How long, how far he drove, he didn’t know. With his fingers clenching the wheel and the waves crashing in his ears. He didn’t once stop the car. He drove until emotional exhaustion left him empty as a gourd. Until no tears, no rage, no pity had meaning for him. At some point he turned the car to home. He had no memory of the act until he reached his garage, rolled the car into it. He was so tired he walked like one drugged, dragging his leaden body through the dark alley to the dark apartment. He went in through the kitchen, pushing one heavy foot after the other. It wasn’t until he entered the bedroom and saw her that he remembered the existence of Laurel. Until he remembered with agonized relief that he was no longer alone.
She must have heard him coming for she’d turned on the bedside lamp and she was standing by the bed holding the yellow chiffon of her negligee tightly about her. Even in his exhaustion he realized the fear on her face. It was gone before the realization.
“I didn’t know it was you,” she said, then her voice sharpened. “Where have you been all night?”
He was too weary to answer questions, to ask them. He stumbled to her, she couldn’t back away more than a step, the table halted her. He put his arms around her and he held her, holding her warmth and the life that flowed beneath her flesh. He held her and he said, “Help me. I’m—so tired.”
4
It was afternoon before he awoke. There was no sun on the windows, outside was grayness. the sky was watered gray silk.
He wasn’t rested, he was heavy, tired, although his sleep had been dreamless. He took a cigarette from his pack on the bed table, lighted it. He wondered where Laurel was. Without her last night, or this morning, he wouldn’t have dared sleep, fearing the dream. She had known; she hadn’t asked questions after that first one. She had given comfort, helping him undress, laying back the covers, laying herself and her warmth beside him. within his arms.
He ought to get up, not lie here in the comfort of bed. Shower, shave, dress before she returned. She’d come back as soon as she’d finished her business. She wouldn’t call, she’d come, she knew he needed her. She had cared for him last night. Laying back the covers . . .
She hadn’t been to bed! She’d just come in; she too had been out all night.
He didn’t lose his temper. He lay there calmly, considering it. Weighing it the way a judge would, quite calm and objective, almost coldly. She hadn’t been in long enough to lay back the covers. That was all there was to it. It was no reason for anger. She would explain where she had been and the why of it; she might lie about it but she would explain. He would know if she were lying. He would have no difficulty in nailing the lie.
She’d been afraid of him when he came in last night. Because she had a guilty conscience? Not necessarily. He was still being calm about it. She had feared because she hadn’t known it was he, his dragging steps were those of a stranger. It was fear of the unknown; not fear of him.
Her conscience hadn’t been guilty. Because she’d demanded explanation of him, where had he been. She had a legitimate reason for her lateness, she’d come directly to him to explain. And he hadn’t been there. Yet she’d forgiven him. She’d asked no further questions: she had taken him to comfort.
It was well after four when he stopped thinking, arose and dressed. He hurried then, the shower and shave. He dressed in the suit he liked best; he didn’t wear it often. It was distinctive, a British wool, gray with a faint overplaid of lighter gray, a touch of dim red. It fit him as well as had his dress uniforms; he’d had it made up for himself at Mel’s tailors, when Mel first went to Rio leaving his credit at its peak.
When he was dressed, he went into the living room. It was neat, everything in place: the sloven must have been here while he slept. The kitchen too was spotless. He decided to mix martinis, she liked them. This was a celebration night. They’d do it big: go out to dinner at some place swell, maybe Ciro’s. He didn’t have dinner clothes; he’d never bothered to have Mel’s altered. He must see to that: he and Laurel were going to put on a campaign although she didn’t know it yet. He could help her as much as she could help him. A good-looking fellow who knew how to get what he wanted was what she needed. He’d get the spotlight for her and be satisfied to pick up the gold pieces that slid off the outer rim.
He mixed the cocktails, sampled one and found its coldness good. Only one. He hadn’t eaten and he didn’t want to spoil the evening by starting too soon. He brought in the evening paper from the doorstep, smiling to think how once the news had been more important to him than anything else. He smoked a cigarette, being careful to drop the ashes neatly into the tray, being careful to keep the chair in its place, the creases in his best suit. One cigarette and a careless reading of the paper: almost seven o’clock and she hadn’t come, hadn’t called. She couldn’t be going to stay away again. She wouldn’t stay away without letting him know. For fifteen more minutes he riffled through the paper, reading with his eyes alone, wondering, anger beginning to take shape within his mind. Yet the words in his mind reiterated, she wouldn’t she couldn’t.
Against his will, on stiff legs he stalked to the door, flung it open and stepped out into the dim blue courtyard. He was afraid to look up to the balcony, the muscles of his eyes moved stiffly as his bones. He let out his breath in a slow, strangely relieved sigh. Her apartment was dark.
He returned to his, and he heard the phone ringing as he stepped into the hallway. He ran to answer, bumping against the doorway, wondering if it had been ringing long, fearing this too might be laid on him, missing her call.
He shouted his “Hello,” and heard the answering “Hello,” with irritation. A man’s voice, Brub’s voice. Brub saying a jumble of words, sorry to call so late, just got in, going to the club for dinner, could Dix make it?
He had no wish to make it. To sit in their goody-goody club through a wasted evening, with Sylvia staring at him and Brub trying to act as if he hadn’t been made different by being chained to a woman. Even as Dix was making excuses, he heard the front door, and he revised his excuses quickly. He was a quick thinker, changing, “I’m afraid not, Brub.” to “I’ll tell you what, if I can I’ll meet you there. You go on ahead. I have to find out what Laurel has up her sleeve.” As if he too were chained. Quick thinking. If he could take Laurel to the club, as Brub’s guests, he’d give her a big night and he wouldn’t have to borrow the money from her to pay for it. Dix ended the conversation fast; his nerves jumping with the reasonless fear that she would leave before he could see her.
As he was hurrying to her, he wondered why she hadn’t come to the bedroom. Wondering, his steps slowed and he stopped in the doorway, a reasonless and terrifying fear chilling him. There might come a day when he would face strangers, quiet, businesslike strangers.
He called out. questioning. “Laurel?”
“Who were you expecting?”
It was Laurel and he went in happily despite the quarrel underlying her voice. She was stretched out on the couch, her arms behind her head. She’d evidently just returned from whatever her afternoon business was; she was wearing a pin-checked sorrel suit; she’d unfastened the jacket; the narrow skirt was wrinkled above her long tapering legs. Her slant amber eyes were hostile on him. Her lip curled. “Going someplace?”
He didn’t want to quarrel; he looked on her and was immediately filled with realization of his love for her. He loved her more than he had ever loved before. More than Brucie. For the first time he could think of Brucie while he thought of another woman. And he knew he loved this other woman.
“Sure.” he smiled. But he didn’t go to her. “How about a cocktail?” Get her in a good humor first; he didn’t want to be pushed away. “I mixed martinis.”
“Who with?”
For a moment he didn’t get it. When he did, his smile was wide. She was jealous! She thought he had another woman. He wanted to laugh.
“With you. Baby. Who else?” He did laugh then. “I’ll get the mixings.”
He felt so good, h
e whistled as he went to the icebox for the shaker. He caught up two glasses. She hadn’t moved and her eyes were no less hostile. “You haven’t dressed up for me before.” she said.
“We’re going places tonight. Baby.” he told her. He poured carefully, the dry, dewy liquid. It even smelled good.
“Where? To a drive-in?”
His hand was steady. Only one drop spilled. She couldn’t mean anything. She was trying to start a fight because she was jealous. Because he’d never taken her out and she thought he took other women out. He turned slowly, holding her glass.
“No drive-ins.” Carefully he handed the glass to her. His eyes beheld her beauty but he didn’t touch her. “You aren’t the drive-in type,” he smiled down on her body.
She tasted the drink. “What type am I?” she asked sullenly. “The kind you wouldn’t be caught dead with in a public place?”
He wouldn’t quarrel. He’d keep his good nature. He went back to the chair with his drink. He smiled over the glass, “Definitely the bedroom type. Beautiful. Haven’t you enjoyed the honeymoon?”
“So it’s over.”
He had her where he’d wanted her all along. With him holding the reins. He’d been afraid before that she’d leave him; he’d been jumping through her hoops. It was good to be top man. “You weren’t tired of it?”
She didn’t answer; she demanded. “Where were you last night?”
He could have played it along but he didn’t. He didn’t want to prolong her anger. “At Nicolai’s,” he said. Last night seemed years away. Brucie was dead but it didn’t matter any longer. Laurel was his love. “Drink up. Baby, we’ve got to hurry. They’re expecting us.”
Deliberately she set her glass on the floor. “Who’s expecting us?”
“Nicolais. We’re to meet them at their beach club for dinner.”
Her dark eyes were cold jewels. “So she’s the one. That stiff-necked clothes horse.”
“Oh. Laurel!” he sighed. “What on earth are you getting at?”
She put down the words one after the other, like thuds on a drum. “You aren’t the kind of man to stay out all night alone.”
“Listen, Laurel.” He was patient, even long-suffering. “Brub Nicolai was my best friend in the A.A.F. He’s my best friend out here. His wife is his wife and I’m no more interested in her than I am in the dame who sells me cigarettes at the drugstore or the old cow that manages these apartments and right now I couldn’t tell you what they look like. I went out to see the Nicolais last night only because you weren’t here. They’ve asked us to have dinner with them tonight at their club. Now will you drink up that cocktail and get dressed so we can get to the club before it’s too late?”
She picked up her glass and drained it slowly, set it back on the rug. “I’m not going,” she said.
“But Laurel—” She ought to be beaten like a rug. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t like stinking rich bastards and their stinking rich clubs.”
“Laurel!” He was still patient; he clutched his patience. “They’re not stinking rich bastards. They live in a little house and their club is just a little informal club.” She snorted, “I know the Nicolais.”
“Certainly, Laurel, the Nicolai family—”
“Rich society bastards.”
“Will you listen to me?” He raised his voice. “Just because the family had money, doesn’t mean Brub has it. He doesn’t. He just has his salary, his salary as a cop, that’s all. God knows that can’t be much. He and Sylvia don’t have as much money as you have.” He added quickly, “Or as I have.”
“So now you’ve got money?” Her mouth was a sneer. Did your check come in?”
“My check did come in,” he said, holding his anger. “As a matter of fact. I got dressed thinking you’d be in early and we could celebrate tonight. Ciro’s or any place you wanted. Then Brub called and I thought you might prefer that. We can go to Ciro’s any time.”
She yawned, insolently stretching her mouth wide. “I’m not going any place tonight.” she said. “I’m going to eat something and go to bed. I’m tired.”
He held in the words only for a moment. When he spoke they came out cold, quiet. “I guess you are. After your night out.”
She hadn’t known that he knew it. She turned her head. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t beat me home last night by very long, did you? Not even time to warm the bed.”
Sullenness settled over her face like a hood. “It’s none of your business,” she said evenly.
He didn’t speak. At that moment he couldn’t trust himself to speak. He couldn’t trust himself to look at her. at her insolent length, her stubborn mouth. It was his business. She was his woman; she belonged to him. He waited for her to say more but only silence roiled about them. He knew better than to turn his eyes in her direction: when he did. he was walking towards her and he could feel the pain of his steeled fingers. There was no sound of his measured steps on the carpet. He was there standing over her before he knew. And his voice was one from far away, from out of the fog. “Laurel.” it said. “Don’t say that. Laurel.”
Her smooth, cold eyes didn’t waver. Yet something like a flicker of light or scrap of cloud went into them and out of them. So quickly you could not say it was there, because that quickly it was not there. Something that might have become fear. And he turned away his head. He had almost become angry: she was trying to make him angry but he wouldn’t let it happen. He was stronger than she. He stooped over and picked up her cocktail glass. His voice was closer in now. “How about another?”
“Might as well.” she grudged.
He walked carefully to the table, poured the cocktail for her, carried it back to her.
“Thanks.” she said. Not graciously. As sullen as before, the same sullen insolence in her eyes.
He smiled down at her. The bad moment was over and he could smile. “How about it. Baby? Think that one will put you back on your feet? It might be fun to drive out to the beach club—”
“It would stink.” Deliberately she yawned. “If you can’t be happy without your precious Nicolais, go on. I’m not going.”
He drew a deep breath and forced a smile. She was acting like a two-year-old, you had to treat her like one. Ignore the tantrums. “Not without you. I’m taking you to dinner. If you feel that way. I’ll phone Brub we can’t make it.” He started to the bedroom. “Shall I call Ciro’s and reserve a table for”—he glanced at his watch—”ten o’clock?”
“Save your money.” she yawned. “You can take me to a drive-in tonight.” She was still yawning.
He stopped short. Slowly he turned to look at her. “I won’t take you to a drive-in.” He stated it flatly.
She flared. “Why not? What’s the matter with a drive-in?”
“Nothing.” he admitted readily. “But you’re tired. You Deed a good dinner tonight. Not drive-in stuff.”
“What’s the matter with drive-in stuff? I eat at Simon’s all the time, up on Wilshire.”
It couldn’t be deliberate. It was still part of the tantrum. He spoke slowly, carefully. “We’re not going to eat there tonight.”
She turned on the couch, lifted herself to one elbow “What’s the matter?” she demanded. “Are you afraid someone might see you there?”
She didn’t mean a thing. She meant his big-shot friends his rich friends like Mel. Someone might see him and think he was broke.
As if he had put the name in her mouth, she said, “You don’t have to be afraid. Even Mel used to eat there when he was rocky.”
He breathed easily. “I’m not rocky. I got a check today.” She could get someone to cash it for him, or she could loan him enough for tonight. He built it. “Look, I get all dressed up to go places and do things. Come on, let’s celebrate. We don’t have to go to Ciro’s. We’ll go any place you say—the Kings, Tropics—”
She broke in again, “You look. I’m tired. I’m pooped. I don’t want to get dressed up and go pl
aces. All I want is to go up to the drive-in—”
“We’re not going up to the drive-in!” He didn’t mean to shout. It came out in spite of himself. He closed his throat and he kept his lips together in a tight line. His hands had begun to shake; quickly he thrust them into his coat pockets.
She was just looking at him out of her lozenge eyes, slyly looking at him, pleased that she’d made him lose his temper. “Okay,” she said finally. “We’ll go to the beach club.”
He didn’t believe what she’d said. His mouth fell open as if he were a character in a cartoon strip.
She said, “I changed my mind. We’ll join the Nicolais.” She got off the couch. She stretched like an animal, one of the big cats, a young golden puma. She came over to him there in the doorway. “Call and see if we’re too late while I go change. She stood there beside him but she didn’t touch him. And he didn’t touch her. There wasn’t time. Not if they were to make it to the beach club. And he didn’t want to go; unpredictably he had changed. Because she had? Because he wondered why she had. After she’d been so insistent about the drive-in.
He watched her walk away to the front door. She said. “Go on, call. I won’t be long.” And she went out.
He wanted to cry her back, to rush after her and bring her back here. They didn’t have to go out. It was better for them to be alone, together. He had a feeling of desolation as she closed the door, as if she were gone forever. Although he knew she’d only run up to her own apartment to change, although he knew she would return, it was as if never again would she return to him.
He even took a step after her but he reversed at once and went to the bedroom phone. He should have gone upstairs with her; he could have called from her phone. At least he should have tried to go with her. He’d never been in her apartment. He couldn’t see what difference it would make; she came to his, but she insisted that the woman manager was a snoop. The old bag would throw them out if she thought anything went on between them. And the old bag’s own apartment was at the right of the stairs; she knew everyone who went up and down those stairs, Laurel said. Mel’s apartment was safer, isolated from prying eyes.
In a Lonely Place Page 13
