LESLIE EPSTEIN
S1
We pushed on. The Buick's taut dark top concentrated the heat
directly over our heads, so that it seemed we were caught between two
burning black lids. Real drops of water, no mirage, dripped from the
canister and spread across the glass beside me.
It
occurred to me to imi–
tate Sampson-that is, to thrust my head into what I thought would be
a reviving spray; but the minute I rolled down the window a hot blast,
like a dragon's fiery tongue, forced its way into the automobile and
began
to
lick the last drops of moisture from our bodies.
"Why you went and do a fool thing as that?" Mary said. The streaks
of perspiration, long dried, left gullies in the dust on her skin.
Arthur pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car. He moved
to the front and unhooked the wet burlap bag.
"Me first! Don't you drink! Uncle Ben isn't allowed!"
The servant handed over the sack. Straining with both hands, Barton
lifted it and drank, not like a Spaniard with his wineskin, but with his
mouth at the valve. "It's cold!" he exclaimed. "It's freezing!" He drank
again, longer, the Adam's apple working beneath the flesh of his throat.
We watched. My tongue was so thick in my mouth I could barely say,
"Hey! Come on! Don't drink it all!"
Grinning, he handed the pouch over the back of the seat. I instinc–
tively raised it, then stopped. The heat of embarrassment was greater
than that in the car. "Here, Mary," I said. "Ladies go first."
She clutched the bag; she closed her mouth around the nozzle.
Streams of water spilled onto her blouse front. The rough canvas
pushed her glasses askew on her forehead. At length she lowered the
sack. "1 appreciate the thoughtfulness," she said.
I drank my fill and handed the bag to Arthur, who was still standing
outside the car. He took it and, surprisingly, poured the cool liquid into
his palm. Then he drank from that shallow cup, refilled it, and, sipping,
drank from it again. Wasn't there a story about this in the Bible? From
Exodus? I couldn't remember, exactly. But I thought that the Lord killed
the thirsty Israelites who plunged into the water and spared those who
drank delicately from the palms of their hands.
"You want more, Mister Barton?"
My brother, a little pale I thought, shook his head no.
Arthur unsmilingly draped the bag over the bumper, so that the wind
could cool it by evaporation once again. Then he settled in his seat and
restarted the engine.
"My turn to drive! You promised! You said in the desert!"
Arthur kept his eyes straight ahead, unblinking, as if hypnotized by
the repetition of the dashes in the center of the road.
