The Cocktail Waitress (23 page)

“I wish I could.”

“Well what’s stopping you?”

“All kinds of things.”

“You mean, like Tom Barclay?”

I didn’t answer her. I wanted to—I wanted to scoff and ask what he had to do with anything. But I realized, when she spoke his name and my heart leapt, that he did have something to do with it, a lot, in fact. And from my reaction she realized it too.

“Then, we call it that, we call it him. And you can’t pretend your husband’s him, on account you really wish it was, and it would be getting messy. So, I’d say you’re in a spot—but, at least, Tom will be glad to hear it.”

“… What makes you think so, Liz?”

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and went on without me answering: “O.K., then, I’ll tell you. He comes in, Joan. He sits with me, and when he comes in he talks.”

“About me, you mean?”

“About nothing else. He’s bitter, baby. He feels you crossed him, that you did it for money, and that he doesn’t respect.”

“I didn’t do it for the money!”

“… What did you do it for?”

She was suddenly sharp, and I felt, close as I was to her, that I didn’t have her respect, either. “I did it for Tad.”

“And where did that get you, I ask.”

“For Christ’s sake, shut up.”

“Baby, you’ve got it coming.”

“You say Tom comes in?”

“Every night, so far.”

“Then you might mention to him, Liz, if you find occasion, that … I have been true to him—so far. And I’m goddam well going to be. But please, please, please, don’t say I told you that.”

“If I do, he might rush over a minute later.”

“And he could get pushed out.”

“I’m not sure of that,” Liz said. “I’m not so sure.”

“Please don’t do it.”

“I’ll use my judgment what to tell him.”

“I’m not ready for him yet.”

She looked at me quite some time, then asked: “What do you mean by that?”

I guess I looked at her a while too. Then I told her: “Liz, I’m not sure I know.”

“If you mean what I think you mean—?”

“I mean, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I mean, first things first. And first of all, for me, I’ve got to make clear a deal is a deal is a deal. Once that’s understood, life can go on, and we’ll see where we take it from there.”

“And Tom? What does he do?”

“One thing at a time, Liz—!”

“O.K., O.K., just asking.”

I was suddenly half hysterical, and she reached out to calm me down. Then, looking at her watch: “Got to be running along, or Jake will have my skin. Bianca still hasn’t found someone to replace you, so I’m back to doing double the work.”

“I’m sorry, Liz.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m just telling you how it is.” She hesitated. “On Tom, I’ll tell him keep his fingers crossed, there may be more to come. Tell him calm down, take it easy.”

“Thank you.”

“He may not take it well. He’s not a patient boy.”

“He’ll have to take it, Liz. What’s his other choice?”

She went, and I got up and dressed. Then I went down and sat in the drawing room, waiting for Earl to come home. But I didn’t sit there long, for at 4:30 here came the car, and he bounded inside, bright and cheerful, “all ready for my walk to the Garden of Roses—except that this time, that woman Liz will serve me, instead of a beautiful girl I know.” I patted his cheek and gave him the smile he was after. I admit I was surprised he intended to keep up his pattern of visiting the Garden, but there was no reason I should have been—he’d been going there long before I came into the picture, so why not keep going now? “But Joanie,” he whispered, and took me in his arms, “when I get back, have I got a piece of news! I’m still pinching myself. I’ll give you a little hint: From now on, we can lead a normal life, like other people.”

He went up, changed to walking clothes, the rough shoes he had always worn, the double-weave trousers, flannel sport shirt, and coat. He patted me, kissed me, and headed for the door, waving at Boyd and tapping his watch. Then, quite briskly, he went marching off. He hadn’t said anything about me, if I wished to go somewhere, and I thought: I’ll fix that, right now. So I got a coat and went out to where Boyd was in the car, waiting to start down and bring Earl back. I got in the back seat and asked him to drive me to the garage where I’d left my car. He looked startled, but then said: “O.K., Mrs. White.”

“I’d prefer you call me Joan.”

“All right,” Boyd said. “Joan.”

At the garage, I paid the storage bill, $35, and then drove back. On the way I drove past my house, my out-of-date little bungalow, the only home I’d known since I bailed out of Pittsburgh. It looked exactly the same. I drove on. When I got to the White mansion—I can’t make myself say “got home”—I drove around back to the garage and put my car in there. Three other cars were there, a station wagon, a pick-up truck, and a slightly battered sedan, the last probably belonging to one of the servants. I’m sure I could have found keys to one of the other two and used it, but I was happier having my own car on hand.

Just before six here came Earl, in the car with Boyd, and I met him in the hall, asking if he had a nice walk. “Very nice,” he answered, “except for the stop at the Garden. Your former colleague, Liz, is a wholly objectionable person, cheap, familiar, and in all ways dreadful.”

“I like her.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“She’s a close personal friend, almost the only friend I have here, and I’ll be grateful if you speak no ill of her.”

“… As you wish.”

“Good, then we’ll say no more about her.”

I was a bit disagreeable, while trying not to be. Then, thinking it best to seem interested: “But, Earl, you said you have news. What is it?”

His frown disappeared, his face lit up, and he said: “The most beautiful news imaginable. Joan, today I saw a new doctor, and when I told him what Cord had said—that I have to live cautiously for the rest of my life, that there’s nothing that can be done—he just laughed. He says that’s all out of date. Maybe ten years ago it was true, but not today. He’s begun me on a course of treatments that he says will instantly show results. Something called intravenous chelation—it’s a new technique, where they flush some chemical through you and on its way out it takes whatever’s causing the problem with it. I don’t say I understand all the details, but that’s the gist of it. That, and shots of Vitamin E twice daily.”

“And he thinks that will cure your angina?”

“He’s certain of it. He’s done it for a dozen other patients—two dozen, maybe—and it’s worked for all of them.”

“And you tried it today? Is it painful?”

“Not bad, really. The injections are like any injection, and the chelation, well, you sit two or three hours with a bag slowly draining into your arm through a needle. There’s a pinch when the needle goes in, but after that you forget it’s even there.”

“Until you get up and try to walk away.”

“It’s on a stand,” he said. “It rolls.”

“… Well, it’s awfully exciting,” I said, trying to make myself sound pleased. “And I guess worth a try. But how will you know if it’s worked?”

A grin came over his face, like a young boy’s. “We’ll just have to give it a trial. He said tonight’s not too soon, since it’s had a few hours now to do its work.”

“Earl, I’m not so sure … you’d be taking an awful chance…”

“Dr. Jameson assured me I’m not.”

“Dr. Jameson is not the one who’s at risk.”

“His reputation is.”

“Your
life
is!”

Earl looked frustrated. “Are you saying you won’t?”

“Give me a minute to think.”

“I’ll give you ten seconds.”

“Then, no. I’m too scared. Of a repeat of what happened in London, only worse.”

“What happened in London was caused by all that wrestling you made me do. If you’ll stop arguing about it, and cooperate instead, then—”

“I
won’t cooperate.”

I heard my mouth say it, cold and quiet, to mean it. His whole manner suddenly changed. Then, also quiet, to mean it, he said: “No, you won’t, will you.”

“I don’t want you dropping dead beside me—”

“No, Joan. Don’t lie.” He stepped closer. “That isn’t why. You sound quite noble, but there’s one thing wrong with it, slightly. You won’t cooperate because you don’t want to cooperate. I feel like a fool.”

“Earl—”

“You’ve been playing a game with me, haven’t you? You’ve been pretending it’s me you want, when actually it’s my money—my fortune, this house, these servants, and the rest that I’ve given you. It’s—”

“Earl, it’s not, as I can prove.”

“O.K., start proving.”

“If it were what you’ve said, all I’d have to do is cooperate and lo and behold, a corpse would be holding me—and everything would fall in my hands. Instead of which, for your own good, I refuse to cooperate at the risk of your life. Now, does that prove it?”

“It might have, when I still was at risk. Now, it does not.”

“Well, you might think this new treatment is a sure thing, but I call it wishful thinking, and possibly quackery, and if I’m right you could die from it. What else can I say?”

But he was shaking his head. “There’s nothing you can say, because you’re not telling the truth. You’re lying to me, also to yourself.”

“Oh, you know what I tell myself? I wish you’d tell me how.”

“Be glad to. What your eyes say is not the same as what’s coming out of your mouth. They have the same identical look as that boy of yours, when he screamed at me. You look exactly like him, Joan, and your eyes say the same thing. He hated me, and you do. I’ve been suspecting, since London, since you wouldn’t let me touch you, since you insisted we fly home early. And now—”

I tried to take hold of his arm, but he shook me off, then at the top of his lungs he called: “Jasper!
Jasper!”

From the kitchen, and then out the dining room door, along came Boyd, buttoning his coat as he ran. “Jasper’s got the day off today, Mr. White, remember?” Earl didn’t answer, just stormed out to the car and got in. Boyd followed, bent low beside the window, touched his cap at some word from inside, got in, and drove off.

I didn’t feel like dinner, and went out to the kitchen to explain to Araminta, as well as to Myra, who was also on duty. I apologized for having no appetite, and they said that was O.K. They were quite nice about it, but I could tell by their manner they knew why.

I went upstairs and stewed—but then after a while felt hungry after all. Having passed up the dinner they’d already made, though, I couldn’t change my mind and ask them to do it over. Then I knew where I would eat. Going out through the kitchen again, I surprised Araminta and Myra having their own dinner together, and told them: “If Mr. White comes in while I’m gone, will you tell him I’ll be back around nine or ten? There’s something I have to do. I’m using my car, tell him.”

“Yes, Miss Joan. We will.”

I drove to the Garden, parked, and went in the cocktail bar. It was jammed, with Bianca helping Liz cover. Bianca came over, shook hands, asked how I’d been, and then when I explained I’d come for dinner, brought me to a table, the same one Earl had sat at and that Tom had sat at, and asked what I was going to have. “What have you got?” I asked her. “I’m good and hungry.”

“Roast beef, fried chicken, goulash.”

“I’ll have the goulash, Bianca.”

The goulash was done to her own special recipe, and she was quite proud of it, so it was kind of a compliment to her that I said I’d have it. She went out in the kitchen to call it while I went over and shook hands with Jake, then put my arms around Liz, kissed her, and said “Surprise, surprise.” Then, taking my starters to the table as I’d done
for customers so many times—the napkin, knife, fork, spoon, bread, and butter that everyone got with dinner—I sat down. But I suddenly had an impulse: “Never mind serving me, Bianca,” I told her. “I’ll eat in my usual place.”

So, carrying my starters back through the swinging door, I went out in the kitchen, shook hands with Mr. Bergie, as well as the dishwasher boy, who was new. Then I told Mr. Bergie: “I’m the goulash Bianca just called—and I’ll have it here at my regular spot.” I seated myself at the same folding table I’d sat at my first night, between the stove and the pantry door. I made myself comfortable and waited while Mr. Bergie put my plate together. Then I went and got it, used the cutlery I had in my hand, sat down and ate it. “Goulash is nice tonight,” I told him, and he gave a little salute. I took some salad from the crisper, decided to skip dessert, and drew myself black coffee. Then I sat there and sipped it, feeling easy, relaxed, and as though I was with friends.

When I went back to the bar, the dinner rush had eased off, and I sat down at my same table, to continue my talk with Liz. “Someone was in,” she whispered.

“… Oh? When?”

“Today, right after we opened.”

“… And?”

“I told him I’d seen you.”

“O.K.”

I tried to act unconcerned, but she did not let me get away with it. She just stood there and waited, and finally I couldn’t take it any longer. “Well?” I burst out. “What did he say?”

“That he couldn’t care less—or words to that effect.”

“… So? He couldn’t care less.”

But she stood there some more, and then once again I burst out: “And what did you say?”

“Nothing I could repeat.”

Then: “I told him stop handing me horseshit, that if he wanted to hear the rest, say so.”

“And? Did he?”

“What do you think?”

“And what did you tell him then?”

“Baby, I don’t know if I did right, but there’s such a thing as heading a mess off—I mean, if he knew what you told me today, he could feel better already, and not go barging off to do something foolish. So, I took the liberty. I told him what you said—not all, but so he got the idea.”

“What idea, Liz?”

“That you’re hooked on him still and haven’t slept with your new husband because of it.”

“But—that’s not true.”

“Then I misunderstood you when you said you hadn’t consummated. If I told it wrong, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t misunderstand that—it’s just as you told him it is. But not for that reason. I wish it was, but it’s not.”