“I’m ill,” Thelma said finally. “I’ve been ill all evening.”
“Get a doctor. Get a doctor right away.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I know what’s the matter.”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“I can’t tell you. This isn’t—the time or place.”
“Look, Thel, take it easy. Lie down and relax. I’m coming home right away.”
“If you do, I won’t be here.”
“For God’s sake . . .”
“I mean it, Harry. I’ll run away. I’ve got to be alone for a while to think. Don’t come home, Harry. Promise me.”
“But I . . .”
“Promise me.”
“All right, I promise. I won’t come home, not tonight, anyway.”
She seemed relieved by his promise and when she spoke again her tone was quite friendly. “Where are you calling from?”
“A hotel in Wiarton.”
“Haven’t you been to the lodge yet?”
“Yes, but Turee and I drove back to find a phone so we could call Ron’s house.”
“Why on earth should you call Ron’s house at this hour?”
“To find out why he hasn’t arrived here.”
“He hasn’t arrived,” she repeated dully. “Is that what you said? Ron’s not there?”
“Not yet.”
“But he left here hours ago. He came before eight and I gave him your message and we had a drink together. And then . . .”
She stopped, and Harry had to urge her to continue. “And then what, Thelma?”
“I—I asked him—I begged him not to go up to the lodge.”
“Why?”
“Because I had this feeling when he came in—it was so strong I nearly fainted—I had this feeling.” She began to weep and the rest of her words were distorted by great choking sobs. “Oh, my God—warned—my fault—Ron’s dead—Ron—Ron . . .”
“What are you saying, Thelma?”
“Ron . . .” She repeated the name half a dozen times while Harry listened, his heart on fire, his face like stone.
Turee came over to the phone booth and opened the door. “Is anything the matter?”
“Yes. But I don’t know what.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me try, anyway. Go and sit down, Harry, you look terrible.”
The two men exchanged places at the telephone and Turee spoke briskly into the mouthpiece: “Hello, Thelma. This is Ralph.”
“Go away.”
“Listen, Thelma, I don’t know what the situation is, but calm down for a minute, will you?”
“I can’t.”
“Why don’t you have a drink? I’ll hang on for a minute while you go and pour yourself . . .”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“All right, all right. just a suggestion.”
“It wouldn’t stay down anyway. I’m ill. I’ve been vomiting.”
“Maybe you have a touch of flu.”
“I haven’t got the flu.” She hesitated for a moment. “Is Harry standing anywhere near you?”
“No, he went outside.”
“You’re sure?”
“I can see him walking up and down on the veranda.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“‘What? What did you say?”
“I’m going to have a baby.”
“Well, for—well, I’ll be double-damned. That’s great, Thelma, that’s wonderful!”
“Is it?”
“Have you told Harry?”
“Not yet.”
“God, he’ll be thrilled to pieces when he finds out.”
“Maybe he will. At first.”
“What do you mean, at first?”
“When he starts thinking about it he won’t be so thrilled.”
“I don’t get the point.”
“Harry and I haven’t taken any chances along that line for over a year,” she said slowly. “Harry didn’t want me to have a baby, he was afraid complications might develop because I’m nearly thirty-five.”
“No method is foolproof. You could have had an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident. It was quite deliberate, on my part anyway. I wanted a baby. I’m getting old, pretty soon it would have been too late. I talked to Harry, I told him how I felt, many times. But he was terrified that something might happen to me. That’s what he said, anyway. Maybe his real reasons were deeper, subtler, I don’t know. Maybe he was jealous at the idea of my dividing my affections. But whatever Harry’s reasons were, at least now you know mine. I want this child. I love him already.”
“Him?”
“I have a feeling it’s a boy. I call him Ron.”
“For the love of God,” Turee said. “Ron. Ron Galloway?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Now that’s rather insulting, isn’t it? It sounds as though I’ve been promiscuous.”
“I only meant, in a thing like this you’ve got to be absolutely positive.”
“I am.”
“For the love of God,” Turee repeated. “What a mess this is going to be. Think of Harry. And Esther.”
“I can’t afford to. I have my child to think about. Esther never loved Ron anyway. She married him for his money, he told me so. As for Harry, I feel sorry for him, of course. He’s a good man, I hate to hurt him, but . . .”
“But you will?”
“I will. I must. I have my child to consider.”
“That’s just it, Thelma. Think a minute. For the child’s sake, wouldn’t it be better to keep this whole business a secret? Harry would make a wonderful father, and the child could be brought up without any fuss or scandal.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t want to keep this whole business, as you call it, a secret.”
“I strongly urge you to think about it.”
“I’ve thought of nothing else for three weeks, ever since I found out I was pregnant. And one thing I’m sure of—I can’t go on living with Harry. He doesn’t even seem real to me anymore. How can I explain it? The only thing that’s real to me is this baby inside me. Ron’s baby. They are my life now, Ron and his baby.”
The simple statement, spoken with such conviction, appalled Turee more than the actual circumstances behind it. For a moment he could hardly speak, and when he did, his voice was cold with disapproval. “I don’t imagine Ron will feel quite so single-minded about it. After all, he’s sired one child by his first wife and two by his second, so this is hardly a unique occasion for him.”
“If you’re trying to make me jealous or angry, don’t bother. Ron’s had other women, other children, yes, but this is special. The baby’s special. I’m special.”
There was no answer to this. Turee could only sit and stare silently and helplessly into the mouthpiece of the telephone, wishing with all his heart that he had stayed home and painted the garage, as his wife wanted him to.
“Ralph? Are you there?”
“Yes?”
“Ralph, I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m—that I thought this all out ahead of time, that I planned it. I really didn’t. It just happened, but once it happened, I realized how right it was for me.”
“Right. Are you out of your mind, woman? What you’re doing, what you’ve done, is completely and unjustifiably immoral.”
“Don’t preach at me. Words aren’t going to change anything.”
“Well, for God’s sake, consider Harry. This will kill him.”
“I don’t think so. Oh, he’ll be upset for a while, but eventually he’ll meet some nice clinging-vine sort of woman who’ll let him fuss over her and pour pills down her throat.”
Turee was shocked. “You sound as if you actually hate him.”
“No. Just the pills. He was making an invalid out of me. I’m really quite strong. The doctor says I should have a fine, healthy baby. It’s what I’ve wanted all my life. I was an only child living with a maiden aunt, and terribly lonely. I used to dream of growing up and getting married and having a dozen children so I’d never be lonely again.”
“You may,” he said heavily, “be lonelier than ever. People around here take a dim view of . . .”
“Oh, people. I don’t care about them. All I need is Ron and the baby.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, Thelma.”
“Yes.”
“Are you equally sure of Ron?”
“Yes. I told him about the baby tonight when he came over to pick up Harry. It seemed the right time to tell him.”
Turee wasn’t certain he agreed with her. “How did he take the news?”
She said defensively, “Naturally I didn’t expect him to be deliriously happy about it right at first. He needs time to think, to adjust to the situation. Any man would.”
“I’m glad you realize that,” Turee said dryly.
“He loves me, that’s the important factor.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t worry, everything will work out fine. I have a feeling.”
Thelma’s was a contradictory nature. This new feeling, that everything would work out fine, immediately eclipsed the old feeling that something had happened to Ron. Thelma could, in fact, superimpose one feeling on another feeling, like bricks, and it was always the latest, the top one, that was valid.
She added, “Oh, I know it’s going to be messy in some ways, the divorce, for instance.”
“Ron can’t get a divorce from Esther. He has no grounds.”
“I meant, Ron will pay her off and she can get the divorce.”
“Suppose she refuses?”
“Oh nonsense. Esther loves money. Besides, why should she refuse?”
“Some women,” Turee said with heavy irony, “aren’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of breaking up their home and family.”
“Don’t sentimentalize Esther. I haven’t done anything more to her than she did to Ron’s first wife. Except that my motives are cleaner.”
“How does Ron like the idea of going through the courts and the newspapers again as an adulterer?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you say something cheerful?”
“I can’t think of anything cheerful,” Turee said truthfully. “This isn’t the type of situation that appeals to my sense of humor. Maybe Harry will be able to think of something cheerful. He’s still outside on the veranda. Shall I call him?”
“No!”
“How are you going to tell him, Thelma?”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried, I’ve led up to it, but—oh, it’s all so difficult.”
“You should have thought of that when you and Ron were hopping into bed together.”
“What a terribly coarse remark!”
“The situation isn’t exactly genteel either.”
“Listen, Ralph. About telling Harry. I was wondering, you’re such a good friend of his . . .”
“Kindly leave me out of it.”
“I only thought, you can be so tactful when you choose . . .”
“On this occasion, I don’t choose.”
“Very well. But I won’t tell him. I can’t. I don’t even want to see him again.”
“For God’s sake, woman, you owe him that much, an apology, an explanation.”
“Why should I apologize? I’m not sorry. As for an explanation, how can I explain something I don’t understand myself? I didn’t know it was going to happen to Ron and me. If I had, maybe I would have asked Harry for a pill or something, a love-preventative pill.” She laughed briefly and bitterly. “He’s got every other kind.”
“When did it all begin?”
“A couple of weeks before Christmas. I went into town to buy Harry’s gift and I met Ron in Eaton’s by accident. We had lunch together at the Park Plaza and afterwards we went out on the terrace in the snow and looked down at the city. It was so pretty. I’d never cared much for Toronto before, I was brought up in the West, Vancouver. Well, that’s all, we just stood there. There was no flirtation, no hand-holding, we didn’t even talk personally or look at each other much. But when I got home I didn’t tell Harry. I had no reason not to. But I didn’t. I even made up a lie for him, told him I had lunch with a nurse I used to work with at the Murray Clinic in Hamilton. The next day I took a bus into Toronto again because I’d forgotten to buy Harry’s Christmas present. At least that was the excuse I gave myself. I went back to the same store, at the same time, and hung around the Yonge Street entrance for nearly an hour. I had this terribly strong feeling that Ron would show up. He didn’t, but later he told me that he’d wanted to very much, that he’d thought of me all morning but he couldn’t get away because Esther was giving a luncheon party at the club.”
A couple of dimwits, Turee thought contemptuously, dramatizing themselves, out of boredom, into a situation that neither of them was equipped to handle. He said, “And Harry hasn’t suspected a thing?”
“No.”
“For your information, Esther has and does.”
“I thought as much. She was very cold when I called her last week and invited her to go to a séance a friend of mine was giving. I was only trying to be affable.”
“Why?”
“For Ron’s sake. I don’t want him cut off from Esther’s children the way he was cut off from his first wife’s. It’s not fair.”
“The courts seem to think so.”
“The courts in this country, yes. Oh, this place is so stodgy and provincial. I wish we could live in the States, Ron and I and the baby.”
The front door opened and Harry came back into the hotel lobby walking unsteadily and with his feet wide apart like a newly debarked sailor bracing himself against the pitch and roll of a ship that was no longer under him. Although the night air was still balmy, his lips were blue with cold and his eyes had a glassy stare as if unshed tears had been trapped there and frozen.
“. . . some place where they don’t have these long terrible winters,” Thelma was saying. “Oh, how I hate them! I’ve reached the point where I can’t even enjoy the spring any more because I know how short it will be and how soon fall is coming when everything is sad again, everything dying.”
“Let’s go into that some other time,” Turee said brusquely. “Now tell me, was Ron driving the Cadillac when he came to your house tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Did it have the top down or up?”
“Down, I think. Yes, definitely down. I remember waving out the window to him and wondering if he might catch cold with all that draft on the back of his neck. He complained of feeling ill anyway.”
“I can believe it.”
“No, I mean he complained about it before I told him anything about the baby. Really, Ralph, you’re in a nasty mood tonight.”
“I wonder why.”
“After all, it’s not your funeral.”
Harry walked slowly but directly toward the telephone booth and in spite of Turee’s restraining hand he forced open the door. “Let me talk to her.”
Turee said, “Thelma, here’s Harry. He wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to him. I have nothing to say.”
“But . . .”
“Tell him the truth or give him a story, I don’t care. I’m going to hang up now, Ralph. And if you call back I won’t answer.”
“Thelma, wait.”
The click of the receiver was unmistakably final. “She hung up,” Turee said.
“Why?”
“Didn’t feel like conversa
tion, I guess. Don’t let it worry you, old boy. Women can get pretty flighty at . . .”
“I want to call her back.”
“She said if you did, she wouldn’t answer.”
“I know Thelma,” Harry said with a wan smile. “She can’t resist the ringing of a telephone.”
Once again the two men exchanged places and Harry put in a collect call to Mrs. Harry Bream in Weston.
The operator let the telephone ring a dozen times before she cut back to Harry. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer at that number. Shall I try again in twenty minutes?”
“No. No, thanks.” Harry came out of the booth wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his fishing jacket. “Sonuvabitch, I don’t get it. What’s the matter? What did I do?”
“Nothing. Let’s go back to the lodge and have a drink.”
“What were you and Thelma talking about all that time?”
“Life,” Turee said. Which was true enough.
“Life, at three o’clock in the morning, long distance?”
“Thelma wanted to talk. You know women, sometimes they have to get things off their chest by talking to somebody objective, not a member of their family. Thelma was in an emotional state.”
“She can always count on me to understand.”
“I hope so,” Turee said softly. “I hope to God so.”
“It’s this uncertainty that gets me down. Why won’t she talk to me? Why did she keep saying Ron’s name over and over again?”
“She’s—fond of Ron and worried about him. We all are, aren’t we?”
“My God, yes. He’s my best friend. I saved him from drowning once when we were in school together, did I ever tell you that?”
“Yes,” Turee said, not because it was true but because he’d had enough irony for one day, he couldn’t swallow any more; his throat felt tight and raw and scraped. “Come on, Harry, you look as if you need a drink.”
“Maybe I should stay in town for the night, take a room here and get a couple of hours’ sleep and then try to reach Thelma again.”
“Leave the woman alone for a while. Give her a chance to collect herself.”
“You may be right. I hope she remembers to take the orange pills I left for her. They’re very good for relieving tension. I’m told they’re the ones that cured the Pope of hiccoughs when he had that bad spell.”
An Air That Kills Page 3
