Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

At any rate, one night when he called to take her out, she complained of not feeling well. In fact, it was easy to see she wasn’t shamming, and noticing that she was alternately shivering and burning up he sent for a doctor and remained there while the doctor examined her. (She spoke of him as her fiance whenever it became necessary in front of a third person.) It was nothing serious — merely an attack of the flu, but she had to go to bed.

He would not — to give him some credit — have walked out on her then and there; but she was feeling so miserable that for her part she wished he would leave her alone. So, noticing this, he kissed her — a mere peck — and left.

His original intention — at least, from the door to the car — was to go to his own apartment and make the best of an unexpected solitary evening. But the stars were at their dirty work again, and his wrist watch didn’t help either (9:48); he was 28 and didn’t have the flu, so—

Her name was Allie.

And she wasn’t going to be like Corinne — he found that out right from the start. She could enjoy the stars, sure, and she could kiss, sure, but she’d take up both those occupations on his time, as his officially credited fiance or his lawfully wedded wife — not on her own time, as a free-lance, if you get the distinction.

And her sense of timing was much better, too. He came out three or four kisses short the first meeting. So he wanted to see her again, to try to make up the shortage. But she always knew just when to stop. He was still a couple short the second meeting, so that made him want to see her a third time. By then he was so hopelessly in hock to her that his only chance of clearing up the debt was to marry her, and try to work it out on a lifetime payment plan.

She was a five-star general in the battle of the sexes. And it must have been inborn, because she’d never heard a shot fired until she met him.

At first he managed to sandwich the two of them in together. He saw Allie a couple of nights in the week, saw Corinne a couple of others. In fact, he would have liked to continue his three-way-stretch arrangement indefinitely; the difficulty, however, lay not with them but with himself. Soon more and more nights with Corinne reminded him of the night she’d had the flu: the stars above and the wrist watch were there, but not Corinne’s stars any more and not Corinne’s time. A waste of Allie’s time, instead.

Finally there were no more nights with Corinne — just one last station-break and the program went off the air.

“You’ve lost interest in me. I’m not blind. I’ve noticed it for some time now.”

“That’s the chance you have to take,” he told her, “when you’re in love.”

“But why did it happen to you?” she wanted to know, “and not to me? Shouldn’t we both come out even?”

“You don’t come out even in love,” he told her. “Someone always has to come out behind.” And then he added, “I’ll call you up some night.” Which is the way some men say goodbye to a woman.

She’ll find somebody else, he thought; she was easy for me, she’ll be easy for the next one. And he shrugged her off.

But there are three things in this world you can’t shrug off: death, taxes — and a girl who loves you.

Now they were in the homestretch, Allie and he. Now when they looped their hands above their heads on the dance floor, her engagement diamond blazed toward the lights, proclaiming, “This is mine. Hands off.” Not to jewel thieves, but to stealers of men.

Now all the tribal customs were brought to bear — everything the world insists shall surround the lawful mating of a man and a woman. The meetings with the relatives from far-off places; the luncheons, dinners, parties, showers; the choosing of a trousseau; the finding of their first home; even the purchase of the furniture that was to go into it.

Now the date was set, the license applied for, the church reserved, the flowers and the caterers and the champagne arranged for. Now even the blood tests were taken, and they were both declared pure. All that remained was the marrying and the honeymoon.

Now the boys got together and gave him his bachelor party, his last night to howl. And the howls were something to hear. Three separate times around town they were arrested en masse , and twice the arresting officers not only released them but even accompanied them for a short part of the way, and the third time wished them well and urged them only to “keep it down, boys.” Then finally the last two survivors, the die-hards whose pledge had been to see him safely home, had him at his door, and after much fumbling with keys, and draping of arms across shoulders, and swaying and tottering, they thrust him inside, closed the door, and left him.

And suddenly he was sober, stone-cold, ice-cold sober, and the whole party had been a waste of liquor — at least, for him.

Corinne was sitting there. Waiting for him.

“You took so long to get back,” she complained mildly. “I knew you still lived here, but I thought you’d never get back.”

“Had a little party,” he said. He was starkly sober, but his tongue hadn’t yet quite caught up with the rest of him. A warning bell started ringing: I wonder if she knows, I wonder if she knows.

“I’m not criticizing,” she went on. “You’re free to go out with your pals — free every night in the week. It’s only natural, so what’s the harm?”

The warning bell stopped suddenly. There was silence. She doesn’t know, he told himself, and she’s not going to know from me.

Business of fooling around with a cigarette, so he’d use up time and wouldn’t have to say too much to her. Maybe she’d go away.

“I know it’s late,” she said.

He looked at the wrist watch that had played such a double-crossing part in their little story. Meaning, it is late.

She doesn’t want to start over again, does she? For Pete’s sake, not that! Love is a one-way street.

“Aren’t you working?” he asked. “Don’t you have to get up early in the morning?”

“I haven’t been working since last week,” she said. Then, understandingly, “You’re tired; I know.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but I do have to talk to you about something. I’ve got to. It’s very important.”

Now he knew, more or less. There were only two things a girl could possibly want from a man, in all the world, in all this life: love or money. And since love was out, that left only money. Another thing told him: she was much too tractable, noticeably taking pains not to antagonize or ruffle him in any way.

“Won’t it keep till tomorrow?” he said by way of acquiescence. “I’m beat Completely beat. I’ll come over to see you tomorrow.”

“But will you?” she asked, frowning, but still with that air of not wanting to push him, not wanting to crowd him.

“Aw, for the love of Mike, Cor,” he said impatiently, “when did you ever know me to break my word to you?”

It was true. He never had — not in the little things.

She had to accept that — it was the best she could get

“I’ve moved since the last time I saw you,” she said, and gave him the new address.

“All right, I’ll be there, Allie,” he promised. He was almost nudging the door inch by inch right in her face, anxious to get rid of her.

For a moment he lost an inch or two. “Allie?” she said. “Who’s Allie?”

“That’s Al,” he said quickly. “Fellow I go around with — with him tonight I’m so used to saying his name every five minutes or so.”

He finally got the door shut and went “Whew!” — from the shoelaces up. Money, he said, that’s all it is — she wants money. That hint about not working. All right, I’ll give her some. Wind the thing up that way. She was entitled to something after all, he supposed.