Read Maggie Bright for Free Online Page B

pointed to the end of the queue. “There’s a queue , the lady said.”
    “What’s a queue?”
    “Yanks,” the man muttered. “A line . You must wait in line. Wait your turn. They take turns in America, don’t they?” He looked at Clare, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want your fare reimbursed?” He jerked a thumb at the young man. “Talk to the Yank. Next, please.”
    Clare stepped aside, staring at the American. He put his fists in his pockets, and went to the end of the queue. He looked rumpled and tired and very out of sorts.
    He was the one who visited the Burglar Vicar? He usurped her visit?
    Were they friends? Were they in cahoots? Some sort of criminal ring?
    Were they related? They didn’t look alike. The dear BV, of whom she suddenly felt unaccountably protective, had light-brown eyes, thin brown hair, and was of average height. This American had nearly black eyes, black hair, and was taller. If anyone was a burglar, it was this fellow, not the other. Had a rather dark, intense look . . .
    How could she possibly leave without saying something?
    What could she possibly say?
    He certainly had the attention of everyone in the room   —his accent, his apparent agitation; Americans were very demonstrative, it was true, but . . . and yes, oh dear, he was muttering to himself. . . .
    She walked past very slowly and stopped to slowly button her jacket. He was not only talking to himself, he was fidgety. Hands in his pockets, hands out. Back in, back out. Off went his hat, tossed from hand to hand, back it went on. And all the while he chattered to himself in a low murmur, as if he were in the room all by himself.
    “Treat me like that. Think I haven’t outgrown A , B , and C ? Here’s an A for you: I shoulda married your wife. Eh? Whaddya think of that? Here’s your B : That kid should be mine. That ain’t enough?How ’bout a C ? That kid should be mine. How ’bout a D ? That kid should be mine. E : that kid should be mine. F : that kid   —”
    “Should be yours?”
    Startled, he looked down at Clare. It seemed to take a moment for him to register that she had said anything at all. In fact, it took a very long moment, and oh dear, what was meant to be a cute little sympathetic yet introductory quip threatened to prove an insult. Then he noticed all eyes on him. A flush came, and he looked away.
    “You’re from America, the sergeant said?” Clare said brightly. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit.” She wanted nothing of the sort. Couldn’t stand America because of its isolationist policies. “Heard so much about the Grand Canyon. Have you been?”
    He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, though his discomfort seemed eased. At least it seemed he’d come away from a very intense place. “Too far away,” he murmured. “I’d like to go. Ain’t been outside New York much. This is only my second time. Don’t know how I’d get there, ain’t learned to drive yet, probably never will   —probably go by rail, then.” He shrugged, and brightened a bit. “Might be fun. Ma’s wanted to go. We could pick up my uncle Bill and aunt Fran in Philly. That’s the kind of   —”
    “You’re from New York, did you say? Oh   —I’ve always wanted to visit New York City!” She hated big cities. “What’s it like?”
    “It’s swell.” Then he shook his head, as if catching up with his words. “No, no, it’s not swell. Not all of it. I can only take so much, then I want to get back to Bartlett. I only work there, see, I don’t live there. When you say you’re from New York they all think you mean the City. New York’s a big state. From Bartlett it’s forty-three minutes by train, 57 percent of . . .” He shook his head again, as if to clear it, and didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, he spoke with more reserve. “No offense, miss, I got a lot on my mind. I don’t feel like talkin’, unless you can talk bail.”
    “Bail?”
    “I gotta post bail for my