William McGivern - Savage Streets

“Naturally, she almost missed it. She had to have a last-minute conference with Junior about something I’m not supposed to know anything about for the time being. Honestly, what a pair of conspirators. It’s hard to tell which one is younger from the way they act.”

“That’s fine,” Norton said. He touched his forehead with his fingertips. The pain was intense. “And how was your day?”

She smiled as he raised the cup of milk to her lips. “I think you should miss dinner every now and then. It’s kind of exciting to be waiting for you for a change. What did John want?”

“John? Yes, John Farrell.” Norton struggled to control his thoughts; they were speeding in dangerously swift circles now, filling the inside of his head with bursts of white heat. “John wanted some information on one of our new services. Our bank, in the case of guaranteed accounts, will pay the depositor’s fixed bills on the first of the month — that is, items such as rent, insurance, car payments and so forth. The client can just forget about these details. We pay the bills from his account, and make sure they’re paid on time, which is particularly important in the event there’s a discount for payment before a specified date.” The familiar phrases, evoking a sane and orderly world, acted as brakes on the perilously spinning wheels of thought. “I explained how it worked to John, and he seemed quite interested.”

“Oh. Well, speaking of problems, mother and I solved one today.” She put the cup down and wiped a tiny cat’s whisker of milk from her lips. “You know how we planned to have the new baby in here with us for the first five or six months? Well, mother and I decided to start her off like a little lady with a room of her own. Now don’t say anything until you see what we’ve figured out: we’re going to make the guest room into a nursery. The curtains are white, and mother thinks they’ll do perfectly — for the time being at least. Then we’re going to find some bookcases for toys, and a daybed with some kind of a chintz fabric for the cover and the cushions. Cradle, bathinette and presto!” She smiled with happy eyes. “A nursery. Didn’t I tell you mother would figure it out?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, wait; here’s the second phase of Operation Nursery. We’re going to turn the study into a room mother can use when she stays overnight. It won’t be a proper guest room, but we don’t have overnight guests often enough to make any difference. Anyway, it will be just for mother and you know she doesn’t expect the bridal suite.”

“It’s not a very attractive room,” Norton said.

Janey laughed. “You know what mother said today? She said she could sleep hanging on a coathook if it meant being near Junior.”

“The television’s in there,” Norton said. “And those old books of mine. They can come out, I suppose.”

“Well, the TV could stay. Don’t you think she’d like it?”

“Yes, I’m sure she would.” He felt his thoughts spinning again and pressed the tips of fingers to his forehead. “I brought home some work to look over,” he said. “You’d better get to sleep now.”

She slid down in bed and he adjusted the pillows.

“I’m afraid I’m getting one of those cramps in my leg,” she said. “Just when I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“That’s a shame. Would you like me to massage it a bit?”

“It may be all right. It may go away.”

“There’s no point grinning and bearing it. Come on, turn over.”

“You’re so helpful I feel guilty sometimes.” She pushed the covers aside and rolled carefully onto her stomach. The room was warm and still and the lamp beside the bed gleamed on her slim smooth legs; she wore a pink nightie but the twisting of her body had pulled it up above her knees.

“Which is it?” he asked.

“The left. It always is, for some reason.”

He rubbed the back of her leg with the palm of his hand. The muscle in her calf was hard as India rubber. She had very pretty legs, rounded like a child’s with neat, slender ankles. Her skin was smooth and cool as ivory under his hands.

She snuggled her cheek against the pillow and made a murmuring sound of contentment.

“Better?” he said.

“Much! It’s like a miracle.”

“Is that enough?”

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“No, not a bit.”

“You’ve no idea how relaxing it is.”

“Well, fine.” He wanted to get away; his throat was unbearably dry. The flesh of his wife under his hands, smooth and soft and fragrant, meant nothing to him; it was the memory of another body, hard, wiry, young, the flesh less perfectly kept, less grateful and complaisant, it was that memory that had brought the cold tight ache to his stomach.

“I think that’s enough,” she said at last, her voice blurred with drowsy contentment. She was like a kitten or an infant; caresses soothed her, put her to sleep.

“I’ll go on down and get at my work,” he said. He adjusted the covers under her chin, murmured a good night and left the room quietly. Downstairs he took a bottle of whiskey from the emergency shelf in the kitchen, made himself a strong drink and drained it in two long swallows. How many had he had, he wondered. Four Martinis with Farrell, and a big whiskey.

That was more than he normally drank in a week, but he still wasn’t drunk; steady and bright, unblurred by liquor, was the knowledge that he must see this girl and set everything straight. Only she could absolve him from sin, release him from this rack of guilt. And if she understood and forgave him he would do anything at all for her. It wasn’t impossible that they might become friends later on. In fantasy’s sustaining warmth Norton saw a vision: in four or five years she would probably go to work in the city, and he might help her with the problems and adjustments that were part of anyone’s first job. He could tell her how to avoid the slippery ground of office politics and advise her on savings programs and pension and hospital plans. They might meet in a small bar after work and talk about these things. He saw himself in sharp kaleidoscopic patterns, striding down a street in the late fall, everyone else hurrying for trains and taxis and the cold wind pounding with excitement against the tall gray buildings. She would be waiting for him and smiling. They wouldn’t talk of the past but it would be a strong bright thread weaving itself nostalgically through their relationship.

Norton pressed both hands tightly against the sides of his head. For a sickening instant he was convinced that he was going mad; the pressure behind his eyes made him stagger and he sat down and bent forward until his head touched his knees. “God!” he murmured in a thick heavy voice. He did not want absolution and forgiveness. He didn’t want tilings as they used to be, neat and orderly. It was this knowledge that shook him to the core of his being.

Later — how much later he did not know — he found himself standing beside the telephone desk. He picked up the receiver without haste, without thinking, and dialed the number listed after the name of Frank Soltis.

She answered the phone herself and this seemed a miracle to him; behind her voice was the canned sound of radio or television laughter, and she spoke above it, saying, “Yes?” quite loudly, but drawing the word into a teasing complaint.

“Please listen to me,” he said. “Just listen. Please. You won’t hang up, will you?”

“Who’s this, for Pete’s sake?”

“Cleo, you’ve got to listen. I’m — this is the man. I... I saw you last night, remember.” He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and he cried softly: “Please listen! I’ve got to see you. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”