"Hey, you know I
"Do you live in a very small town?"
"Fletcher? Well, it's not
"Do you have apartment buildings?"
"Oh, no."
"Why did you leave home?"
"I wanted to see the world," he said glibly, and then he knew immediately that glibness was not for this girl. With this girl you played it straight or you didn't play it at all. "I was going to get drafted," he said, "so I figured I'd rather be in the Navy. So I enlisted." He shrugged.
"And the world? Have you seen it?"
"A little of it."
"Have you been to Puerto Rico?"
"No. Have you?"
"No. It's supposed to be beautiful there. I was born here. I've never been outside this city." She paused. "Oh, yes, I once went to a wedding in Pennsylvania."
"You'd like my town," he said. "You really would."
"Yes, I know I would."
They fell silent. She stared up at him, and he felt terribly unsure of himself all at once, unsure and far younger than he actually was. In a very small voice, he said, "Meet me after church. Please."
"If I met you, we could go to the park," she said. "There are no mountains, but we could take a picnic basket. There are trees there."
"Any place you say. Only… you know… I've only got about eighteen bucks. We can go as far as that'll take us." He grinned tentatively. "Okay?"
The girl nodded. "Okay."
"Gee, that's- You'll meet me?"
"Yes."
"Look, I'll… I'll meet you right here. Right on this spot. I won't budge from this spot until you come back."
"No, not here. When La Gallina opens, the girls'll congregate here, on the sidewalk. Not here."
"The luncheonette then, okay? On the corner."
"Luis? All right, fine.". "What time?"
"Mass'11 be over at about a quarter to twelve. I'll make the lunch now and-"
"Hey, you don't have to-"
"I want to."
"Well… okay."
"And I'll stop home for it before I come. Twelve o'clock? Would that be all right?"
"Fine. Hey, listen, I'm sorry I mistook you for…"
"That's all right. Twelve?"
"Twelve," he said.
"All right." She stared at him for a moment and then said, "Wait for me."
"Yes, I will."
She turned and began walking up the street, walking quickly, not looking back, almost as if she knew his eyes were on her, almost as if she were waiting for him to call after her. When he did call, she whirled immediately.
"Hey!"
"Yes?"
"Hurry! Please hurry, would you?"
"Yes," she said. She gave a small wave, turned, and began walking again.
"Hey!" he called.
"Yes?"
"I don't even know your name!"
"What?"
"Your name," he shouted. "What's your name?"
"Oh," the girl said, and she giggled.
"Well, what is it?"
"China!" she called back, and then she ran up the street.
Heat is a strange thing.
Like love, it can drive men to opposite extremes. Like love, it can be a persistently nagging thing, relentless, unwilling to budge, until one day it explodes in wild passion. "I hit him with the hatchet because it was hot." That is an explanation, a reason, and an excuse. It was hot. Everything is contained in those three words. It was hot, and so I was not responsible for my actions, I only knew that it was hot, that I was suffocating all day long, that I could hardly breathe, there was no air, it was hot, and he said to me, "This coffee is too strong," and so I hit him with the hatchet. It was hot, you see.
A shrug.
You understand. It was hot.
And, like love, the heat can generate a different kind of feeling, a feeling which - had the slick paper magazines not defiled the word - could be described as togetherness, a knowledge that human beings on this day, on this insufferably hot day, are at least sharing one thing in common. The heat becomes a bond as strong as reinforced concrete. Do you hate the color of my skin? That is interesting, but God it is hot, God we are sweating together. Do you lech for my wife? That is unforgivable, but let's go have a beer together to escape this damned heat, and later we can work it out.
Heat, like love, is no good unless you can talk about it. The adulterer seeks a confidante, the lecher boasts of his conquests in the pool hall, the sixteen-year-old cheerleader spends hours on the telephone describing a football player's kiss - you have to talk about love.
Lieutenant Peter Byrnes came out of his office wanting to talk about the heat. He was a compact man with graying hair and steel-blue eyes. He liked to believe that he sweated more than men who were less chunky than he. He liked to believe that the heat had been designed in hell especially for him, sent earthward to plague him. He didn't quite understand why he'd been singled out for such torture, but he did know that he suffered more when it was hot than any man had a right to suffer.
