James Cain - The Magician's Wife

“Thanks,” said Clay. “And thank your wife.”

“O.K., it’s going to cost, but you couldn’t do any less, and at least with this guy she can’t lose. Now! Quit your glawming, get on with your life!”

He did not, however, at once go back to the sitting room. He went to the bathroom and shaved, then got into the tub. The water was running when the tap came on the door, and he hadn’t heard the phone. “Mr. Nat Pender calling,” said Grace, through the door. “Will you take it? Or shall I have him call later?” He took it and listened while Nat revised their arrangement. “Clay,” he said, “we kept talking about various things, and I didn’t get quite caught up until we said good-by. Forget that check for part — forget any check, boy. I wouldn’t louse your trip, not for anything. When you get back will be time — and she gets her check back tomorrow. Now forget her, forget me, forget everything but your wife and having a real nice time.”

He dressed and at last went back to the sitting room. The TV was still on, but Grace had got herself dressed, in white faille, and the paper was neatly folded on top of the radiator. His eyes as he met hers were blank, with the look card players have, and also criminals facing the law. He glanced out at the bright sunlight, said: “Hm — looks like a nice day after all. They have nothing but rain in this place, but when the sun does shine it’s pretty.” Then he sat down and watched the Baltimore Colts run over the Washington Redskins, or “Skins,” as the announcer called them.

“May we have that off?” she asked in a moment.

“Why, sure, if it bores you.”

He snapped the TV off. “Mr. Nat Pender,” she said, walking over to face him, “is a criminal lawyer. What business does he have with you?”

“ Hey! Who wants to know?”

“I do. Your wife. Remember?”

“Why — he called on a certain matter.”

“Clay, I asked you, what matter?”

“Well — actually it was a call-back, about something he forgot to tell me. I had called him, as a matter of fact.”

“About that girl?”

“Could have been. Well — yes.”

“He was her lawyer before — he held a press conference for her before we left Channel City. Clay, you had something to do with that?”

“Well, I don’t just now recollect, I—”

“ Answer me! ”

He hadn’t been meeting her eye, but now, when he had to, saw a woman of ice, once a corporation executive herself, who couldn’t be fobbed off with vague evasions. “O.K.,” he said, “I may have.”

“Did you pay his bill?”

On that he grew disagreeable, saying, “What’s it to you?” and other ugly things. Her face, as she stared down at him, didn’t change. “In other words,” she persisted, “you paid him?”

“Well, goddamit, suppose I did?”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you! I don’t think she’s guilty!”

“That’s her lookout, isn’t it? Is it up to you to pay the attorney of every girl who’s falsely accused? Why did you pay this man?”

“Listen, there’s nothing between her and me!”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“Then why the third degree? Why—”

“You did it, that’s why.”

“I already said I did! How many times do I—”

“ Stop it! Stop pretending I mean one thing when I’m talking about something else. There’s only one explanation for this, one explanation that explains. You drove that car she saw, the one she thought was Sally’s. You killed Alec. Didn’t you?”

She stood like something Greek, like something carved in marble, while he slumped in his chair, his eyes not focusing, his mouth slobbery. Then: “Yes,” he whispered.

She went to the window and stood for a while, looking out at the river, where it wound around the town. When she spoke, her voice was still cold. “What was the quarrel about?” she asked. “Why did Sally break with you?”

Falteringly at first, by jerks and gasps and gulps, with growing coherence, as confession seemed to steady him, he recounted his scenes with Sally, her visit to him and his to her at her house, and then plunged on to the visit from Buster and his talks with Mr. Pender on the phone. “That’s all!” he broke out presently. “It’s all I know to tell you! If you have any questions to ask, get it over with now, please! I’m not enjoying this any! And I’m not one damned bit sure that I’ll be able to take it if you start up again — later on .”

“You intend to stand by this girl?”

“I can’t do less! I can’t walk off and leave her! If you think I can, if you think I’m going to, you’re nuts.”

“I’m not nuts.”

So far, though their voices hadn’t been loud, they had been bellowing over a chasm, so far as close communication was concerned. Now, however, she went over, lifted the white faille dress, knelt beside him, and took his head in her arms. “I had to know where we stand,” she whispered, “or I couldn’t make any sense. Now, Clay, I speak. I tell you: “ I’m standing by you! ... If you want me to!”

“You needn’t. You don’t have to stand by a rat.”

“I see no rats in here.”

“Look around. Maybe there is one.”

“All I see is a wonderful guy that I love, that I’m married to, that’s my husband. That comes first, before anyone else — daughter, grandchild, anyone. I love them, I can’t pretend that I don’t. But you come first, and I stand by if you want me... If you don’t, say it, and I’ll get on the plane and go home.”

“Are you being funny, Grace?”

“Then, you do want me?”

“More than anything on this earth.”

“Then, that’s settled.”

She pulled away, sitting on her heels, as though to go on, but he interrupted: “Do we have to keep talking about it? If you’re with me, if you can find it in your heart not to despise me too much — then that’s enough, for now. I’m kind of—!”

“Groggy?”

“Sick, Grace. Sick of it!”

“Darling, there’s more to say, that will—”

“Then say it, get it said!”

“That will make you feel better, I think! ”

She climbed in his lap, covered his face with tender little kisses, went on: “It might help a little bit, perhaps, if I stood on the edge and said kind things to you down there in the pit. It’s not enough! I owe you more, not from duty, but because there is more! I’m down in the pit with you! ”

“Hey! I’m in a pit, all right. But you—?”

“Darling! If I had listened to you that very first night, and not only to you but my heart, none of this would have happened! You made passes at me, beautiful, insolent passes, that made my heart go bump. I could have yielded to you and taken you from her right then! You wanted to be taken, because of what she intended, of what you knew she intended, of what I knew she intended! I burrowed my head in the sand, but I knew the truth in my heart. And so I made myself say no, made myself go on, with my slick, smart-aleck intrigue, using you as a cat’s-paw, as I thought. So you can move over, if you think it’s your private pit! I’m in it with you!”

She pushed, wriggled, and forced herself into his chair, her dress slipping up, her legs twined over his, her mouth on his.

Channel city looked just the same when they got back, in mid-November, as it had when they had gone away except that the leaves had turned brown, yellow, and red. For the effect on his morale, she had insisted that Mr. Pender be paid the full $6,250 he asked and that she be permitted, as a lift on the money problem, to send her personal check, for deposit in his account, for $5,000. She also made him complete the trip, and they went to Memphis, St. Louis, and Denver, winding up at Mankato. Here they stayed with Pat at his estate on the Minnesota River, and he really did his stuff, bringing things to a climax with a big white-tie reception, followed by a dance, at the Ben-Pay Hotel. She was lovely in formal crimson, the labella of her orchids exactly matching her gown. She was vain of her affinity with these flowers, proclaiming that “they like you or they don’t — and as mine last ten days, it just goes to show.” Pat, impressed by such things, became her devoted pal, beauing her around, inspecting the picture with her, and inviting her to the unveiling — “which of course can’t come just yet.” When at last they got home and went to his apartment, he was almost himself again, giving a fine imitation of a brisk, masterful executive when he called on Mr. Pender to find out how things stood.