Recoil by Jim Thompson Page A

and it etched every line of her harsh, haggard face. Her faded topknot of hair was more gray than red.
    I stood up also, and she looked up into my face for a moment, squinting her eyes against the sun. Then she took hold of my arm, pushed me gently aside and strode past me and down the hill.
    Watching her, watching the firm unfaltering stride, I somehow felt ashamed; and I wanted to run after her or call her back. And I stayed where I was and kept my mouth closed.
    I knew I was making a mistake, just how bad a one I was yet to discover. But I knew of nothing else to do.

15
    T he Capital Car Company had a block-long sales lot on the outskirts of the downtown business district. A salesman directed me to a small frame office, surrounded and almost hidden by cars. I introduced myself to the manager, a brisk gold-toothed little man named Rivers.
    “Oh, sure,” he said instantly. “Wife bought it for you. Very fine lady, very fine. Want to take a look at it?”
    “I thought I’d take it with me,” I said.
    “Take it or leave it. Wife said you might want to leave it a while. A fine lady, that.”
    “Fine,” I said.
    He led me halfway down a row of automobiles and stopped before a Ford coupe. It wasn’t junk, by any means, despite the scratched and lustreless body. The tires were new. I lifted the hood and saw an engine as clean as though it had been scrubbed with soap and water.
    “Gettin’ a buy there,” Rivers declared. “Why, I bet you I coulda got two, two and a quarter for that car this morning if I hadn’t already sold it. Little old lady was down here lookin’ at it. Tell she knew cars, too.”
    A Negro youth, an employee of the company, drove the car out to Doc’s house for me. Rivers followed in another car to take the youth back to town.
    I left the coupe and the state car at the curb, and went up the walk to the house. As I climbed the steps the venetian blind at one of the front windows moved, and when I opened the front doors Mrs. Luther was standing in the door of her apartment.
    She was wearing a flowered silk house coat with a bodice of some very sheer material. She smiled and stood back from the door, inviting me in.
    “Now aren’t you a bad man!” she cried. “You found out about our surprise.”
    “Is Doc here?” I said.
    “Oh, no. He’s gone for the day. Come in.”
    I stepped inside, stopping as near the door as I could without standing close to her. She closed the door, gave me another bright chiding smile and led me to one of the over-stuffed lounges.
    “Now,” she said, pushing me down on the lounge with a playful gesture. “How did you find out?”
    “Wasn’t I supposed to?” I said.
    “Of course not. Not yet.”
    “Oh—” I hesitated, “well, you can probably guess, Mrs. Luther. The highway department gets a daily list of title transfers. I saw that I owned a car, so I went down and got it. Shouldn’t I have?”
    “Well…as long as you did. Of course, we intended to give it to you on your birthday.”
    “That was very nice of you,” I said, “but I wonder if you haven’t made a mistake? My birthday was in March, more than two months ago.”
    “Oh, no! ” she said. “Why, Doctor thought it was in May!”
    “That’s too bad. If you or Doc want to get your money back…”
    She shook her head, doubtfully. She was sure Doc wouldn’t want to do that. I murmured more thanks, wondering what went on beneath that vapidly beautiful face.
    May and March. The months could easily have been confused. And the present of a car wasn’t at all out of keeping with Doc’s other acts of generosity toward me. I didn’t need one, immediately, but circumstances might change to where I would. What actually was there to be suspicious about?
    I looked up at Lila Luther suddenly and caught a peculiar expression in her eyes. Something that was a mixture of shame and hunger. I smiled at her, and she smiled back; shyly, a faint blush spreading across the tawny cheeks. She felt the