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"Is something wrong?" Ted Callahan asked.
"Mind your own business," Melony said.
But the van was gone. In the damp cold, on the slushy sidewalk, staring at the empty curbstone, Melony said, "Are you sure it was that apple? It had a double W, and it said Ocean View."
"That's it," Mary Agnes said. "It just wasn't the same car, it was an old van, but I'd know that apple anywhere. You don't forget a thing like that."
"Oh, shut up," Melony said tiredly. She stood on the curb, her hands on her hips, her nostrils flared; she was trying to pick up a scent, the way a dog guesses in the air for the history of intrusions upon its territory.
"What is it?" Lorna asked Melony. "Was your fella here with his rich cunt?"
Ted and Patty Callahan were anxious to take Mary Agnes home, but Melony stopped them as they were leaving. She reached into her tight pocket and produced the horn-rimmed barrette that Mary Agnes had stolen from Candy, which Melony had taken for herself. Melony gave the barrette to Mary Agnes.
"Keep it," Melony said. "You took it, it's yours."
Mary Agnes clutched the barrette as if it were a medal for bravery, for valorous conduct in the only arena that Melony respected.
"I hope I see ya!" Mary Agnes called after Melony, who was stalking away--the escaping Homer Wells might be around the next corner.
"What color was the van?" Melony called.
"Green!" said Mary Agnes. "I hope I see ya!" she repeated.
"You ever hear of an Ocean View?" Melony yelled back at the Callahans; they hadn't. What are apples to antiques dealers?
"Can I see ya sometime?" Mary Agnes asked Melony.
"I'm at the shipyards," Melony told the girl. "If you ever hear of an Ocean View, you can see me."
"You don't know it was him," Lorna said to Melony later. They were drinking beer. Melony wasn't talking. "And you don't know if the rich cunt is still with him."
They stood on the bank of the foggy Kennebec, near the boardinghouse where Lorna lived; when they'd finish a beer, they'd throw the bottle into the river. Melony was good at throwing things into rivers. She kept her face turned up; she was still smelling the wind--as if even that wisp of Candy's pubic hair could not escape her powers of detection.
Homer Wells was also making a deposit in the water. Ploink! said the snails he threw off Ray Kendall's dock; the sea made just the smallest sound in swallowing snails. Ploink! Ploink!
Candy and Homer sat with their backs against opposite corner posts at the end of the dock. If they'd both stretched out their legs to each other, the soles of their feet could have touched, but Candy sat with her knees slightly bent--in a position familiar to Homer Wells from his many views of women in stirrups.
"Is it okay?" Candy asked quietly.
"Is what okay?" he asked.
"Your heart," she whispered.
How could he tell? "I guess so," he said.
"It'll be okay," she said.
"What will be okay?" asked Homer Wells.
"Everything," Candy said hurriedly.
"Everything," repeated Homer Wells. "Me loving you--that's okay. And you loving me, and Wally--that's okay, too? Right," he said.
"You have to wait and see," Candy said. "For everything--you have to wait and see."
"Right."
"I don't know what to do, either," said Candy helplessly.
