Mickey Groff said, "That's right, Mrs. Goudeket. There's nothing to worry about. Everything's all right there, you'll see."
She looked at him surprised. "All right? Nah." She shook her head. "All wrong, you mean. Believe me, Mickey, I know what can happen to a place like Goudeket's Green Acres when it should only rain three days in a row, much less something like this. Goudeket's Green Acres is finished. What's the sense trying to kid myself? I should know better."
Groff looked at her uncomfortably. But she didn't seem panicky, didn't seem on the verge of despair. She was calm enough for six. He said, "What are you going to do?"
She leaned forward and patted him. "I'm going to sell, Mickey," she announced. "You think I'm doing the right thing? No, don't tell me—I'm going to do it anyhow. My husband, Mr. Goudeket, he was always after me to sell and go to Palestine. 'Sell, Mrs. Goudeket,' he'd say—always I kept the hotel in my name, you see—'sell and let's live a little.' And every time I'd say next year, next year. Now—it's next year. I'm sixty-three years old, Mickey. It's time I took it easy for a while." She brooded silently. "Why should I lie?" she asked. "Sixty-six."
Mickey Groff said reassuringly, "I think it's the right thing to do. You'll like it in Israel. Nice climate, plenty of things going on, a whole new country rising out of the desert—"
She looked at him incredulously. "Mickey, a nice climate? Nice with the Egyptians raining down out the sky like clouds in their jet airplanes? Please, I'm not a child; if I go there I give up nice things in order to be with my people. But it's what Mr. Goudeket wanted, and I stole it from him, so now I'll go. I can sell Goudeket's Green Acres like that." She snapped her fingers proudly. "Only—why didn't I do it while Mr. Goudeket was still alive?"
A light truck banged past the schoolhouse down toward the river, and almost immediately another followed. Dick McCue said curiously, "Something going on? I thought I heard shooting."
"There's plenty going on, Dicky," Sharon Froman informed him kindly. "Things are very busy around here tonight. But you wouldn't understand."
No one paid any attention to her. After a moment she laughed and lit a cigarette. Clods, she thought with gentle contempt. Naturally they were jealous of her and of Artie Chesbro. There were two kinds of people. One kind was the doers—herself, that is; and along with her such other persons as she temporarily dragged along to heights of accomplishment and success. The other kind was everybody else. Not even her worst enemy, she mused, trickling smoke out of her nostrils—not even Hesch, or Paul, or Bert, or any of the others she had temporarily blessed with her help and presence before withdrawing—not any of them could deny that she had moved fast and successfully this day.
Polly Chesbro got up and crossed over to Mickey Groff. "May I have one of your cigarettes?" she asked.