“Suppose you do? I can’t help it now. You should have thought of that. Remember, you sent for me; I didn’t ask to come back.”
“No. You didn’t ask. I sent for you. I made you. And this is the last time. Will you? Quick!”
“No.”
“All right,” she said. She sat back; at that instant the road seemed to poise and pause before plunging steeply downward beside the precipice; the white fence began to flicker past. As Elly flung the robe aside she saw her grandmother still watching her; as she lunged forward across the old woman’s knees they glared eye to eye — the haggard and desperate girl and the old woman whose hearing had long since escaped everything and whose sight nothing escaped — for a profound instant of despairing ultimatum and implacable refusal.
“Then die!” she cried into the old woman’s face; “die!” grasping at the wheel as Paul tried to fling her back. But she managed to get her elbow into the wheel spokes with all her weight on it, sprawling across her grandmother’s body, holding the wheel hard over as Paul struck her on the mouth with his fist.
“Oh,” she screamed, “you hit me. You hit me!” When the car struck the railing it flung her free, so that for an instant she lay lightly as an alighting bird upon Paul’s chest, her mouth open, her eyes round with shocked surprise.
“You hit me!” she wailed. Then she was falling free, alone in a complete and peaceful silence like a vacuum. Paul’s face, her grandmother, the car, had disappeared, vanished as though by magic; parallel with her eyes the shattered ends of white railing, the crumbling edge of the precipice where dust whispered and a faint gout of it hung like a toy balloon, rushed mutely skyward.
Overhead somewhere a sound passed, dying away — the snore of an engine, the long hissing of tires in gravel, then the wind sighed in the trees again, shivering the crests against the sky. Against the bole of one of them the car lay in an inextricable and indistinguishable mass, and Elly sat in a litter of broken glass, staring dully at it.
“Something happened,” she whimpered. “He hit me. And now they are dead; it’s me that’s hurt, and nobody will come.” She moaned a little, whimpering. Then with an air of dazed astonishment she raised her hand.
The palm was red and wet. She sat whimpering quietly, digging stupidly at her palm. “There’s glass all in it and I can’t even see it,” she said, whimpered, gazing at her palm while the warm blood stained slowly down upon her skirt. Again the sound rushed steadily past high overhead, and died away. She looked up, following it. “There goes another one,” she whimpered.
“They won’t even stop to see if I am hurt.”
The End
