“My blood pressure’s up,” she explained. “The doctor’s afraid of eclampsia. I have to count every ounce of fluid, every grain of salt.”
“Does Harry know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re not well.”
“I am well,” she said stubbornly. “I have to be careful, that’s all. Harry.” She repeated the name, frowning, as if she had trouble identifying him. “No, Harry doesn’t know. I haven’t written to him since June.”
“He’s been writing to you, though?”
“Oh yes. He sends me money twice a month, more than he can afford, actually—a money order from Kansas City and two hundred dollars from here—I guess he arranges the two hundred through the local office. I don’t know why, it seems an odd way of doing things, but I’m grateful for the money. He must have been given a raise in pay.”
Esther didn’t even blink. “That’s very likely. Wages are higher over there.”
“His letters have changed recently. Oh, nothing definite you can put your finger on, he still misses me and so on, but I have the feeling—well, that it’s only words, that he’s doing quite nicely by himself. Or not by himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe he’s found somebody else,” Thelma said in a low voice. “Oh, I don’t blame him. I wanted it to happen.”
“Are you sure it has?”
“No. But I have this intuition. And I know Harry. If some woman ogles him at an office picnic he’s not going to run away, he’ll stand there and be ogled and love every minute of it.”
“I grant you there may be something in intuition, but carrying it as far as an office picnic and an ogling woman . . .”
“There actually was an office picnic. He mentioned it in his last letter. He said he’d had a very good time. Oh, not that I care. I want him to have a good time, to be happy. He deserves it. Only . . .”
“Only what?”
“I wish he wouldn’t tell me about it. I’m so miserable. I’m so miserable.” She dabbed at her eyes with a piece of Kleenex. “Office picnic. To hell with him.”
“Now don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Think of the future, the baby. How much longer do you have to wait?”
“Nearly three weeks.”
“That’s not very long.”
“It seems—it feels like an eternity.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. No, thanks.” She took another bite of the chicken salad, then pushed the dish away from her. “The next letter I get from him, I’m not going to read. I won’t even open it.”
“Aren’t you being a little unreasonable?”
“Just as unreasonable as I can get, I know that. I’m a dog in the manger. I don’t want Harry back, I could never live with him again. It’s just—well, the thought of him carousing around with other women, going to all kinds of parties. . .”
“One office picnic.”
“That’s all he mentioned. There are probably dozens of occasions he didn’t mention.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “It’s not that I begrudge him anything. I want him to be happy. I’ll give him a divorce so he can marry her.”
“By her, you mean the woman who ogled him at the picnic and pursued him relentlessly through a round of wild parties?”
“You needn’t laugh at me,” Thelma said sulkily. “I can read between the lines.”
“Some people become so expert at reading between the lines they don’t read the lines. You’re letting your imagination run riot. You’ve taken an office picnic and blown it up into a series of orgies.”
“No. Harry wouldn’t enjoy orgies. He’s not like that. He’s just the kind of man who should be married.”
“He already is.”
“No, not any more.”
“Someday, perhaps, the two of you will get together again . . .”
“No. Never.”
“How can you be positive?”
“Because I was never in love with him. I was over thirty when we met—I’d never had a real proposal before and I knew it was my last chance to—well, to have a full life, a baby—my God, how I wanted a baby.” She looked down at her distended abdomen pressing against the table, and smiled, very faintly. “I didn’t dream it would be so difficult.”
TWENTY
Thelma’s baby was born at the Women’s College Hospital on a cold rainy morning during the last week of September. She’d gone to the hospital alone by taxi in the middle of the night without notifying any of her friends or neighbors.
Ralph Turee was the first person outside the hospital to hear of the birth. Thelma’s doctor called him just before he left for a nine o’clock class, and told him that Thelma had been delivered of a fine, healthy eight-pound boy. Thelma’s condition was “only fair” after two blood transfusions, and she was allowed no visitors for the present, but the baby could be seen through the glass walls of the nursery.
Feeling that something in the nature of a celebration was in order, Turee called a meeting of the remaining fellows for lunch at the Plaza. Over martinis and steak pie, Turee broached the subject of relaying the news to Harry.
“I think we should send him a telegram.”
“Why?” Joe Hepburn asked. “To congratulate him?”
“Well, no. But he ought to be told Thelma and the baby are all right.”
“I don’t know, it strikes me a telegram would be in bad taste under the circumstances.”
“Harry wouldn’t know the difference and it wouldn’t matter to him if he did. The only thing that concerns him is Thelma. The poor guy’s probably sitting around biting his fingernails.”
Bill Winslow spoke for the first time. The combination of the weather, the martinis, and a breakfast quarrel with his wife had put him in a sullen mood. “The hell he’s sitting around biting his nails. Poor guy, my eye.”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind.”
“I do mind,” Turee said sharply. “Come on, what’s the big secret? What do you know?”
“Plenty.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Harry’s not sitting around biting his nails over Thelma. He’s not sitting around, period.”
“You seem pretty positive.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I had a letter from him yesterday. We haven’t been corresponding much, I don’t know why he picked me to confide in instead of one of you.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“Read it yourself. I’ve got it here somewhere, been carrying it around. Kind of a shock.”
The letter was passed across the table and Hepburn and Turee read it simultaneously. Its contents were simple enough: Harry had met a girl, a perfectly wonderful, marvelous girl named Anne Farmer. She was divorced, through no fault of her own; her husband had been a brute, a real cad and so on, but through it all Anne had remained faithful, sweet, kind, and so on. He intended to get a divorce and marry this paragon of virtue as soon as possible, and he hoped that the fellows would wish him luck. Not that he needed it, because Anne was so wonderful, so understanding, et cetera. All the best, Harry.
“Je—sus,” Turee said and flung the letter down on the table.
Winslow picked it up and replaced it in his pocket. “Nice timing, eh?”
“I just can’t believe it.”
“Try a little harder.”
“In all his letters to me, he’s never mentioned another woman. I was led to believe he spent all his time working.”
“Does that sound like Harry? Not to me.”
“Hooked,” Hepburn said gloomily. “Hooked again, and we’re not there to protect him. Her husband was a brute. Naturally. All ex-husbands are brutes. All future husbands are angels. Then comes the switch.”
“
Shut up,” Turee said. “I’m trying to think.”
“The time for thinking is past.”
“Listen. We’d better send that telegram to Harry after all. Suppose he suddenly decides to write Thelma a letter like this. The shock might kill her. The doctor said her condition was only fair. That’s hospital jargon for anything-can-happen. We’ve got to warn Harry.”
The telegram was drafted by all three men and Turee telephoned it in when he returned to his office: Thelma delivered of healthy son. Her condition fairly serious. Imperative that you do nothing to upset her. Wait for letter. Ralph.
Later the same afternoon Nancy took a dozen roses to the hospital for Thelma and stopped at the nursery to see the baby. A masked nurse wheeled the bassinet to the glass wall and pulled the coverlet part way down to reveal the baby’s face. He was quiet, but not asleep, a beautiful child with a shock of black hair and brilliant blue eyes.
Nancy tapped against the glass, smiling and cooing. She was unaware that she herself was being observed until a voice spoke suddenly beside her, “Hello, Nancy.”
Nancy turned with a little jump of surprise. “Why—why, Esther.”
“I came, too. I had to see for myself.” Her yellow raincoat and hat were still dripping with rain. “I guess I’m making a mess on the floor.”
“You can’t help it, in this weather.”
“I—he’s a lovely baby, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very.”
“He looks like his father. Don’t you agree? He looks like Ron?”
Nancy agreed but said nothing.
“Well, I had to see for myself,” Esther repeated, and with one more brief glance through the glass wall she turned and walked briskly down the corridor, her raincoat rustling around her legs like dead leaves.
It was two weeks before Thelma was released from the hospital. She left as she had entered, by taxi, but this time she wasn’t alone. She held her son in her arms, with a pride and joy she had never known before, or believed possible.
She moved back into the house in Weston. Her neighbors all knew or suspected the truth by this time, but they were kindly people, especially Mrs. Malverson next door who threw herself immediately into the role of grandmother. She helped Thelma with the shopping, the washing, the cleaning, she clucked and cooed over the baby and took him for long walks in his pram, she measured out the ingredients of his formula with the severe precision of a pharmacist.
Mrs. Malverson believed herself to be Thelma’s closest friend and confidante. She was, therefore, extremely surprised when she went over to Thelma’s house one afternoon in late October and noticed a For Sale sign posted on the front lawn. She found Thelma upstairs sorting through the contents of an old trunk while the baby slept beside her in his bassinet.
“I saw the sign,” Mrs. Malverson said flatly.
“Oh, is it up already? Good. I asked the realtor to hurry.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“Not much. Looking over old things always gives me the blues—I don’t know why, I’m happier now than I ever have been.”
“So you’re going to move.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Where?”
“Nevada.”
“But that’s in the States.”
“Yes. I have an appointment at the American Consulate for Friday morning. I’m applying for a permanent visa.”
“Well. Well.” Mrs. Malverson plopped down on the side of the bed. “I’ve got to catch my breath. This is all so sudden.”
“Not to me.”
“Ronnie’s too young to travel that far.”
“No, the doctor said this is actually the best time, especially if we go by plane.”
“But well, there’s the lawsuit coming up and everything . . .”
“It won’t be coming up. Esther has agreed to a settlement out of court. I didn’t want to take it—she’s been so nice about things since that day I met her in Eaton’s—but my attorney said I’d be a fool to turn it down. It’s quite a lot of money.”
“And well it should be.” Mrs. Malverson was on the point of asking how much, but she desisted, in the hope that Thelma would volunteer the information.
Thelma didn’t. “Anyway, it’s all settled now. I signed the papers.”
“Nevada. I ask you, why Nevada? I hear it’s a wicked spot. Gambling, even on the Sabbath, that’s what I heard.”
“It’s a good place to get a divorce,” Thelma said grimly. “Six weeks, and it’s all over.”
“A divorce?”
“Yes. My husband . . .” She stumbled awkwardly over the word, and her face flushed. “Mr. Bream called me long distance last night. He wants a divorce. He’s in love with another woman.
“Well. Well.”
“Don’t be so shocked. I wasn’t. I’ve actually been expecting it for some time now. It’s almost a relief to have it confirmed.”
“You poor child. You poor . . .”
“No. I don’t really care. I thought I might when I heard his voice again, but last night on the telephone he didn’t even sound like himself, it was like talking to a stranger. Her name’s Anne.”
“Her?”
“The woman.” She slammed down the lid of the trunk, but the gesture, like Pandora’s, was a little too late. Too many things had already escaped. She said roughly, “All this old junk of Harry’s, I might as well throw it away.”
She left the first week of November. Turee offered to drive her out to the Malton Airport but she refused. She said all her good-byes briefly and by telephone, as if she preferred not to risk any display of emotion which might make her change her mind.
She sent air-mail letters to Mrs. Malverson, the Turees and Esther, assuring them of her safe arrival in Las Vegas. The trip had been pleasant and Ronnie a perfect angel all the way, but she didn’t like Las Vegas. The countryside was too desolate and the town itself full of very odd people. When her residence requirements were up she intended to move on, perhaps to Southern California. There was no mention of homesickness, loneliness, regret. Or Harry.
At Christmas time she sent large, elaborate baskets of fruit to all her friends, belts of hammered silver and Indian turquoise to the Turee children, and hand-tooled leather holsters to Esther’s two boys. On the back of a Christmas card to Joe Hepburn which didn’t arrive until New Year’s she wrote that she had her divorce papers and she and Ronnie were staying temporarily in a motel in Pacific Palisades until she decided on a permanent place. She did not give the name of the motel, or the exact location of Pacific Palisades, which Hepburn had never heard of and couldn’t find on the map.
It seemed as though the Breams, who had once lived in such close proximity, were now trying to get as far away from each other as possible. In Harry’s next letter to Turee, in February, he said he had maneuvered a transfer to Florida. The Kansas City climate was proving too rigorous for Anne, who was inclined to be frail. Enclosed in the letter, almost as an afterthought, was the formal announcement of his wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Davis Dugan announced the marriage of their daughter, Anne, to Mr. Harry Ellsworth Bream.
“Well, that’s that,” Turee said and passed the announcement and the letter across the breakfast table to his wife.
“Yes. Yes, I guess it is.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it. I thought you liked people to get married and live happily ever after and so on. What’s eating you?”
“Oh, there’s something so final about it, seeing it in print like this.”
“Let’s hope it’s final.”
“I can’t help—well, Thelma and Harry always seemed so right for each other. I kept hoping things would work out between them.”
“You’re a great hoper.”
Nancy reread the letter, making lit
tle snorting noises of disapproval. “Frail. Huh. She was born and raised in Kansas City, now suddenly she’s too frail. Oh, I bet Harry has picked himself a lemon. A real lemon.”
“Nancy, love . . .”
“What’s more, I hear Florida is hotter than hell in the summer and people are always getting lost in swamps.”
The new Mrs. Bream did not get lost in a swamp. She did, however, become dissatisfied with Florida rather quickly, and once again Harry found himself on the move, this time to a new job, obtained through one of Anne’s relatives, with an oil company in Bolivia. Since he knew nothing about either oil or Bolivia, he expected to be extremely busy and would not have the chance to write as frequently as in the past.
By the time another Christmas rolled around, his letters had ceased entirely.
TWENTY-ONE
Thelma’s Christmas card that year consisted of an enlarged snapshot of her son standing in a shallow wading pool, staring sober and wide-eyed into the camera. He was now some fifteen months old, a handsome child, dark-haired like his father, stockily built like his mother.
The enclosed letter to the Turees was unlike any Thelma had written before. Even her handwriting had altered: it was larger, less controlled, and the lines slanted ebulliently upwards.
Dear Nan and Ralph:
Would you ever have recognized Ronnie? I bet not. He’s getting to be so big I can scarcely carry him anymore (23 lbs!), but fortunately, I don’t have to. He’s very good at getting around by himself, too good, sometimes! It is so long since I’ve written to you that I hardly know just where to start. First things first, though, so here goes. I am going to be married this week, and if I were any happier I’d burst! His name is Charley, he’s a widower with grown children, and he’s quite the nicest person in the world. I met him last summer on the beach at Malibu. He was walking his dog and the dog bit me on the leg. Not very romantic! We’ll be going to live in Charley’s house in Santa Monica. (As a matter of fact, I’m writing this from there—Charley is out in the yard making a swing for Ronnie.) I hope you will find time to convey my good news to Esther and the Winslows and Joe and Mrs. Malverson and to give them my regards. I won’t be writing again for a long time, nor hearing from any of you. I’ll do my best to explain why, and I can only hope your feelings will not be hurt. Charley knows nothing about my past life. He thinks I am a widow—I told him that on the spur of the moment when we first met, and I’ve had to stick to my story. Please try to understand my position, and my reasons for not giving you Charley’s last name or my new address. He’s a wonderful man, and even if he found out the truth about me I think he’d forgive me, but I can’t afford to take that chance. I love him too dearly.
An Air That Kills Page 20
