"There now, Mary V, you shouldn't object to your own mother overhearing
anything you've got to say. And if you expect me to clap my hands over
my cars and start on a long lope across the desert the minute you begin
to 'phone--"
Mary V laughed and gave her mother a bear-hug. Mommie was a plump
matron, and the idea of her loping across the desert with her hands
over her ears was funny. "You do have tremendously sensible ideas,
mommie, though you simply do not understand Johnny as I do. I am
perfectly positive that he would not disappoint me. However, I'll just
make sure when he started. I'm so afraid of some horrible accident--"
"Well, you 'phone first, before you begin to borrow trouble," her
mother advised her shrewdly. "I know if you had laid down the law to
me the way you did to Johnny, I'd stay away if it was the last thing I
did on earth. And Johnny--"
Mary V called Tucson again, and mommie subsided so as not to interrupt.
There was a delay while the hotel clerk obligingly sent a boy over to
where Johnny kept his airplane. While she waited for his ring, Mary V
went restlessly out to watch the sky toward Tucson. Half an hour
slipped away. Mary V was just declaring pettishly that she could walk
to Tucson and find out, while she waited for that idiotic clerk, when
he called her. Mary V listened, hung up the receiver with trembling
fingers, and went to find her mother in the kitchen.
"Mommie, the plane is gone, and they are almost sure he went last
night, because he was seen going that way after he left the hotel. So
he did start, just as I told him to do--and something awful has
happened to him--and where's dad?"
Mary V's father, whom men for some unaccountable reason called "Sudden"
when he was not present, crawled out from under the rear end of his
battered touring car when Mary V's moccasins and the fluttering hem of
blue kimono moved within his range of vision. Sudden's face was
smudged with black grease and the dust of the desert, and in his hand
was a crescent wrench worn shiny where it had nipped nuts and bolts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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