“Well?” she said.
He flinched. Again he sensed the flashing of the signal light. But now it didn’t give a warning. Instead it offered the blunt message: Too late now, you’re in it up to your neck, there’s no way out.
His lips moved mechanically. He told her to start the engine. And then, as the MG responded to the gas pedal, he watched the fading of the pastoral scene, the windshield framing a changing picture. He caught one final glimpse of moonlit water and serene meadowland. The car turned onto Wharf Street and he saw the rough cobblestones that smothered all the flowers. He saw the jagged splintered outlines of piers and warehouses. The car was approaching Vernon and now he could see the shacks and the tenements. He began to hear the night noises of Vernon Street, the yowling of alley cats, the barking of mongrels, the dismal drumming moaning sound that came from hundreds of overcrowded rooms.
“Slow down,” he said.
She looked at him. “Should I stop the car?”
“I didn’t say that. Just slow down.”
The car slackened speed. He sat stiffly, staring straight ahead. She kept giving him side glances.
Finally she murmured, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he said.
In the distance there was the clattering screech of domestic discord. From some third-floor flat the cracked soprano of a fishwife’s voice was a saw-toothed blade, while the rumbled oaths of the drunken husband were aimed past the woman, past the roof, going up to the sky.