Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

“It’s that stock that bothers you, isn’t it?”

She looked up quickly. “That’s right. I keep wondering if that’s the only reason he’s going through with this. He says that he wants me, and the stock isn’t important.”

“Half a million dollars plus control of a good company is a nice dowry, Sue. Do you want to try something?”

“What kind of a something?”

“Suppose you sell your shares to your sister for the consideration of one dollar down and the balance within a year. Sell them at the market price. I’ll make out a bill of sale and witness it and we’ll get another witness. Don’t say a word of it to Roy until you get down to Maryland. Then tell him you no longer have the stock and see what happens.”

“Why not tell him right away?”

“It won’t be a good laboratory test.”

She stared up at him, stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray on the bedside table. Her eyes narrowed. “You think he won’t go through with it.”

“What do you think?” he asked gently.

“Why did you tell me this, Matthew Otis? Now I’ve got to do it. I must know.”

“Sure you have to know, Sue.”

He went downstairs and told Patience. She brought him the writing materials and he made out a bill of sale, listing the stock certificates. Susan came downstairs and signed it, gravely accepted the dollar from Patience.

When the doorbell rang, Susan hurried to the hallway. They heard the low, familiar tones of Roy Bedford’s voice. A few minutes later a car motor started in front. Matt and Patience stood at the window and watched the car drive away.

“She won’t tell him until just before the ceremony,” Matt said.

“He’ll never go through with it.”

“Susan believes he will.”

“You know, Matt,” she said, “I can — somehow feel the effect he has on her. He’s completely unprincipled. He has the fascination that high places or snakes or great speed in a car has.”

Her voice sounded so weary that he was filled with sudden sympathy. He put his arm around her, and kissed her gently on the lips. It was meant to be a kiss which would express his sympathy. But it turned into something else entirely.

When at last they parted, her eyes were wide and shining and his breathing was shallow.

“Where — did that come from?” she asked.

“A special import from China. Always take advantage of a troubled woman.”

“Fool!” she said softly. “Let’s go tell Evan what’s happened.”

Evan stood on the sidewalk, and watched Pat’s car drive away, Pat at the wheel and Matthew Otis beside her. Even after the twin red taillights went around the corner and the sound of the motor faded he stood there, his fists so tight his knuckles hurt.

At last he shook himself like a shaggy animal aroused from sleep and trudged up the stairs to his room. He clicked on the lights and sat down on the edge of the studio couch that served him as a bed.

He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. A drafting table, a couple of framed diplomas, a row of texts and reference books. The wallpaper had a design of faded roses.

He ran his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. His mouth ached from smiling.

Oh, it was a gay and happy smile. All evening. See, folks? I’m your friend. I’m Evan Cleveland, the patient beast. I didn’t want to come back here to Cranesbay. I came here because she is here. I went to work in the plant because I would see her more often. I watched her with quiet adoration. As time goes by, as she is twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five — I am glad. She will be mine. I wait in fatuous complacency for her one day to recognize my great love.

Evan Cleveland, the great lover.

She is cool and calm and slim and lovely — and I thought that I was the only one who could see the fire burning brightly under that placid surface. Susan burns brightly on the surface.

And then tonight the two of them come to me and she has at last awakened. I can barely hear what they are telling me! Something about Susan and a sale of Susan’s stock. She is vivid and lovely. And then I see the way she looks at Matthew Otis. It is hard to realize that I hate Matthew Otis. But he has stolen her from me. He doesn’t know it and neither does she.

He stood up, walked to the closet and took the bottle from the top shelf. As he walked woodenly back to the couch he tore the paper wrapping from the metal top. He sat down, tilted the bottle and swallowed. The liquor burned his stomach. He tilted the bottle again. When he set it clumsily on the floor it was half full.

He put his elbows on his knees, his square hands hanging limply from his wrists. After a bit he began to rock from side to side, making a low, moaning sound.

He fell heavily to the floor. He tried to get up, then cradled his head in his arms and wept. After a long time he fell asleep...

The cockpit of the little plane was finished in blue leather. Susan sat beside Roy Bedford, the palms of her hands cold and sweaty. Roy took the small mike from the clip and talked to the tower as he circled the small field.

The lights along the runway clicked on. The little plane settled down at last, the tires making one furtive squeal as they touched the concrete.

“Four hours,” Roy said. “Not bad.”

He taxied over to the hangars. She stood off to one side, her suitcase by her feet, as he talked with a man who had appeared out of the darkness. Within minutes a car appeared. Roy climbed in beside her, groped for her hand and held it tightly as the car hurried off into the night...

The beach house had been built so that at high tide the waves crashed against the rocks ten feet below the sill of the twelve-foot pane of flawless glass that faced the sea.

During early evening the waves had grown bigger. At midnight, the big swells punched the rocks with solid force, sending spray up to run down the huge window. With an impulse that she but vaguely understood, Rose Carney had put on a white strapless evening gown. Her bare white shoulders were perfect.

The Capehart thundered the bass in the Debussy La Mer. She had it turned too high. Tall candles shone with motionless flames. The wine was the deep color of blood.

A song of the sea. A minor chant to sadness and to the sea.

She thought of Rosie Carney of nine years back. Rosie Carney in love with Roy Bedford. Rosie Carney who had seen the strength of his incredible will, who had sensed his enormous drive. Rosie Carney who had loved him.

But this was Rose Carney. A slim woman who drank wine by candlelight while the sea touched the rocks below her window.

He had taken everything she had from the beginning. Her individuality.

My soul, she thought, if there is such a thing. He has made me over in the image of what he has wanted. A modern-day courtesan. A woman to say the right things, do the right things, cater to the right tastes.

Somewhere along the line she had lost the essence of Rose Carney. She had become a creation of Roy Bedford. Music and words by Roy Bedford. Gowns by Bedford. Sets by Bedford. Produced by Roy Bedford, from a script by Roy Bedford, from a play by Roy Bedford, from a cheap novel by a garage mechanic named Bedford.

Aloud she said, “What will become of me?”

She knew that he had enjoyed coming to her, telling her that it was all over. She had met him at the door, had lifted her lips to be kissed.

“Not this time, Rose,” he had said, grinning at her.

She had frowned. “What do you mean, Roy?”

“Baby, you’re talking to a man about to be married. About time, don’t you think?”

For one incredible moment of joy she had thought he meant her, then had seen the look in his eyes.

“A nice young article, Rosie. Cheeks like apples and smells like a load of hay. Miss Susan Furnivall will be married tonight to Mr. Roy Bedford, and you are not cordially invited to attend the ceremony.”