“So far …” Alan twitched.
“You told it my way?” she asked sharply.
“We haven’t told much at all to any reporters. We’re besieged, of course.”
She sat down to her breakfast. Her parents, although their lingering hands patted their love to her, withdrew. Left her with Alan. She tried to eat her breakfast. She couldn’t taste it. The cup nearly slipped from her hand.
“Waiting to see which way the cat jumps? Whether he lives or dies?” She pressed both hands on her mouth.
“Kay, darling,” Alan was gentle, “we all realize you were a bit hysterical last night. We’ll just forget about it. Just don’t, please … not any more. You’re home, dear. You’re safe now.”
She thought, safe? “You’ll forgive it, too, Alan? Aly hysteria?”
“Of course.”
“And understand it?”
“Of course, I understand,” he chided. “Sam Lynch did kill the man who had been frightening you so. You saw him do it. Of course, you were grateful to him.”
“That’s a … neat pattern,” she said slowly, “but it isn’t so. You see, he killed the man who was frightening him, and I made him do it, and he was grateful to me.” She looked at him. Alan was troubled. “Am I still hysterical?”
“You were, last night. The way you ran out so recklessly. That really proves it.”
“It’s hysterical to take a notion you don’t want somebody else to die. Then, I guess Sam was hysterical?”
“Whatever he tried to do, he made a mess of it,” Alan said lightly.
“Yet here I am,” she said thoughtfully. “Weren’t you hysterical in that sense, Alan? About me?”
“You’re sounding rather bitter, Kay. I did the best I could. Tried to keep my head.”
“Didn’t … blunder?”
He said, “What makes you angry with me, Kay? Why do you want to hurt me?”
“Ah, no. I don’t. I may. Because I can’t marry you and I’d better say so.” He looked as if he’d felt a whip on his face. “You have no respect,” she explained gravely. “You don’t respect me. I don’t feel that you do.”
“I’m sorry. I feel that I do.”
“You’ll forgive me my foolish hysterical gratitude? You never listened at all.”
He said crisply, “I know it was more than gratitude. And I understand that, too. After all, I saw the two of you.” She looked at him with widening eyes. “And I could have believed it was your extreme youth and your romantic impulses and the heightened emotional atmosphere. In fact, I still believe it.” He lifted his chin. “I’ll wait.”
“Don’t wait,” she said.
“But I will say this. If Lynch recovers, before you leap, you wait, Katherine. Consider his age and his background. A more unsuitable match—”
“Match!” she cried. “Did you think we’d marry? Sam and I? I wouldn’t think of it. Neither would he. It isn’t … That isn’t it.”
Alan said, “Don’t be a fool. That’s always it. Putting it nicely. Whatever innocent girlish idea you may now have … of a platonic type of thing …”
Her face flushed. “You have a name for all types of things, don’t you, Alan?” She looked at her hands. “I don’t especially want you to be right. Nor would he. It would certainly be a crazy match. A perfectly wild thing. But you may be right. Sam says you always are.”
He said, very gently, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t try to talk, today. You’ve been upset. I don’t blame you. You can’t help it, of course.”
She thought, a wooden piece.
“Pretend I haven’t spoken. Nothing was said. Just try to wait, and think …”
She said, gravely, “Yes, I’m waiting. I’m thinking. I have been upset. But I won’t marry you, Alan. Did you hear me?”
“I would say we had all better wait and see,” he murmured. “And so I will, dear.” He went away. She watched him go.
Charles Salisbury drove her, himself. He insisted that Reilly must go along, too. He declared she must not be without protection.
They passed through a group of men, downstairs, to the car. “Good morning, Mr. Reilly. Daddy, aren’t you locking the barn door?” Kay tried to smile.
“Never mind.” Her father looked stubborn. “It’s a slippery world.”
“You’re looking good, Miss Salisbury,” Reilly said.
“Mr. Reilly, if he lives, what will happen?”
“He’ll be all right. He could write a book.”
Salisbury said, “You know he may not. You are prepared for that?”
“I just must go.”
“I won’t go in,” he said, “but Reilly must walk with you. I think I understand. You feel you must go. He did a brave thing for you.”
“He isn’t brave,” she said. “He’s not a hero. That made it harder.”
Salisbury said, “I see. I see.”
It was just a big old house, this private hospital, painted white, charming among green trees. Three men with cameras took her picture, but she walked in, and Reilly followed, and inside there was only one woman in white behind a desk.
“I came to see Mr. Lynch.”
The woman looked serene, but grave. “No visitors, I’m sorry. Mr. Lynch is on the critical list. We can’t allow him any visitors.”
“You can’t tell me whether …?”
“No one can tell.”
“Or how long?” The woman shook her head. Kay stood still, and her senses examined the air. “Is he awake?”
“I don’t believe he’s been conscious at all.”
“Is the doctor …?”
“He isn’t here, at the moment. Everything is being done.”
“Will Mr. Lynch … wake before he dies?”
“No one can tell, my dear.” The woman was gentle and serene. “Are you a relation?”
“There’s a relationship,” Kay said.
“It’s not wise to wait here. We can call you. It would be better.” The woman’s eyes were kind.
“Please. Do call me.” Kay gave her number. “If he should wake, can you give him a message? Say, Katherine …”
“Katherine …” She had a pencil.
“No. Don’t say Katherine. Say …” Her throat hurt, her eyes stung. “Put it this way. Say, sister …”
Pencil wrote Mr. L.’s young sister.
“It’s very important. Will you please give him my respects?”
“We’ll give him your love,” the woman said soothingly.
Kay began to correct her. But then she murmured, “Maybe it’s all the same.”
She turned. The place was so clean and serene. She sent her senses out again to examine this air. She couldn’t feel death around. Not here. Not in the morning. She said to herself, we must wait and see. Alan is right about that, too. Wait and see, about everything. It’s a slippery world.
She began to walk toward the door. Reilly joined her with the question on his face. Kay shook her head in the motion that means unknown.
She walked out into the sun.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1955 by Charlotte Armstrong
copyright renewed 1983 by Jeremy B. Lewi, Peter A. Lewi, and Jacquelin Lewi Bynagta
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