. Least a girl could do was be nice right back at her. “Thanks for asking me to join your group, but I better stay with the independent gals till I get to cook better. Don’t want to drag your reputation down.”

      “Oh, don’t be silly,” Dot said. “I’ll show you how to make all kinds of salads. I feel kind of responsible, with Tommy the only regular forester on the district. Down at Firtree, where he was assistant, there were four of us, and the older wives wouldn’t let me go around with the guards’ wives, but thank God I never let that get started here. The ranger before Tommy was an old-timer, and they say his wife was a regular snob.”

      Vera Mae said, “I’d feel more at home with the ranchers’ wives.”

      Dot had finished throwing peeled and cut-up apples into her salad, was adding mayonnaise. From some place back in her childhood, Vera Mae suddenly remembered how you made homemade mayonnaise; Dot was using bought stuff. It made her feel better, but the look that Dot was giving her took that away at once.

      “Well, I guess you could,” Dot said. “After all, Lonnie does own that sagebrush quarter where he lives. But everybody’s always thought of Lonnie as a Forest Service man. He’s just about top guard, and if the stingy old Service ever gives Tommy any money, I’d bet Lon’d be the first man he put on permanently.”

      Vera Mae had never been known for her quiet temper. She got a grip on it with both hands, and said, “Lonnie and I are planning on ranching it, most of the time.”

      Dot said, “Oh, honey, it’s not much of a place . . . Joan told me—”

      Vera Mae said, “I don’t know anything about Joan, except she had two damned nice kids, and a nice husband. And she’s dead. But I know about the ranch, if I haven’t seen it yet.