An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

(Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over there⁠—below that hill.)

It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from Utica for a boat ride⁠—just one day⁠—seventy miles. That would not sound right to her, or to anyone. It would make her suspicious, maybe. It might be better, since he would have to get away from her to buy a hat in Utica, to spend this first night there at some inexpensive, inconspicuous hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake. And from there they could go to Big Bittern in the morning. He could say that Big Bittern was nicer⁠—or that they would go down to Three Mile Bay⁠—a hamlet really as he knew⁠—where they could be married, but en route stop at Big Bittern as a sort of lark. He would say that he wanted to show her the lake⁠—take some pictures of her and himself. He had brought his camera for that and for other pictures of Sondra later.

The blackness of this plot of his!

(Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside.)

But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet to the side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to imagine that they were passing tourists from some distant point, maybe, and if they both disappeared, well, then, they were not people from anywhere around here, were they? Didn’t the guide say that the water in the lake was all of seventy-five feet deep⁠—like that water at Pass Lake? And as for Roberta’s grip⁠—oh, yes, what about that? He hadn’t even thought about that as yet, really.

(Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast as this train.)

Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there (he could say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile Bay at the north end of Greys Lake, where a minister lived whom he had met), he would induce her to leave her bag at that Gun Lodge station, where they took the bus over to Big Bittern, while he took his with him. He could just say to someone⁠—the boatman, maybe, or the driver, that he was taking his camera in his bag, and ask where the best views were. Or maybe a lunch. Was that not a better idea⁠—to take a lunch and so deceive Roberta, too, perhaps? And that would tend to mislead the driver, also, would it not? People did carry cameras in bags when they went out on lakes, at times. At any rate it was most necessary for him to carry his bag in this instance. Else why the plan to go south to that island and from thence through the woods?

(Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan! Could he really execute it?)

But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern. He had not liked that, or seeing that guide up there who might remember him now. He had not talked to him at all⁠—had not even gotten out of the car, but had only looked out at him through the window; and in so far as he could recall the guide had not even once looked at him⁠—had merely talked to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten out and had done all the talking. But supposing this guide should be there and remember him? But how could that be when he really had not seen him? This guide would probably not remember him at all⁠—might not even be there. But why should his hands and face be damp all the time now⁠—wet almost, and cold⁠—his knees shaky?

(This train was following the exact curve of this stream⁠—and last summer he and Roberta. But no⁠—)

As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he would do⁠—and must keep it well in mind and not get rattled in any way. He must not⁠—he must not. He must let her walk up the street before him, say a hundred feet or so between them, so that no one would think he was following her, of course. And then when they were quite alone somewhere he would catch up with her and explain all about this⁠—be very nice as though he cared for her as much as ever now⁠—he would have to⁠—if he were to get her to do as he wanted. And then⁠—and then, oh, yes, have her wait while he went for that extra straw hat that he was going to⁠—well, leave on the water, maybe. And the oars, too, of course. And her hat⁠—and⁠—well⁠—

(The long, sad sounding whistle of this train. Damn. He was getting nervous already.)

But before going to the hotel, he must go back to the depot and put his new hat in the bag, or better yet, carry it while he looked for the sort of hotel he wanted, and then, before going to Roberta, take the hat and put it in his bag. Then he would go and find her and have her come to the entrance of the hotel he had found and wait for him, while he got the bags. And, of course, if there was no one around or very few, they would enter together, only she could wait in the ladies’ parlor somewhere, while he went and registered as Charles Golden, maybe, this time. And then, well, in the morning, if she agreed, or tonight, for that matter, if there were any trains⁠—he would have to find out about that⁠—they could go up to Grass Lake in separate cars until they were past Twelfth Lake and Sharon, at any rate.

(The beautiful Cranston Lodge there and Sondra.)

And then⁠—and then⁠—

(That big red barn and that small white house near it. And that windmill. So like those houses and barns that he had seen out there in Illinois and Missouri. And Chicago, too.)

And at the same time Roberta in her car forward thinking that Clyde had not appeared