An Air That Kills (11 page)

“You needn't bite my head off. I have quite enough trou­ble as it . . .”

“Esther has not heard from him.”

The words seemed to please her. “Well, well. That's very interesting. Have you a cigarette, Harry?”

“I thought you didn't . . .”

“I can smoke if I want to. I want to.”

He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. The smoke curled up from her mouth in
a quiet smile.

“Very interesting,” she repeated. “Doesn't it suggest any­thing to you?”

“No.”

“He told me on the telephone that he was going away on a long trip. Well, he did. Without taking her along.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's walked out on her, exactly the way he did on me.”

For the first time since he'd known her Dorothy looked contented. Her eyes were serene, her mouth had lost its bitter lines, and when she spoke again her voice was almost dreamy. “I wonder how she feels now. How funny life is sometimes, a mammoth hoax. I was the butt once, now it's her turn.”

“Dorothy, it's not . . .”

“Who is the other woman, this time?”

“There
is
no other woman,” Harry said brusquely.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I'm as sure of that as I am of anything. In this life no­body gets a written guarantee of anything, but you do get eyes and ears and the ability to form conclusions. I've formed mine.”

“Tell me just one thing, Harry.”

“I'll try.”

“When Ron first became interested in this woman, this Esther, did he tell you? Did he confide in you?”

“No.” It was a lie, but Harry knew the truth would have destroyed whatever relationship he had with her.

The truth was that Harry had been the first to hear about Esther. To this day he remembered Ron's initial reference to her:
“I met a girl at the Temples' last night. She's very
attractive, and smart as a whip. I know I sound like a heel but I'd like to see her again. What do you think I should do?”
And Harry had said in reply all the things dictated by his con­science and common sense: Go easy, forget her, you've got a wife and child, and so on. Ron sincerely agreed with every­thing Harry said. Equally sincerely, he called Esther the next day, took her to lunch and fell in love.

“Well, you see?” Dorothy said with satisfaction. “If Ron didn't tell you about Esther, why should he have told you about this new one?”

“There is no new one.”

“Wait and see.”

“There isn't much else I can do.”

“I know what
I'd
do. Want to hear?”

“All right.”

“I'd get the police after him, and when they caught him, I'd make him pay and pay and pay.”

I'll bet you would, Harry thought. He felt suddenly too weary to continue talking.

In contrast, Dorothy appeared more and more lively and cheerful, as if she drew some secret nourishment from the woes and afflictions of other people. This was a real banquet: Ron disappeared, Esther deserted, Harry grieving.

She eyed Harry greedily as if he were holding back some fancy tidbit she wanted for dessert. “Poor Esther. I suppose she's taking it
very
badly. Well, that's life. Ye shall reap what ye sow. You'll stay for tea, of course, Harry?”

“No, I really can't, thanks just the same.”

“What a pity. I've so enjoyed talking to you. You're a veritable tonic for me, Harry. I feel better than I have for weeks and weeks. I
do
wish you'd stay a bit longer.”

“Sorry, I have to get home.”

“Home. Of course. I keep forgetting you're married now. I keep forgetting my manners too, I'm afraid. How is your wife?”

“Thelma's fine, thank you.”

“Thelma. What a pretty name, it just suits her. Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you one other thing Ron said on the telephone. I couldn't quite understand it myself. Perhaps you can.”

“I'll try.”

“He seemed to be under the impression that he had harmed you in some way. I'll see if I can give you his exact words. ‘I've done something terrible to Harry and I'm sorry, I want him to know I'm
sorry.' Do you know what he meant?”

“No.”

“You must have some idea.”

“None. None at all.” Harry rose. His face felt stiff, like cardboard, as if it would crack if he tried to move it. “I don't know what he was talking about.”

“How very odd, don't you think?”

“I—yes. Yes, it is.”

“But you mustn't let me keep you with my chattering.”

She extended her hand and Harry took it just as he had when he greeted her, but this time he wanted to squeeze it hard, as hard as possible, until he could hear the bones squeak.

“Is something wrong, Harry? You're so pale.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Well, give my best to Thelma. You're a lucky man, she's such an
attractive
young woman.”

“Yes. Please say good-bye to your mother for me.”

“Of course. It was sweet of you to come, Harry. We must get together more often.”

They exchanged brief farewells and Harry went out into the hall, leaving the door of Dorothy's room open as he'd found it.

He should have closed it. All the way down the steps he fancied he heard noises coming from the tower, little chuck­ling sounds. Dorothy was laughing. The princess was burping after her banquet. Harry wished she would choke.

ELEVEN

Marian Robinson, a spinster at thirty by choice, was now in
her middle forties and the choice had long since been taken out of her hands. Marian's reaction to this fact was characteristic: she had begun to hate men, all men, with an almost religious intensity. She saved clippings, and collected stories, of men who had murdered, embezzled, kidnapped, beaten their wives, been unkind to cats, or committed any of fifty other acts which she found distasteful. She was, therefore, in the correct frame of mind when her cousin Thelma phoned and asked if she could share Marian's apartment for a time.

To Marian this could mean only one thing, that Thelma had finally discovered she was married to a brute, a lecher, or at the very least an alcoholic, and the poor girl needed sanctuary. Marian's apartment was small, closet space minimal and bed linen insufficient, but Marian was quite prepared to make sacrifices for a good cause, such as the dissolution of a marriage. When Thelma, upon arriving, made it clear that Harry was not a brute or even an alcoholic, Marian swal­lowed her disappointment along with two aspirin tablets and a cup of strong hot tea.

Thelma did not confide in Marian either the fact of her condition or the rather circuitous route by which she'd reached it. She told her merely that she and Harry had had a slight argument.

The two women had a light supper in the kitchen and Marian was washing the dishes and Thelma drying when the front doorbell rang.

“I'm not expecting anyone,” Marian said. “Are you?”

Thelma shook her head listlessly.

“You don't suppose it's that husband of yours, do you? I told him quite distinctly on the phone that as far as he was concerned you were incommunicado.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I'll just go and give him a piece of my . . .”

“No. No, Marian. I'll answer it. You sit down and have another cup of tea, it will do you good.”

“I don't need any good done to me,” Marian said crisply. “It's you I'm worried about, you look like a ghost.”

“I can face—handle things. You just wait here and stop worrying.”

Marian would never have admitted it aloud but she found it rather pleasant to be told what to do for a change. At the insurance office where she'd worked for twenty-three years she gave the orders. It wasn't always easy but it had to be done. She had some dozen girls under her. She knew none of them liked her, some of the younger ones made fun of her behind her back and called her Old Corsets, and others sat around hoping she'd fall down and break a leg. Marian knew the whole office would go to pot without her, so she was careful about falling and kept right on giving orders whether or not they made her popular. In the past Marian had never actually paid much attention to Thelma, but now she thought how different Thelma was from the girls in the office, not silly, and not timid by any means, just sort of sweet, in a womanly way.

Marian poured herself a third cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy it. She did not intend to eavesdrop, heaven forbid, but it was surprising the way sounds carried in a small apartment.

When Thelma opened the door Harry did not wait to be asked to enter. He thrust his way inside like an overzealous salesman, then closed the door and stood with his back against it in a kind of childish defiance, as if he were daring her to evict him.

He looked so silly that Thelma wanted to laugh, but she knew if she laughed she might also cry. The two, laughter and tears, seemed inextricably knotted inside her so that she couldn't move one without disturbing the other. She said quietly, “You shouldn't have come here.”

“I had to.”

“I asked you to wait. I can't—I don't feel
qualified
to discuss anything with you reasonably.”

“O.K. Be unreasonable.”

“Don't play games, Harry.”

“I think it's you playing games,” he said, with a little smile to soften the criticism. “Mysterious notes, hints, forebodings. I'm just an ordinary man. I don't understand mysterious notes, I've never had a foreboding in my life, and I guess I can't take hints very well either. What's it all about, Thelma?”

Instead of replying, she moved to the opposite side of the room as if she feared intimacy or anger and wanted to get as much distance between Harry and herself as possible. It seemed safer and easier to face him across Marian's mohair sofa and rose and brown Axminster rug.

Harry raised his voice to bridge the distance. “We're not a couple of kids any more, Thelma. We're married. We've shared a great many things. Whatever's bothering you, we've got to share that too.”

“We can't.”

“Why not?”

“I have to share it with—with somebody else.”

“Marian?”

“Marian.”
She began to laugh, and almost instantly she could feel the sting of tears inside her eyelids.

He looked away, giving her time to compose herself. “All right, not Marian. Who, then?”

“I begged you not to come here, not to force me to talk before I was ready, before I
knew.”

“Knew what?”

“What's happened to Ron. I can't—I
can't
talk to you until I know where Ron is.”

“Ron, he's part of your trouble?”

Her face disintegrated like paper crushed in a fist. “Oh God, I begged you, I asked you not to . . . Why did you come? Why can't you let me
alone?
Why didn't Ralph tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Harry said, but she just kept moaning, “My God, my God,” and swaying back and forth with her hands covering her face.

He waited, watching her quietly, noticing for the first time the slight thickening of her abdomen, and thinking,
this is it. She doesn't have to tell me. I know.

The things Ralph had said and Esther had suspected and Dorothy had subtly implied—they all added up to the little bulge at Thelma's waistline.

“There's a child,” he said finally. “Ron's?”

“Yes.”

“How—how far along are you?”

“Three and a half months.”

“And Ron knows?”

“I told him. Last night.”

He leaned heavily against the door frame, staring down at the roses of Marian's rug. They had pink, fretful faces like babies. “What does Ron intend to do about it?”

“The right thing, of course.”

“After having done quite a number of wrong things, do you think it's going to be easy for him to do the right one?”

“There's no use getting sarcastic. It won't accomplish any­thing. I've thought the whole thing out. It's not going to be easy, but Ron and I, each of us will have to get a divorce and then we'll be married.”

“By that time your child will be born a bastard.”

The name staggered her like a blow and she might have fallen except that there wasn't room to fall. She was jammed between the wall and the mohair sofa.

“Thelma!”

He started across the room to help her but she waved him away. “No. I'm—all right.”

“Let me . . .”

“No.” She clung to the back of the sofa for a moment and then she straightened up, looking strangely dignified. “Don't use that word. Don't use that word about my son.”

And Harry, watching her, thought, she's got it all planned, two divorces, a marriage, even the child's sex. “A lot of words are going to be used which you won't like, Thelma. You'd better start thinking of them now so you won't be surprised when they come up.”

“I don't care what anyone says about
me.”

“Yes, you do. Try and face reality.”

“I am.
This
is reality.” She pressed her hand to her ab­domen. “This child, this is my reality. I've wanted a baby ever since I can remember, and now I have one right here growing inside me.”

“Reality isn't a single fact like that. It's a combination of thousands, millions . . .”

“You denied me a baby, Harry. You made excuses, you said I was too old to have a first child now, you were afraid something would happen to me and you'd lose me. Well, you have lost me.”

He shook his head helplessly, unable to speak.

“It's your fault, Harry. That's why I'm not even apolo­gizing to you, because I think it's your fault, not mine. I wanted this one thing more than anything in the world, and I could see the years slipping by and I was getting older, with nothing to show for it. I felt dead inside, dead and use­less. Don't talk to me about reality, Harry. No matter what happens, I'm not sorry. I
won't
be sorry. I have my son to keep me alive.”

It sounded almost like a speech she had prepared and practiced in front of a mirror, day after day, so that she would be ready for this moment.

“You had the whole thing planned,” Harry said, “in advance?”

“That's not true.”

“To put it coarsely, you hooked him.”

She looked at him with a kind of contempt. “Believe what­ever you want. It's too late to change anything.”

“But why? Why Ron? Why my best friend with a wife and family of his own? For God's sake, couldn't you have stopped to think? Couldn't you at least have talked it over with me, told me how you felt?”

“I tried. You never listened. You only heard what you wanted to hear. To you everything was idyllic, you had a house and a wife to look after it, your meals were on time, your clothes laundered . . .”

“I was satisfied just having you,” Harry said. “I didn't re­quire anything or anyone else because I loved you. I still do. Oh God, Thelma, couldn't we forget this nightmare and go back?”

“I don't want to go back. Even if I could. I may be in trouble but at least I feel alive, I've got a future and a child to share it with. And Ron.” Her voice shook a little over the name in noticeable contrast to the confident way she spoke of the child. “Ron, too, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, I know what you're thinking about—that silly notion I had that he was dead. It's not true. Mrs. Malverson got me all upset with her talk about spiritual messages. What non­sense. I know he's not dead. I know where he is.”

“Where?”

“Oh, not specifically. I just know he's hiding somewhere for a while because he's frightened. Of Esther, probably. Of course she'll be impossible about the whole thing but he'll simply have to face up to her. She'll make trouble, I expect that, she's the type.”

“Name a type who wouldn't, under the circumstances.”

“Esther's special, she's so determined. Well, I'm deter­mined too. Let her make trouble. Ron and I won't be living here anyway. When everything is over we'll move to the States, California perhaps. I've never been there, but they say that children brought up in California are bigger and healthier than any other children in the world.

The change in her tone indicated that she was off on another dream, an express train whizzing across the border and through the states toward California. Nothing stood in the way of this train. If it did, it was demolished. Harry knew this from experience. He had stood on the tracks once too often.

“. . . and because they play outdoors all the time even in winter. They eat outdoors, too. Everyone cooks over a bar­becue pit or they go down to the beach and build a bonfire.”

Harry stepped in front of the train with the fearlessness of one who had nothing to lose. “Stop. Stop it, Thelma.”

“Why should I?”

“Don't start living a year from now when you have to get through tonight, tomorrow, next week.”

“I'll get through. Don't worry about me. Harry. Get angry, call me names, anything, but don't
worry
about me.”

“I can't afford to get angry. I might—hurt you.”

From the kitchen came a sudden sharp crash like a plate breaking.

“Marian,” Thelma said. “Dear heaven, I forgot about Marian.”

As if she'd been waiting for her cue, Marian thrust herself through the swinging door, head down, like a charging ram.

She didn't look at Harry or give any indication of his presence. She shouted at Thelma, “You slut. You nasty little slut. Pack up your things and get out of here.”

Thelma appeared pale but composed, as if her dream of California had blunted the sharp corners of the present. “Do you always eavesdrop on your guests, Marian?”

“Eavesdropping is one thing, cuckolding is another. And I want none of your insolence, do you hear me?”

“I hear you. You sound just like Aunt May.”

“You leave her name out of it. We're a respectable family and you've disgraced us all. I want no part of you. You can go on the streets for all I care.”