Drop City

waitress wanted to know.
    “Yeah,” Pamela breathed, and she was looking at him now, at Sess, looking right into his eyes, “Oly.” As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, she said, “So, are you prepared to turn right around and drive back this afternoon, because I'm all packed and ready and there's no sense in wasting any time--you know, another night in the city when we could be out in the bush, in your cabin, I mean. You're on the Thirtymile, right?”
    He just stared. Things were moving way too fast--but wasn't that the way he'd envisioned it in his fantasies, she lying naked on the bed beneath his window, her skin as white as Ivory soap against the deep pile of his furs, her limbs spread wide in invitation? “I was going to pick up a few things at the hardware and the grocery, and I was supposed to . . .” He drifted off a moment and gave her a strained smile. “For Richard, Richard Schrader. You know, because he let me borrow his truck--”
    The waitress arrived with their beers and there was a moment of silence as they watched her go through the ritual of tipping and pouring. Someone let out a bark of laughter from the next table over. A pair of silver canoes slid by on the far side of the river.
    “I know Richard,” Pamela said, and his heart froze inside him.
    “You don't mean--was he one of the ones?”
    “No,” she said, as abruptly as if she were taking a bite out of something, and she shook her head emphatically. “Not Richard, no way. Remember, I'm a practical girl here and the whole point of this is I want somebody to love me, sure, but somebody who can take _care__ of me, know what I mean? In the bush. Somebody--_like you__--who knows his way around, who has the survival skills, who's a real woodsman and not just some townie wanna-be.”
    Was he blushing? The compliment went right to him. He lifted the beer to his lips, took a sip and watched her eyes as if they were fish under the surface of the ice or ptarmigans in a clump of willow, something he was hunting, a brace of geese or old squaws. Suddenly he was Mr. Confidence. Suddenly he wanted to get up from the table and lift the whole deck, the whole restaurant, right up on his shoulders, just to show her what he was. “Is it fair to ask who I'm up against then? And what seed I am in this tournament?”
    The smile drew down to nothing. “Richie Oliver and Howard Walpole,” she said. “Just them. And you. And you know what, Sess?” Her hand was on the table now, lying there, palm up, like a double-spring Victor trap with the snow blown bare of it. And what did he want? He wanted to be caught, he did, he was praying for it every day and night of his life, and he reached out and slipped his fingers through hers. “No, what?” he said.
    “You've got nothing to worry about.”
    He didn't remember much of the ride back, just a sensation of floating over the road as if he were in an airplane instead of a car, Pamela in the lotus position on the seat beside him, her bare legs glistening in the sun through the window. They were both feeling good, convivial and full of high spirits, and just about everything he said made her laugh and show her teeth. The country unfurled before them like a camouflage jacket, gray and green and brown, and they saw goshawks and Brewer's blackbirds wheeling overhead. At one point, just before the turnoff for Boynton Hot Springs, they stopped to watch a fox hunting in the bush alongside the road and he had to fight down the impulse to shoot it with the .22 Richard kept under the seat for just such an opportunity as this--the fur was worthless this time of year, but it would have been fresh meat for the pot, and he _was__ on trial here, after all.
    “Look at the way he pounces,” she said, leaning out the window so far he thought she was going to fall. “Just like a dog playing with a ball.”
    “What he's doing,” Sess said, and he slid across the seat to look over her shoulder, so close now he could smell the soap she used on her skin, “he's trying to scare up whatever might be hiding under the bushes, you know, voles, grasshoppers, maybe a fat juicy wood frog or two--”
    She turned to him now, and she was right there, her face inches from his, and he had to back off, he had to, and she could chalk that up in the credit column under his name. Let her make the first move. Sure. Let _her.__ “Sounds appetizing,” she said, smiling wide.
    Reddening, he slid back across the seat and put the