"Get in, get in." Patrick lowered himself into the small seat, holding his AWOL bag on his lap. "Whisky in the JAR," the driver sang to himself shifting through gears. "Musharingumgoogee . . . WAK for the Daddy-O . . . " He turned and shouted over the engine, "Where you coming from?"
"Wiesbaden."
"Germany?"
"Yes," Patrick shouted back.
"WAK for the Daddy-O . . . Good beer, the Krauts." They flew off bumps and jolted around curves for five or six miles. Conversation was impossible. They passed a golf course, rolling and open before a dark wall of mountain, then climbed a hill by three gas stations. "Woodstock!" the driver shouted, stopping at a narrow triangular green.
"Thanks for the ride."
The sound of the MG diminished in the distance as Patrick looked around at trees, a neatly painted white church, and a row of stores. He walked in the direction that the MG had gone until he reached a field about a mile from the green. He turned back and stopped at a house that had a large porch and a sign announcing "ROOMS."
An older woman answered his ring. Her hair was white, elaborately piled above her head.
"I'd like to rent a room—if you have any vacancies."
"Hmmph." She was shorter than Patrick but seemed to be looking down at him. "This is a quiet house."