Evan Hunter - Nobody Knew They Were There

I whisper good-bye to my son. Gently, I replace the phone on its cradle. Sara, wide awake, is watching me from the bed.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing.”

“Who was that?”

“My son.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” I tell her, and turn away from her, and go into the bathroom to wash my face.

Sara has about her the look of an invalid recovering from a long illness. Pale, weary, she refuses at first to explain why she went to Seth’s. Head bent, she sits naked in the center of the bed while I badger her mercilessly, confident that no opposing attorney will object. I realize that I want her to cry, just as David cried on the telephone. She has told me that she never weeps, and I want her to weep now, in penance.

“Why did you go to Seth’s?” I demand.

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“To get drunk”

“Why?”

“Leave me alone. What do you want?”

“I want to know why you did such a damn fool thing.”

“I don’t have to account to you for anything.”

“Everything.”

“Nothing. Go to hell. Where are my clothes?”

“You’re not leaving this room until you…”

She tries to get off the bed, but I seize her arm and hurl her back against the headboard. She crouches there for an instant like a cat ready to spring, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back over her teeth, entirely feral, dangerous, more than a little frightening. I wait for her to pounce, but the anger transforms itself in the crack of an instant to something far more lethal, a contemptuous disdain that covers her face like a frozen mask.

“How’s your wife?” she asks.

“Never mind my wife,” I say. “I want to know…”

“No, let’s talk about your wife. Did she enjoy her little visit?”

“What visit?”

“You sou of a bitch!”

She gets off the bed and walks naked to the window. She folds her arms across her breasts, turns to face me, and in the learned manner of a British barrister addressing a hanging jury, says, “At twelve twenty-seven on Tuesday afternoon, one Sara Horne, concerned about her lover — mark you, lover — one Samuel Eisler also known as Arthur Sachs, phoned the hotel to inquire after his health. A woman answered the telephone. Sara Home, quite taken aback, asked to whom she was speaking, please. The woman, presumably similarly taken aback, asked to whom she was speaking, please. Sara Horne replied that this was Sara Horne, and asked that it be noted she had phoned. Upon information and belief, the woman Sara Horne addressed was one Abigail Eisler, spouse of the aforementioned Samuel Eisler, also known as Arthur Sachs.”

“All right, she was here.”

“Damn right, she was here.”

“So?”

“So I went to Seth's.”

“Why?”

“Because it was just too goddamn grubby for words. Talking to your goddamn wife on the telephone! ”

“Is that really why you went to Seth’s?”

“Why?”

“Because you were jealous?”

“Jealous!”

“What then?”

“Disgusted! You disgust me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Come here, Sara.”

“No.”

I go to her instead, and take her in my arms. She is trembling.

“You louse,” she says.

“I love you, Sara.”

I kiss her tentatively. She docs not respond. I kiss her again. She stands woodenly in my arms, and says, “Arthur, Arthur, what am I to do? Oh, dear, dear, what am I to do?” “About what?”

“I think I love you a little,” she says, and lifts her face to mine.

Weglowski does not call until noon. I arrange to meet him at one of the student lunch joints. Over ninety-nine-cent steaks with baked potatoes, we sit in a quiet corner of the room and whisper about the bridge, while all around us kids arc discussing calculus or chemistry.

“We can’t do it tonight,” I tell him. “It’s impossible. They’re here, and they’re checking, and they’re bound to…”

“Who, Sachs?”

“Agents. Federal agents.”

“You saw, Sachs?”

“Yes.”

“They come to you?”

“No. I don’t think they will.”

“Good.” Weglowski nods and spreads butter into his potato. “But you think they walk the track?”

“They may. I don't know. I’ve heard that they do.”

“What time the train comes?”

“Ten forty-eight. Saturday morning.”

“Okay,” Weglowski says, and spears a piece of steak, and Stuffs it into his mouth.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, Sachs, we forget tonight. Do tomorrow night instead. Nobody walking track at night, no? Can’t see nothing.” he says, and chuckles. “If walk, they do tomorrow, during day. So — they finish walk, we start wire. Simple.”

“What about your daughter’s birthday party?”

Weglowski shrugs. “Plenty more birthdays,” he says, and puts another piece of steak into his mouth. “I hope, ” he adds.

Her friends are named Gloria and Steve.

We have met for dinner at Reidel’s. It is now eight-thirty, and we are on our second round of drinks. Gloria and Steve are both students at U.C.L.A., and they have been living together for eight months. Steve is twenty-four, a native of Los Angeles. His father is an artists’ representative who handles some very big motion picture stars.

“I had a chance to be in a movie with John Wayne,” he tells me. “My father actually came to me and asked if I wanted to be in this movie with John Wayne. I told him I didn’t want to be in the same room with John Wayne. He said, Why not? What’s the hell’s the matter with John Wayne?’ I said, ‘If I have to tell you what’s the matter with John Wayne, there’s no sense to our relationship.’ My father looked at me and said, ‘Would you like to be in a movie with Sean Connery?’ I think he missed the point.”

Gloria watches us as we talk. She is Sara’s age, a dark-eyed brunette who grew up with her in Philadelphia. I suspect she knows all about me and is studying me now in an attempt to determine whether I am good enough for her friend. I wonder if she knows Roger Harris of VISTA fame, and I wonder if I am being silently compared to him. My age weighs heavily. Once, when the conversation veers toward an appraisal of rock music as represented by the latest Frank Zappa album (Steve solemnly tells me that Zappa is a musical genius; I do not even know who Zappa is ), Sara takes my hand under the table and squeezes it. I am grateful for her support, but somehow the gesture makes me feel even older. Gloria and Steve are now explaining why they are here today, Thursday, instead of Monday as they had first promised Sara.

“I caught the flu Monday,” Gloria says.

“Throwing up all over the place….”

“Hundred and two fever…”

“I thought she was going to die.”

“We were supposed to go to Buffalo.”

“Are you all right now?” Sara asks, concerned.

“Oh, sure. But the thing is, these kids in Buffalo were expecting us Tuesday, you know, so we thought we’d stop here to see you Monday, stay over at the apartment if you had room…”

“Plenty of room,” Sara assures her.

“Great, and then split on Tuesday, you know, but instead I got the damn flu.”

“I thought she was going to die,” Steve says again.

“I wanted to leave on Monday, anyway,” Gloria says. “I hate changing plans. Don’t you hate changing plans?”

“Yes,” Sara says.

“You were too sick to travel Monday,” Steve says.

“Sic transit gloria mundi,” Sara says, and Gloria bursts out laughing, and the two girls exchange affectionate glances.

“Anyway, here we are,” Gloria says.