Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“But you look the same.”

“But you didn’t recognize me,” he said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I wasn’t sure it was you, either. Not because you’ve changed, though. Only because... well, who expected to meet you in a little run-down bookstore on Sixth Avenue?”

“We didn’t even buy anything,” Amanda said, and she laughed. “Morton, I’m freezing. ”

“We’re almost there. We can get some hot chocolate in the cafeteria. The picture doesn’t go on until six.”

“Why did you leave the ministry, Morton?”

“Oh, that’s a long story. I was in the stockade, you know.”

“The what?”

“In the army. Jail. They call it the stockade. Which is sensible since it was designed for cattle and not men. I had a chance to do a lot of thinking there.”

“About what, Morton? Ooooo, Morton, do you know where I’m really cold?”

“Where?”

“My feet.”

“That’s why you’re cold all over. That’s a known fact.”

“You’re a mine of information,” she said, smiling.

“You mean you didn’t know that? Anyway, I was locked up there for about six months, here, put your hand in my pocket... how’s that? Is that better? and then they sent me overseas as a corpsman, you know, noncombatant, the red cross on my arm, the whole business. And then I saw it, Amanda. I saw what people can do to each other.” He shook his head. “And I began thinking some more. I’ll tell you, Amanda, a funny thing happened. I was out there without any weapon, you know, and... and... I wished I had a gun! But not for self-protection, Amanda, not for that. I wished I had a gun so I could kill the people who were leaving those broken bodies all over the place. That’s right, I wanted to kill . Now, remember the reason I’d objected in the first place. Now, remember that, Amanda. And here I was wanting to kill, and ready to kill. Now, that can make you wonder about yourself a little bit, believe me.” He shook his head.

“But you were at war, Morton. You had to expect...”

“Oh, I know, I know. But I looked into myself, and I asked myself, What’s all this God stuff, and did I really believe it? Did I really back out of the war because I didn’t want to kill anybody, or only because I was afraid of getting killed myself? And if that was my reason, and how could it be otherwise when there I was ready to kill, why then I’d only used religion as an excuse. I suppose I could have decided then and there, Amanda. I suppose I could have asked for a gun. I didn’t. But I did decide the ministry wasn’t for me. Are you happy, Amanda?”

He asked the question so unexpectedly that he startled her.

“Why...” She squinted her eyes against the wind and looked into his face. There was honesty there and openness, Morton Yardley had not changed at all, Morton Yardley had acquired none of the shellac. And his face demanded an honest answer, no, not demanded because he was not one of those who forced their will. His face simply asked quietly for honesty. And asked for so gently, honesty could not be denied. “I don’t know, Morton,” she said.

“You look happy.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Here’s the museum. You’re still very beautiful, Amanda,” he said as he pushed open the door, said it into the raised collar of his coat, as if not expecting her to hear it, and yet hoping she would.

“Thank you,” she said, because she wanted him to know she had heard.

They drank hot chocolates in the cafeteria off the garden. The garden was deserted. The modern statues defied the cold, bronze and stone standing erect against the wind. The whipped cream dissolved in their cups, and they sat facing each other discussing old times at the university, and she realized all at once that there was a smile on her face, and that perhaps it had been there from the moment they left the bookshop. She felt completely at ease with Morton, completely without façade. There was no need for stupid fencing with him, no need for the clever answer, the provocative question. She felt honest and somehow exuberant. And curiously, she felt more like a woman than she could ever remember.

“Do you get into New York often?” he asked, and she looked into his eyes because she had heard this approach often at Talmadge parties, had heard it whispered in her ear as she danced, had heard it dropped casually as she sat alongside a polished attractive man on a living-room couch sipping a Martini, she had heard it often, and she knew the intent, and she knew the answer, she knew the game. But Morton Yardley did not play games.

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Good,” Morton said. “Because I’d like to see you again.”

“Why, Morton?”

“Well... I guess because I loved you, Amanda.”

The words startled her. Not because she hadn’t suspected. But only because they were spoken in utter simplicity.

“That’s very sweet, Morton,” she said, and instantly thought, I don’t mean that, it’s not what I mean. I’m not parrying, Morton, I’m not giving the cocktail-party answer to the standard proposition. Believe me, please. I don’t mean what that sounds like. “Morton, you’re very sweet,” she said. “You have a very sweet face.”

He looked at her curiously, as if her words had embarrassed him.

“You make me feel very good,” she said softly. “You make me feel like a woman.”

She thought all at once, How easy it would be. Truly, how very easy. Without guilt, without soul-searching, because this was not the fantasy of the grand amour , this was not the excitement of the pale dark stranger, the secret meetings in hotel rooms, the swell of clandestine passion, this was nothing at all like that. Morton was hardly a glamorous figure, hardly the dashing lover, and yet she thought, How easy it would be, and thought, It would be something , I would be giving, I would be giving, and looked into Morton’s eyes and back to a time when it could have been uncomplicated, and thought, It could be uncomplicated now, and suddenly thought of herself in bed with him. Surprisingly, the thought did not shock her or disgust her. She accepted it calmly, continuing to look at Morton and continuing to feel this strange sort of pulsing warmth that seemed to hover over the table, not a sexuality at all, although she imagined him touching her, but rather a feeling of ease, of emotion without pretense, the thought was exciting. And she knew it could be that, she knew the discovery of another person was always exciting, and she knew she could find in Morton a total adoration, she could see that in his eyes now, not lust and not passion, she knew that somewhere in this strangely naïve man who sat across from her there was still the little boy. There was still trust, there was still hope, there was still, yes, romance. How easy it would be. How easy to turn a doorknob and open a new world, how easy to say, “Yes, let’s have lunch sometime,” how easy to accept the love of this man, “Well... I guess because I loved you, Amanda,” and to know that a love could be returned, a different love than she had ever given, returned with fierce purpose, the love of a woman trying to find meaning in a world that seemed oddly and stubbornly unreceptive. How easy.

How easy to find something with him, something she had already found with him on the short walk from the bookshop, and over hot chocolates already gone, staining the thick white mugs with a residue of brown, something sheltered from the noisy October wind outside and the statues standing defiant in the garden, sheltered. I could love this man, she thought. I could take off my clothing for him unashamed and eager, I could allow him to caress me, I think I would feel rather rich. And savage. And pure. She looked at his thick hands around the thick white mug. How easy it would be. Yes, and excitement, the excitement of somewhere to go, and someone to meet, a purpose, a life, how easy.