Ira Levin: A Kiss Before Dying

Dorothy noticed. Inquiringly, she turned to him.

He looked at her and expelled a troubled sigh. Then he lifted his finger in a gesture that asked her to wait a moment before returning her attention to the lecturer. He began to write, squeezing words onto the small piece of paper, words that he was apparently copying from the novel. When he was through, he passed the paper to her.

Traduccion, por favor, he had headed it. Translation, please Querido, Espero que me perdonares por la infelicidad que causare. No hay ninguna otra cosa que puedo hacer.

She gave him a mildly puzzled glance, because the sentences were quite simple. His face was expressionless, waiting. She picked up her pen and turned the paper over, but the back of it was covered with doodling. So she tore a page from her assignment pad and wrote on that.

She handed him the translation. He read it and nodded. "Muchas gracias," he whispered. He hunched forward and wrote in his notebook. Dorothy crumpled the paper on which he had written the Spanish and dropped it to the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw it land. There was another bit of paper near it, and some cigarette butts. At the end of the day they would all be swept together and burned.

He looked at the paper again, at Dorothy's small slanted handwriting: Darling, I hope you will forgive me for the unhappiness that I will cause. There is nothing else that I can do.

He tucked the paper carefully into the pocket on the inner cover of the notebook, and closed it. He closed the novel and placed it on top of the notebook. Dorothy turned, looked at the books and then at him. Her questioning glance asked if he were finished.

He nodded and smiled.

They were not to see each other that evening. Dorothy wanted to wash and set her hair and pack a small valise for their weekend honeymoon at the New Washington House. But at eight-thirty the phone on her desk rang.

"Listen, Dorrie. Something's come up. Something important."

"What do you mean?"

"I've got to see you right away."

"But I can't I can't come out. I just washed my hair."

"Dorrie, this is important."

"Can't you tell me now?"

"No. I have to see you. Meet me at the bench in half an hour."

"It's drizzling out. Can't you come to the lounge downstairs?"

"No. Listen, you know that place where we had the cheeseburgers last night? Gideon's? Well, meet me there. At nine."

"I don't see why you can't come to the lounge..."

"Baby, please.. "

"Is-is it anything to do with tomorrow?"

"I'll explain everything at Gideon's."

"Is it?"

"Well, yes and no. Look, everything's going to be all right. I'll explain everything. You just be there at nine."

"All right."

At ten minutes of nine he opened the bottom drawer of his bureau and took two envelopes from under the pajamas. One envelope was stamped, sealed, and addressed: Miss Ellen Kingship North Dormitory Caldwell College Caldwell, Wisconsin He had typed the address that afternoon in the Student Union lounge, on one of the typewriters available for general student use. In the envelope was the note that Dorothy had written in class that morning. The other envelope contained the two capsules.

He put one envelope in each of the inner pockets of his jacket, taking care to remember which envelope was on which side. Then he put on his trench-coat, belted it securely, and with a final glance in the mirror, left the room.

When he opened the front door of the house he was careful to step out with his right foot forward, smiling indulgently at himself as he did so.

Gideon's was practically empty when he arrived. Only two booths were occupied; in one, a pair of elderly men sat frozen over a chessboard; in the other, across the room, Dorothy sat with her hands clasped around a cup of coffee, gazing down at it as though it were a crystal ball. She had a white kerchief tied about her head. The hair that showed in front was a series of flattened damp-darkened rings, each transfixed by a bobby pin.

She became aware of him only when he was standing at the head of the booth taking off his coat. Then she looked up, her brown eyes worried. She had no make-up on. Her pallor and the closeness of her hair made her seem younger. He put his coat on a hook beside her raincoat and eased into the seat opposite her. "What is it?" she asked anxiously.

Gideon, a sunken cheeked old man, came to their table.

"What's yours?"

"Coffee."

"Just coffee?"

"Yes."

Gideon moved away, his slippered feet dragging audibly. Dorothy leaned forward. "What is it?"

He kept his voice low, matter-of-fact. "When I got back to my place this afternoon there was a message for me. Hermy Godsen called."

Her hands squeezed tighter around the coffee cup. "Hermy Godsen..."

"I called him back." He paused for a moment, scratching the tabletop. "He made a mistake with those pills the other day. His uncle-" He cut off as Gideon approached with a cup of coffee rattling in his hand. They sat motionless, eyes locked, until the old man was gone. "His uncle switched things around in the drugstore or something. Those pills weren't what they were supposed to be."

"What were they?" She sounded frightened. "Some kind of emetic. You said you threw up. Lifting his cup, he put a paper napkin in the saucer to absorb the coffee that Gideon's shaking hand bad spilled. He pressed the bottom of the cup into the napkin to wipe it.

She breathed relief. "Well that's all over with. They didn't hurt me. The way you spoke on the phone, you got me so worried..."

"That's not the point, baby." He put the soggy napkin to one side. "I saw Hermy just before I called you. He gave me the right pills, the ones we should have had last time."

Her face sagged. "No..."

"Well there's nothing tragic. We're right where we were Monday, that's all. It's a second chance. If they work, everything's rosy. If not, we can still get married tomorrow." He stirred his coffee slowly, watching it swirl. "I've got them with me. You can take them tonight."

"But..."

"But what?"

"I don't want a second chance. I don't want any more pills..." She leaned forward, hands knotted white on the table. "All I've been thinking about is tomorrow, how wonderful, how happy..." She closed her eyes, the lids pressing out tears.

Her voice had risen. He glanced across the room to where the chess players sat with Gideon watching. Fishing a nickel from his pocket, he pushed it into the jukebox selector and jabbed one of the buttons. Then he clasped her clenched hands, forced them open, held them. "Baby, baby," he soothed, "do we have to go through it all again? It's you I'm thinking of. You, not me."

"No." She opened her eyes, staring at him. "If you were thinking of me you'd want what I want." Music blared up, loud brassy jazz.

"What do you want, baby? To starve? This is no movie; this is real."

"We wouldn't starve. You're making it worse than it would be. You'd get a good job even if you didn't finish school. You're smart, you're-"

"You don't know," he said flatly. "You just don't know. You're a kid who's been rich all her life."

Her hands tried to clench within his. "Why must everyone always throw that at me? Why must you? Why do you think that's so important?"

"It is important, Dorrie, whether you like it or not. Look at you,-a pair of shoes to match every outfit, a handbag to match every pair of shoes. You were brought up that way. You can't-"

"Do you think that matters? Do you think I care?" She paused. Her hands relaxed, and when she spoke again the anger in her voice had softened to a straining earnestness. "I know you smile at me sometimes, at the movies I like... at my being romantic... Maybe it's because you're five years older than I am, or because you were in the Army, or because you're a man,-I don't know... But I believe, I truly believe, that if two people really love each other... the way I love you... the way you say you love me... then nothing else matters very much... money, things like that, they just don't matter. I believe that... I really do..." Her hands pulled away from his and flew to her face. He drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to the back of her hand. She took it and held it against her eyes. "Baby, I believe that too. You know I do," he said gently. "Do you know what I did today?" He paused. "Two things. I bought a wedding ring for you, and I put a classified ad in the Sunday Clarion. An ad for a job. Night work." She patted her eyes with the handkerchief. "Maybe I did paint things too black. Sure, we'll manage to get along, and we'll be happy. But let's be just a little realistic, Dorrie. We'll be even happier if we can get married this summer with your father's approval.