The Story Until Now: A Great Big Book of Stories

The Wait

8 8 8 8 8 Penetrating a windshield blotched with decalcomanias of every tourist attraction from Luray Caverns to Silver Springs, Miriam read the road sign. “It’s Babylon, Georgia, Momma. Can’t we stop?” “Sure, sweetie. Anything you want to do.” The little, round, brindle woman took off her sunglasses. “After all, it’s your trip.” “I know, Momma, I know. All I want is a popsicle, not the Grand Tour.” “Don’t be fresh.” They were on their way home again, after Miriam’s graduation trip through the South. (Momma had planned it for years, and had taken two months off, right in the middle of the summer, too, and they’d left right after high school commencement ceremonies. “Mr. Margulies said I could have the whole summer , because I’ve been with him and Mr. Kent for so long,” she had said. “Isn’t it wonderful to be going somewhere together, dear?” Miriam had sighed, thinking of her crowd meeting in drugstores and in movies and eating melted ice cream in the park all through the good, hot summer. “Yes,” she’d said.) Today they’d gotten off 301 somehow, and had driven dusty Georgia miles without seeing another car or another person, except for a Negro driving a tractor down the softening asphalt road, and two kids walking into a seemingly deserted country store. Now they drove slowly into a town, empty because it was two o’clock and the sun was shimmering in the streets. They had to stop, Miriam knew, on the pretext of wanting something cold to drink. They had to reassure themselves that there were other people in the town, in Georgia, in the world. In the sleeping square, a man lay. He raised himself on his elbows when he saw the car, and beckoned to Miriam, grinning. “Momma, see that place? Would you mind if I worked in a place like that?” They drove past the drugstore, a chrome palace with big front windows. “Oh, Miriam, don’t start that again. How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want you working in a drugstore when we get back.” Her mother made a pass at a parking place, drove once again around the square. “What do you think I sent you to high school for? I want you to go to Katie Gibbs this sumThe Wait 430 k i t r e e d mer, and get a good job in the fall. What kind of boyfriends do you think you can meet jerking sodas? You know, I don’t want you to work for the rest of your life. All you have to do is get a good job, and you’ll meet some nice boy, maybe from your office, and get married and never have to work again.” She parked the car and got out, fanning herself. They stood under the trees, arguing. “Momma, even if I did want to meet your nice people, I wouldn’t have a thing to wear.” The girl settled into the groove of the old argument. “I want some pretty clothes and I want to get a car. I know a place where you only have to pay forty dollars a month, I’ll be getting thirty-five a week at the drugstore ”— “And spending it all on yourself, I suppose. How many times do I have to explain, nice people don’t work in places like that. Here I’ve supported you, fed you, dressed you, ever since your father died, and now, when I want you to have a nice future, you want to throw it out of the window for a couple of fancy dresses.” Her lips quivered. “Here I am practically dead on my feet, giving you a nice trip, and a chance to learn typing and shorthand and have a nice future”— “Oh, Momma.” The girl kicked at the sidewalk and sighed. She said the thing that would stop the argument. “I’m sorry. I’ll like it, I guess, when I get started.” Round, soft, jiggling and determined, her mother moved ahead of her, trotting in too-high heels, skirting the square. “The main thing, sweetie, is to be a good girl. If boys see you behind a soda fountain, they’re liable to get the wrong idea. They may think they can get away with something, and try to take advantage . . .” In the square across the street, lying on a pallet in...