The door to her apartment was closed, and no light showed. He knocked. She did not answer, but he knew that this time they were here. Finally he tried the knob; the door was unlocked.
“Pat,” he said, opening the door. The room was dark . . ..
“I’m in here,” she said.
He went into the bedroom. “Just you?” he demanded, fumbling to find the lamp.
“Don’t turn the light on.” She was lying on the bed. “Wait a second.” In the darkness she rose up and moved; he was aware of her motions. “Okay,” she said, “I wanted to put something on.” Her voice was relaxed, and she sounded drowsy. “When did you get here? I was asleep.”
“Where’s Art?” he said, snapping the light on.
She lay stretched out in the bed, wearing a slip. Her feet were bare . . .. Beside the bed, on the chair, was a neat pile of her clothing; under the slip she had on nothing at all. Her hair, dark and heavy, lay spread out on the pillow. He had never seen her so lacking in turmoil, so content. Smiling, she said, “I sent him home. I gave him money for a cab.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve destroyed their marriage.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’m a girl he went with before his marriage Do you see? This is what he missed . . . do you know that Rachael is the first girl he ever took out?”
“I took you over there,” he said, “and you wrecked those kids—you went right to work.”
Sitting up, she said, “No, you’re wrong.”
“You wanted to go to bed with somebody, and you couldn’t go to bed with me. So you went to bed with him.”
Pat said, “It isn’t just him. When I saw Rachael, I wanted to have her. Try to understand. I’m in love with both of them, and so are you. When I saw her, I wanted to make love to her; I wanted to kiss her and pet her . . . I wanted to take her to bed and fondle her. But of course I couldn’t. But it doesn’t matter which one of them. I’m glad you took me over there because now I’ve finally come back to life . . . It’s the same with you, too. Isn’t that so?”
“Christ,” he said, “don’t include me in this.”
“They’re our children,” she said.
He sat down on the bed beside her. In a sense she was right. He could not deny what she had said.
“They hold us together,” she said, gazing up at him, her arms loose at her sides. Under her slip, her small unsupported breasts hung forward. At each, pressing against the slip, a dab of shadow rose and fell. Her face had a scrubbed look, and her makeup was gone. “I can’t bring myself to trust you, and I can’t come to you because of that. And you haven’t been able to trust me, have you? Neither of us has any trust in the other . . . but we trust them. You knew this was my fault, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s what I mean. For years we’ve had no confidence in each other. But we love them, and we believe in everything about them. So we can go to them. They’re the only persons in the world we can really go to. I think we get to each other through them. We can let go with them . . . we can get the peacefulness we need.”
“What a miserable rationalization,” he said. “You ought to be weeping in agony instead of lying there.”
“I’m very happy,” she said. “I feel close to you. Don’t you feel you’ve been with me? It was you I was with, here, not somebody else. Don’t you remember how we used to lie together afterward remember when we were up in the cabin, how we used to just lie around—I guess we were exhausted. But there were no tensions, we were just limp and fagged out. I always felt closer to you afterward, even more than when we were actually doing it. To me, doing it is—” She was silent a moment. “Just a means. Isn’t that so? God, and at first, before I got my diaphragm. When you used those awful things . . . we were so far apart. It wasn’t until afterward that we could come together, that we could lie around.”
“I remember what you said,” he said.
“About what? Oh, yes. Those things you used.”
“Before we found out we didn’t have to use anything.”
She said, “It was like having a length of green plastic garden hose inside me. I never got anything from that . . . did you?”
“No,” he said, “not completely.”
“What about now? Have I cheated you again? Do you feel that way?” She caught hold of his arm. “We’re going to have to go on reaching each other through them . . . you know that, don’t you? We’re too involved now. We can’t break away.”
“Where were you?” he said. “Earlier. I came by.”
“We drove up to Twin Peaks and parked.”
“Why didn’t you do it there?”
“If the police caught us, they’d send me to prison or something.
And anyhow it’s ugly in a car. I wanted to do it here, where you were, the other night.”
“You’re really heartless,” he said.
“No,” she said, “I’m not. You’ll see. You’ll get to me through the girl . . . we’ll live through them.”
“What about them?”
Her eyes rose to focus on him. “This will be a great and tremendous thing for them. It already is.”
“How do you figure that out?”
“Because,” she said, “they love us; they admire us. We’re what they want to be. We’ll all merge together . . . the four of us, we’ll be complete. We’ll be able to walk around on the face of the earth again. And we can throw out the trivial people, Bob Posin and all of them. I mean it. I feel so much love for you; It’s inside me, and I feel you got to it tonight.”
“If I did,” he said, “I don’t know it. I was somewhere else at the timed—”
“Hand me my clothes,” she said. “Would you?”
He gave her the pile of clothes. Still lying propped up on the pillow, she sorted through them; she untangled her underclothes and stockings.
“I’m going on with this,” she said. She hugged the clothes to her breast. “It’s going to save both of us, and I’m not going to give it up. Tonight I found what we needed. You knew that, or you wouldn’t have brought me there.”
“That was such a mistake,” he said, “such a terrible goddamn mistake.”
“You know I’m right.”
He said, “This is just a lot of hot air to justify taking that kid and seducing him.”
“Yes,” she said, “I guess that’s what I did—” Now sitting up, she bent forward and tugged her slip off over her head. She stood up, naked. Her body, smooth and pale, disappeared into her underclothes, and then she was buttoning her dress. “If it was wrong,” she said, shaking her hair back from her eyes, “I wouldn’t feel like this. I wouldn’t feel so completely good.”
“A length of green garden hose,” he said.
“What’s that? You?” Standing up on tiptoe, she kissed him on the mouth. “No, you were perfect. Everything I could want, everything I ever hoped for.”
“That kid,” he said.
“That kid,” she said, “was you. Still is you.”
“Is the girl safe?” he said.
At the dresser she brushed her hair with a hairbrush, her head down, her arms raised. “They’re both safe. So are we. We’re in together; we can’t menace them . . . can we? How is this a menace? Have I taken anything away from him? Have you taken anything from her?”
“No,” he said, “and I’m not going to.”
She had stopped brushing her hair. “Jim,” she said, “if this doesn’t heal you and me, then nothing ever will. Do you understand? Do you see that?”
“I see,” he said, “that after you finish messing around here and wrecking these kids’ marriage and lives, you’re going to say that’s it and you’re going back and marry Bob Posin.”
“I won’t marry him,” she said, “under any circumstances. Whatever happens.”
“Thank god for that,” he said.
“If this doesn’t work out—I don’t know what I’ll do. Anyhow—” She tossed down her hairbrush and
ran over to him; her eyes were bright with joy. “I’m so happy. It was like nothing on earth; he just never got tired or wore out, the way we used to. We could have gone on forever, all night and all day tomorrow and on and on, not even eating or sleeping, just going on forever.”
“How about your job?”
His tone made the color and glow vanish from her. She finished dressing, and then she said, “How’s Rachael?”
“Okay.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Not much.”
Pat said, “I’m—a little scared of her.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Would she—do anything?”
“I haven’t any idea. But,” he said, “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.” He patted her on the back. “Think about that for a while.”
“She’s just a kid,” Pat said. “She’s only sixteen.” But in her voice was a thread of concern. “That’s silly. She’ll mope for a while, like you. But my god, he’s going back to her; does she think this is going to last forever? It’s not—”
Leaving her apartment, he walked downstairs.
When he got home to his own apartment, the phone was ringing. Leaving the hall door open, with his key in the lock, he crossed the dark cold living room and groped on the table at the end of the couch.
“Hello?” he said, finding the receiver. An ashtray tumbled to the floor, disappearing from sight.
“This is Pat.” She was crying, and he could barely understand her. “I’m sorry, Jim. I don’t know what to do. I’m so unhappy.”
Softening, he said, “Don’t feel bad. It can probably be patched up.”
“I—wish we hadn’t gone over there. I didn’t mean to get involved with him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. It was his fault, not hers.
“They’re both so sweet,” Pat said. She was blowing her nose and undoubtedly wiping her eyes.
“Better go to bed,” he said. “Get some sleep. You have to go to work tomorrow.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Do You?”
“Of course.”
She said, “I wish we could get along. It’s so miserable. What do you think will happen? Is Rachael out gunning for me? Do you think she’ll be after me?”
“Go to bed,” he repeated.
“I guess you don’t want to come back here tonight. Even for a while.”
“I can’t,” he said. “The cops towed away my car.”
“I—could get you in my car.”
“Go to bed,” he repeated. “I’ll see you in a day or so. I’ll call you up.”
“Is it too late for me to call her tonight?”
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d stay away from them.”
“All right,” Pat said. He hung up, and then he went stiffly into the bathroom and turned on water for a shower.
11
In the course of keeping strong ties with his various clients, Bob Posin met Hugh Collins, the wealthy San Francisco credit optometrist, for lunch.
“Hugh, old man,” he said.
Across the table they shook hands. Collins was a balding middle-aged person with the grimacing smile of the successful businessman. Station KOIF had carried his ads for three years: hourly spots before and after the summary of the news. Dr. H. L. Collins’s offices were located on Market Street and in Oakland and down the coast in San Jose. He was a major account.
“You’re looking well,” Posin said.
“Same can be said for you, Bob,” Collins said.
“How’s the eye business?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Still selling glasses?”
“Plenty of them.”
The baked salmon steaks arrived; both men began to eat. Toward the conclusion of the meal, Hugh Collins mentioned why he had got hold of Posin.
“Guess you know about our convention.”
“Say,” Posin said, “that’s right. What is it, all the optometrists in North America?”
“Just in the West,” Collins said. “Big doings,” Posin said. “Plenty big. We’re holding it at the St. Francis Hotel.”
“Starts this week, doesn’t it?” Posin said, he had only a hazy idea of such convention activity.
“Next week,” Coffins said. “And I’m heading the entertainment committee.”
“Yeah,” Posin said.
“Look here,” Collins said, leaning toward him, “I want to show you something I picked up for the boys. Not all of them; just the fellows, if you get inc. Personal pals.” From under the table he slipped Posin a fiat, disc-like container.
“What’s this?” Posin said, holding it cautiously, suspecting a trick. “Go ahead, open it.”
“What’ll it do, give me a shock?” He was familiar with convention gimmicks. “No, just open it.”
Posin opened it. Inside the container was a pornographic gewgaw, brightly colored, made of durable plastic. The kind that in the old days had been made from ordinary red-phosphorus kitchen matches and was imported from Mexico. During World War II, he had been stationed at El Paso and had gone down to Juarez and brought such items back; he had made a steady profit on them. It was a shock to see such a thing again after so many years.
This one was better made. He put it through its limited paces; it had only two postures. Going to and doing.
“What do you think?” Collins said.
“Great,” he said, closing the gewgaw up in its box.
“That ought to go over.”
“Absolutely,” Posin said.
Folding and unfolding his napkin, Hugh Collins said, “Of course that won’t hold them for long.”
“It’ll give them something to fiddle with,” Posin said. “So they won’t stick their hands up girls’ dresses along Market Street.”
At that, a queer, strained look appeared on the optometrist’s face. “Look here,” he said hoarsely. “Sure, Hugh.”
“You run a radio station . . . you must see a lot of folks in the entertainment field. Singers, dancers.”
“Sure,” he said.
“You got any ideas? You know, for our entertainment program.”
Posin, out of spite, said, “Like a young fellow to sing pop ballads?”
“No,” Collins said, perspiring. “I mean—well, some gal who can really entertain.”
“Afraid it’s out of my line,” Posin said.
Disappointed, Collins said, “I see.”
“But maybe I know a guy who can help you. An agent. He handles a bunch of singers and similar stuff in San Francisco . . . for different supper clubs and night spots and the Pacific Avenue places.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tony Vacuhhi. I’ll have him give you a call.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” Hugh Collins said. Behind his glasses his eyes sparkled moistly. “I really would, Bob.”
That evening Tony Vacuhhi, seated at the desk in the front room of his fiat, dialed the official phone number of the optometrists’ convention.
“Let me talk to Hugh Collins,” he said.
“Dr. Collins isn’t here,” the voice, a functionary’s voice, answered.
“Well, I gotta get hold of him,” Vacuhhi said. “He wanted some information, and now that I got it for him I can’t get hold of him.”
“I can give you his private number,” the functionary said. “Just a moment.” And right then and there Tony Vacuhhi got the number he wanted.
“Thanks for your help,” he said and hung up.
Leaning back in his chair, he dialed the number.
“Hello?” a man’s voice answered.
“Dr. Collins? I understand you’re in charge of the entertainment for the convention. My name is Vacuhhi, and I’m a representative here in San Francisco. I represent various top-line entertainers and artists in this area. As a matter of fact, we specialize in the type of entertainment appreciated by the various conventions, and we make it
a sort of special effort on our part to satisfy the convention people when they get here in town, and save them a lot of effort and embarrassment in procuring this kind of entertainment on their own. Especially where they might not know exactly how to go about it, if you understand what I mean.”
“Yes,” Collins said, “I see.”
Swiveling in his chair, his feet upon the window sill, Tony Vacuhhi that.”
“You can come over here,” Collins said, “or I can meet you someplace.”
“I’ll come over,” Vacuhhi said, flipping a pencil eraser up into the air and catching it in his coat pocket. “Now it might even be possible for me to arrange to bring along one of these particular entertainers, who has special experience along the lines we’re discussing. She’s a young lady quite popular in this area. Her name is Thisbe Holt; you may have heard of her. What would you say if I brought her along and then we could settle the deal right there on the spot and you could get it off your mind once and for all and turn your attention to the other various items you have to work on?”
“Suit yourself,” Collins said. “She’s—the right kind for this?”
“Absolutely,” Vacuhhi said. “She has a great deal of visual appeal, and that’s generally appreciated at conventions.”
Collins gave him the address and said, “I’ll expect you then.”
A yellow-and-black Mercury convertible crunched up into the driveway before Hugh Collins’s home. The top was down, and in the convertible were a man and a woman; the man was lean-faced and the woman was young and pretty, with reddish hair and a full, unlined face.
Hugh Collins thought how lucky it was that he knew a guy like Posin, who could put him in touch this way. Opening the front door of the house, he stepped out to greet Tony Vacuhhi and Thisbe Holt.
“Keep your coat around you,” Vacuhhi was saying to the girl. She seemed quite young, not more than twenty. In the evening wind her hair fluttered and sparkled. “What do you mean this is costing you money? Where would you be earning money this time of day?”
“I could be at the Peachbowl,” she said.
The Broken Bubble Page 13
