Don't Rely on Gemini (12 page)

“Busy, Neal?” Cliff Bates' voice.

Neal looked up, closed the manila folder and waved Cliff to the armchair near Neal's desk. “No. Have a seat.”

Cliff was one of these boyish fellows in his late forties who looked and behaved as though he were an aging relic of the Now generation. He tooled around in a red Mustang, bought his clothes at the University Shop at Saks Fifth Avenue, accompanied himself on the guitar while he sang Dylan and Donovan, and seasoned his conversation with generous references to his own amazing sexual prowess. Back in the time when he was so often at the Danas', Margaret had nicknamed him “Diable,” and Neal would hear them giggling over their Scrabble games nights when he retired ahead of them, and hear Margaret call out,
“Diable à quatre!”
as she lost a game to him and had to pay the dollar.

“Carla and I haven't seen you and Margaret in a dog's age,” he said, lighting his pipe. “How about coming by for Sunday brunch?”

Neal regarded him thoughtfully; he was going to have to start somewhere, with someone, and Cliff had known all about the thing three years ago. Margaret had left, in fact, shortly after Cliff had begun cutting down his visits to them. Cliff had kept her preoccupied; without him to take morning swims with her, without the nightly jokes and games and guitar sessions, she had begun to flounder. Neal's pleasure in Cliff's absence had soon faded and he had found himself actually asking Cliff when he was dropping in again, but Carla had returned by then from her European tour; Carla wasn't that mad about the Danas.

Neal said, “Cliff, I'm afraid Margaret's left me again.”

Cliff removed the pipe from his mouth and grimaced.
“What?”

“It looks that way,” said Neal.

Then Neal gave Cliff the same version of Margaret's disappearance that he had given Margaret's mother. Cliff listened, too embarrassed to meet Neal's eyes, and when Neal was finished, Cliff's first reaction was a heavy sigh.

Neal said, “I think I'm going to the police about it, Cliff. She's been gone over two weeks now.”

Cliff Bates' adamantine response surprised Neal.
“Absolutely not,
Neal,” he said. “I agree with her mother. Margaret always lands on her feet. She's just giving you the business.”

“It isn't like her, though, not to let me know where she is,” said Neal.

“Isn't it?” Cliff said. “No. It isn't.”

Cliff got to his feet. “She'll be back,” he said. “You'll see, she'll turn up.” He gave Neal a reassuring punch in the arm. “And when she does,” he added, “you have a date with the Bateses.”

You pushed Margaret, didn't you?, he thought. “Neal?” “What, Pen?”

Margaret didn't step back accidentally; she knew her own house too well for that.

“You're so quiet. What are you thinking?”

Was it true that Penny had wanted the showdown with Margaret? She had seen Margaret's car in the yard; why had she gone on in, and then
remained
after she saw Margaret? … remained to provoke her. What other reason would there be for her to stay there?

“I was wondering,” he said, “where you ever found the recipe for this?” It must have been concocted by the makers of Gelusil, Bromo-Seltzer, Amitone, and Brioschi; chicken, underdone, swimming in a sour-cream, chicken-broth sauce, liberally treated with curry powder.

At one-fifteen in the afternoon!

She said, “I clipped it out of a magazine.”

Served over noodles with creamed onions, white bread already buttered, and chunks of iceburg lettuce bathed in a bottled French dressing.

“You're awfully quiet, Neal.”

“I'm eating, Penny.”

“You're not eating very much.”

“I don't eat a lot at noon.”

“You ate a whole steak that day we went to ‘76 House.”

“I hadn't had breakfast that day.”

“Have some bread, Neal.”

“No thanks.”

“I buttered it for you.”

“I really don't want any.”

“Would you rather have rye bread, Neal? I've got rye bread, too.”

“No bread, thanks.”

“I should have bought rolls instead.”

“Everything's fine.”

“You ate a lot of rolls that day at ‘76.”

“I hadn't had breakfast that day.”

“Did you have breakfast today?”

“Yes.”

“What'd you have?” “Hmmm?”

“What'd you have for breakfast?” “Bacon and eggs.” “Did you fix them yourself?”

“I stopped at the diner.”

• • •

She wore light pink fingernail polish; it was chipped, her nails were chewed.

Margaret's hands had always been so impeccably manicured, graceful hands with long fingers which performed gracefully. Would she have used those hands to slap such an inconsequential face as the one Neal saw across the table from him?

Penny's lipstick was too dark; she wore mascara on both her upper and lower eyelashes. It was black mascara, applied so thickly that the lashes were glued together. She wore eyeliner; she had made wings at the corner of her eyes.

Had her makeup always been so garish?

In his memory she had seemed so young and wholesome and vulnerable that day on Bear Mountain when she had run toward him in the field of elephant grass.

“Save room for dessert, Neal.”

“I won't be able to eat dessert, Penny.”

“You have to, Neal. I bought it for you.”

“I'll try.”

“Neal?”

“What?”

“We're strange together. Can you feel it?” “Feel what?”

“Like the way we act together. Like strangers.” “It's natural, under the circumstances.” “Is it?” “Yes.”

“Like you're the psychologist, you ought to know.” “In time everything will be all right.” “Will it?” “Sure.”

“The way it used to be with us?” “Why not?”

The tablecloth was oilcloth; the napkins were paper.

Remember the way Margaret had set a table? There was always clean linen and often fresh flowers. Margaret would never place a milk container on the table, as Penny had done, or a tin of Durkee's black pepper alongside the salt shaker.

Neal had married Margaret when she was Penny's age, but even in the beginning Margaret had known the way to do things. She had been raised in an environment no more privileged financially than Penny's, but she had come from solid old Pennsylvania Dutch stock on her mother's side and God-fearing Irish Catholic on her father's. Blood will tell. Margaret had learned a sense of responsibility—yes, and the words she had cried out before she had plummeted to her death:
character, integrity—
she had had both. But Bissel blood?

Neal remembered the wry grin that always tipped Forrest Bissel's lips whenever Neal reviewed with him his felonies and misdemeanors, the casual admission, “I'm not much good, am I?,” and the shrug of his broad shoulders, as though there were nothing he could think to do about it, no way for him to fight it, nor a reason to.

And
was
there a reason to, when he received so much gratification in the punishment?

Now, supposedly, Forrest understood that there were other, better forms of gratification; supposedly Neal had given him the necessary insight to fight his behavior pattern and helped him gain the impetus for the battle. Time would tell how successful Neal had been.

Forrest had said, “From here on out, I'll think of
you
as my old man, my authority figure; that'll keep me straight.”

• • •

Penny said, “I hate it this way, Neal!” “I know.”

“No, you
don't
know! I imagine that this,” she hesitated, “this
thing
has turned you against me! Is it my imagination?” “Of course it is.” “Is it?”

“I said
yes;
it
is!”

“Don't shout at me, Neal. I can't take much more!” “What's this all about suddenly, Penny?” He put down his fork and stared at her. Her face was red; she was close to tears. “You don't even call me endearing names any more!”

“Oh, honey—”

“That's the first time!”

“Honey, listen, listen.” He scooted his chair over next to her. “We both feel the strain. Pen, we knew it wouldn't be easy; we knew we'd have to go for long stretches without seeing each other, we—”

“Stretches? You mean we'll only see each other off and on?”

“We can't just start seeing all we want of each other, Penny.” He put his arm around her shoulders and the gesture made her burst into tears. He sat there stroking her hair, wondering what would have happened if he had called the police that Wednesday night. Could there have been a way for them to know he had not been any part of it, some advanced police technique that would have told them as much? Then it would be for her to prove her innocence, to convince them she had not laid a hand on Margaret. There would have been a scandal, yes, inevitably, but wouldn't it have been better to have gotten it all over with?

He would have lost his job at Rock-Or, no doubt; Doubleday would probably have disassociated themselves from him; but there would be no necessity to continue living this lie with Penny, no necessity to have to touch her. Good God, he could never touch her that way again, could he? Never. He could barely caress her now, when his life depended on it. He was stricken with disgust at the shoddiness of the scene, and the feeling of her warm tears running down his fingers as he lifted her face to his was as repugnant to him as if they were urine.

“Honey, look at me.”

“What?” she said weakly.

“I want you to be strong for me. I want you to promise me you'll get hold of yourself for me. You're important to me, honey. Don't you know how important you are to me,” he intoned, “how much it means to me that you're safe and happy? What's this whole thing about, if it isn't about that, hmmm? Don't you understand how I feel about you?”

“Do you love me, Neal?”

“Oh, Pen, don't you know?”

“Yes, but, I like it if you say it,” she said sniffling. She wiped away her tears with her knuckle, and the black mascara was smudged down her cheek. “I love you,” he said.

“I bought you a birthday cake and you said you didn't want any dessert,” she whined. “Didn't you think I'd buy you a birthday cake?”

“I didn't think, honey. Thank you for going to the trouble.”

“You see what I mean?” she whimpered. “We're so darn formal with each other, like don't thank me for going to the trouble. A lover
does
that for her lover's birthday, Neal.”

“You're just very sensitive, Pen. Maybe I'm not sensitive enough, but I appreciate it, honey. I really do.”

She took the paper napkin from her lap and blew her nose with it.

“And I bought you a record,” she said. “Classical. Because I know you like that type music.”

He forced himself to press his lips against her forehead.

She said, “I bought you
Claire de Lune.
Do you have it?”

“No, I don't. Oh, honey, that was very sweet of you. You shouldn't have done that.”

She began to cry all over again.

“Why are you crying, Pen?”

“A lover
buys
her lover a birthday gift, Neal, don't you
know
that?”

“I'm glad you did it, Penny. I've always liked
Claire de Lune.”

“There are other things on the record, too,” she managed, trying to get control of herself. “It's a long-playing classical.” She blew her nose again, and her moist left hand clutched at Neal's. “You do love me, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Because I have to tell you something.” “What?”

“I don't know what you're going to say, so I'm afraid.”

“Try me,” he said. “Oh, honey, you don't have to be afraid of telling me
anything.
We don't have secrets, Pen. My God, we
can't
have secrets from each other.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just tell me, Pen; don't worry about it.”

“Neal?”

“What?”

“Neal, I'm two weeks late getting my period.”

• • •

He ran two lights in Nyack, after he left the Grand Union parking lot. He had planned to buy Archie a birthday gift of some kind before he returned to the clinic, and automatically he headed toward the shopping center on the outskirts of Nyack. But he could not think of anything now except what Penny had just told him. He wondered if he was going to have to pull over and vomit, and he thought of just putting his foot all the way to the floor on the gas pedal and letting the Volkswagen smash into the truck ahead of him.

Tears stung his eyes. His mind was tortured with the certain notion that it could not be true and could not be happening to him, and yet it was true, it had happened, and for the first time since that Wednesday night when he had put Margaret into the ground the way someone would bury a dog, the enormity of what he had done hit him full force.

At the shopping center he pulled into an empty space, cut the ignition, and sat there holding himself like a small boy with a bellyache. His hands shook so that he could not light a cigarette, and he threw the last cigarette in his package away.

What he needed was a drink.

He got out of the car and walked aimlessly up toward the road, looking for a bar. There was no bar nearby; he knew it, and he retraced his steps, wondering if he could still drive. His knees seemed to want to give, and he coughed back what came out like a sudden sob.

A drink, or he would just let go everything.

Then he remembered that there was a bar in the bowling alley next to the A&P.

Inside, Neal ordered himself a double Jack Daniels. He drank it in one gulp, caught his breath, and directed the bartender to pour another.

—I don't believe in abortion, Neal. It's taking a life.

—What about Margaret's life?

—That was an accident!

—And if you're pregnant, what's that?

The whiskey began to restore him. He was able to remember the times Margaret's period had come late and it hadn't meant anything.

He gave himself back all the rules for staving off panic which he had presented to his patients at the clinic.

Number One: Get your bearings; where are you?

He heard the thunder of the bowling balls streaking down to clatter against the pins.

He heard the noise of the jukebox and recognized The Doors singing “Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?”

The bartender set the second drink before him.

He started to pick it up when he saw a familiar face.

It was Linda Chayka, the waitress from the diner where he stopped some mornings for breakfast. She was a dumpy brunette in a tight sweater, the sort who managed to work sex into a simple hello at seven in the morning.

She waved at Neal and Neal waved back.

She looked as though she were going to join him.

Finish the drink and leave.

He couldn't do it all at once as he had with the first one. He took a breath, and while he waited to have the second gulp, Linda Chayka began walking toward him. Her breasts bobbed under her orange sweater; a man at the other end of the bar gave a low whistle and she blushed with gratitude.

Neal tossed down the rest of the whiskey and slapped four dollars down on the bar. “Hello, Dr. Dana.” “Hi, Linda.” “What's your hurry?”