James Cain - The Magician's Wife

The last night he gave her dinner, prepared by himself: Grant’s steak, baked potato, peas and onions, salad, and ice cream with brandied cherries, with martinis to start things off, and Château Neuf du Pape. It all impressed her no end, except for the wine, which made her laugh. “It costs a lot, Clay — the only thing in its favor. For the rest, it makes you sleepy, and I didn’t come here to sleep.” Putting the bottle back without letting him open it, she found a Château Margaux and pulled the cork herself. “Claret’s all right,” she said. “It’s light, it leaves your head clear, and goes fine with steak. That other — it’s for the tourists, really.” Such Escoffier talk delighted him, and he spent an enchanted evening, listening to tales about Elly, his beauty, his angelic disposition, how he was loved in the day nursery where she put him each morning on going to work.

But later, stretched out once more by the fire, she reverted to the future, the first time she had since he brought the subject up. “You know,” she said quietly, taking his hand, “I’m beholden to you for opening my eyes to — everything. The spot that I’m in, Clay. I never realized before what a heads-I-lose-tails-I-can’t-win proposition I’m up against. Because that’s true, isn’t it? That even by marking time I can’t get anything or get anything for Elly, can I? If I try for a settlement now, all I can get is alimony, which stops when I marry you, and an allowance for him. And if I wait, it’s exactly the same, with Elly nowhere, either, unless Alec should — die. Clay, they talk about four-letter words, but that little three-letter one is the worst in the language for me. It’s the truth, though, isn’t it? That once the old man — isn’t here any more Alec has to — die — I must make myself say it — before either one, Elly or I, can — share. Well, as I said, you opened my eyes, and thanks. The next thing is, what now?”

It was some moments before he said: “I’ve told you what I think. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Leave him, go to Reno, marry me — and get on with your life. So far as Elly goes, he’ll be no worse off. I’m not starving to death, I remind you. I’m plenty able to raise him.”

“Clay, that touches me so.”

“Will you think it over?”

“I will. I promise. And will you think it over?”

“... Think what over, Sally?”

“There must be some other way!”

“What’s wrong with this way? My way?”

“But it seems so awful, Clay! To have my child cut off! Just left out on a limb! With no way to get it — the money that’s rightfully his!”

“In due time he can inherit!”

“Yes, but when is that?”

“For that you’ll have to ask God.”

“You’re thinking it over, all right. You have thought it over, and you’ve come to the end of the plank. You’re through — you don’t see that girl any more.”

Next evening, instead of camping by the window, he lit the floor lamps, put on a Tchaikovsky album, and at luxurious ease sat himself down to listen. The 1812, one of his favorites, was banging briskly along when the phone rang. Smiling icily to himself, he let it go on without answering. Romeo and Juliet had started when it rang again, and again he did nothing about it. But twenty minutes later his inside phone rang, and Doris told him: “Lady to see you, sir.” Caught by surprise, he hesitated, then said: “Send her up.” He cut off the music and stood thinking, trying to fathom why Sally, so frightened of being seen, and having a key of her own to come in the back way, should be showing herself now down in the front lobby. Making nothing of it, he went out in the hall to meet her, closing the door after him and resolving she shouldn’t get in, no matter what kind of excuse, what weird, farfetched tale, he would have to come up with. But what stepped from the elevator wasn’t Sally at all, but an apparition in black, with crimson hat, gloves, bag, and shoes, that eyed him for a moment and then held out its hand. “Mr. Lockwood?” it asked. “I’m Mrs. Simone, Sally Alexis’ mother.”

“ Oh! ” he exclaimed after a startled silence. “Yes, Mrs. Simone — Sally has spoken of you. I’m honored.”

“To say nothing of flabbergasted?”

“Well, surprised, I admit, but pleasantly.”

“I should have phoned, and would have, except I wasn’t sure you’d see me, and so, to head off a brush, I barged.”

“I’m certainly delighted you did.”

“At least it’s nice of you to say so.”

By now he had got his door open again and ushered her in. Her reaction to the living room was much like Sally’s. And while she marched herself around, taking in various things, he stood taking her in, with more of an eye to detail than had been possible out in the hall. He noted the smart hang of the taffeta dress, and the Continental look of the matching stole that was flung over one shoulder after a turn on her neck. He noted the crimson accessories, of the exact shade to bring up her iron-gray hair. He noted the fresh, handsome face, with large hazel eyes. But most of all he noted the “figure to write home about,” a slim, sinuous thing of no more than medium size, but voluptuous in every curve. “That dress,” he said quickly when she caught him looking at her, “if it was done in dark blue, would be the Portico hostess uniform.”

“It’s the original of the Portico hostess uniform,” she said, a bit tartly. “I designed it myself. And I wasn’t too pleased, I can tell you, when Bunny Granlund saw it and thought it was just the thing for the Portico girls to wear. I wasn’t too pleased, but it means business to the store — to Fisher’s, where I work — and I get a royalty, too, so I don’t say too much about it. In the meantime I wear it, as is. ”

“It’s lovely. Simple — and beautiful.”

She thanked him and continued her tour of inspection. Then suddenly: “Why this?” she asked. “Why Mexico?”

“Well, why not?” he parried.

“It seems a bit odd somehow. In Maryland.”

“It’s a long story. I got into meat and then thought I should learn more about it. So I bought a bunch of books, among them one called The King Ranch, that I heard really went into it. It did, all right, but went into other things too, like Texas history, the Mexican War, and that stuff. It cleared up all kinds of things for me, like why they fought that war. Why we did was no mystery at all: we just helped ourselves to a strip of desert down there, for no good reason at all except to make a prettier map, and because the Rio Grande was longer than the Nueces and made a nicer-looking boundary. But why would they fight us? It was because it just so happened that this strip of worthless desert also included a harbor, the one at Punta Isabella, inside the Brazos Santiago — the only good one they had north of Veracruz. No one is quite sure that we even knew it was there. So that’s why they went to war, and I don’t blame them one bit. When I got through with that book, I was hooked on Mexico, and my hat was off to the writer. His name is Tom Lea, and you never heard of him but—”

“I? Never heard of Tom Lea?”

She seemed dumbfounded, and pointing to a drawing of a horse surrounded by cactus, said: “That is a Tom Lea — or I’m crazy. Peering close, she added: “Yes — it’s signed.”

“Oh. He’s an artist too — as you are.”

“Not in his class — but I’m working .”

He said he admired the ads she did for Fisher’s, and she seemed pleased, but got back insistently to him. “Why meat?” she wanted to know.