🎧 273: The next morning, ...

THE NEXT MORNING, Herb left Ben at a table in the Chacallit House dining room, bent over eggs and sausage and kartoffelpuffers, the potato pancakes that would forever be Ben’s second-fondest memory of Chacallit. His fondest would be the deal he had made with Luther Huber for dozens of pieces of coarse goods, a deal of that satisfying kind in which each party feels that he’s getting the better of the other. Ben was pleased because he’d been able to get a price spectacularly lower than what he’d been paying to the Clapp people. Luther was pleased because Ben had paid a good bit more than Clapp paid. Both men looked forward to doing more business together in the future.
     While Ben ate, Herb drove up the steep and winding road to the Hubers’. Lorna heard a car stop in front of the house, but she was rushing to leave for work and didn’t give it much thought. Herb bounded from the car, strode up the walk, mounted the steps, and stopped in front of the door, uncertain whether to turn the knurled knob to ring the bell or not. He had no idea what he’d say when the door opened. Ever since he had decided, in the moonlight, to return to the Hubers’, he’d assumed that inspiration would come to him at the last moment, that as soon as he had to speak, he would know what to say. He’d slept well, eaten heartily, and driven the winding road with a song in his heart, all because he expected inspiration to come to him. Now he found himself at the door, still uninspired; he felt a damp chill in his chest and a dryness in his mouth.
     For Lorna’s part, once she had decided, in the moonlight, that Herb would never return, the things that she would say to him if only he would return had come to her easily. In the morning, she stayed in bed longer than she should have, and then she had to rush to leave for the mill in time. She bounded down the stairs, dashed into the kitchen, drank the milk her mother had poured for her, and started for the door, licking her upper lip.
     Well, here it comes at last, the moment that would have occurred the night before, had everything gone as these things ought to go. Lorna opened the door and found Herb, staring into her face. Her beauty flared and transfixed Herb with his hand to his hat, his mouth hanging open.
     “Good morning, Herb Piper,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Did you find anybody to deliver those books for you while you’re in France?” She had said exactly the right thing, and she knew it. She beamed.
     Herb was astonished, ecstatic, euphoric, drunk on love, and he was, all at once, inspired. He beamed right back. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. In fact, I came here this morning hoping that I might persuade you to take the work on.”
     “I’ll do it,” said Lorna. “I don’t care about the terms. I think it’s important for you to know that your business in Chacallit is being looked after while you’re in the — in the trenches.” Her voice threatened to fail her, but she swallowed hard and went on. “You can’t afford to be distracted by business worries at a time like that,” she said, pressing right on with the argument she had prepared without reading in Herb’s expression the fact that none of it was necessary.
     “You’re right,” he said, speaking straight from the center of his thoughts, without any face-saving deviation. “I could get killed if I’m not careful, but they say if you look out for yourself, if you keep your eyes open, chances are good you’ll get through all right.”
     They didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at each other across the possibility of death.
     “I have to go to work,” Lorna said at last. She frowned.
     “Let me drive you,” said Herb. “I’ve got my own car.”
     “I see you do,” said Lorna. She walked beside him to the car, and he opened the door for her, and when, to steady herself, she reached for the edge of the door that he held open, her hand touched his.
     “Of course, I’ll write to you often,” she said, “to keep you informed about the progress of — things.”
     “Oh, yes,” said Herb. “I hope so. Once a week, at least.”
     “At least,” she agreed. “There are so many things for us to discuss,” she said suddenly, noting with alarm how quickly they were approaching River Road. “I wonder if you could come by this evening to explain it all to me. You might come for dinner — if you like.”
     “I’d like to,” said Herb, “but my uncle Ben and I have to get back to Boston, and we were going to leave right after breakfast.”
     “Boston?” Lorna asked. “Is that where you’re from?”
     “Sure,” said Herb, grinning. “Can’t you tell?”
     “Tell?” she asked.
     “From the way I talk?”
     “I never knew anyone from Boston before,” said Lorna. “I thought you were from Albany.”
     They made a couple of selections from the catalog of little giggles, titters, chuckles, and chortles that timid would-be lovers use when they don’t know how to say, or can’t bring themselves to say, what they want to say. They approached the center of town, and Lorna was reminded of work. She thought with horror that a young man from Boston wasn’t likely to approve of a girl who carved improper subjects on men’s jewelry. She didn’t want him to see where she worked. She had Herb stop when he reached River Road. They shook hands. Lorna said, “Good luck, Herb. I hope you don’t — have a hard time.”
     Herb grinned. “I hope I don’t get killed,” he said. Lorna got out. Herb put the car in gear. “So long, Lorna,” he said.

In Topical Guide 273, Mark Dorset considers Food: Kartoffelpuffers and Language: Regional Accents from this episode.

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