Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“Yes,” she said. “I feel terrible. I feel very guilty. Do you feel guilty?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so ashamed. Maybe you ought to take me home.”

“If you want me to.”

“He brought me flowers. Because he was going out tonight. He belongs to the Democratic Club. They’re having a meeting.”

“Where do they meet?”

“At the American Legion hall.”

“We won’t be going near there. What time do you have to be back?”

“Eleven.”

“So early?”

“Twelve? It doesn’t matter. He’ll get a lift home with one of the men. He thinks I’m going to a movie with a girl friend.”

“Which girl friend?”

“I didn’t say. He won’t ask. He never asks.”

“Won’t he want to know what the movie was about?”

“Maybe. It doesn’t matter. I’ll make up something.”

They were on the parkway now. Darkness surrounded them, and she seemed to relax with the darkness. She took off the kerchief and put it into her purse. Sighing, she said, “Larry, are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

“I’m sure we’re doing the wrong thing,” he said honestly.

“We can still... I mean, there’s still time.”

“Do you want me to take you back?”

“No.”

“Good. I thought we might go through that whole U-turn routine again.” She laughed, a low throaty chuckle that surprised him. “You’ve got a sexy laugh,” he said.

“Don’t say that. It’s what everyone says.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more original.”

“I want to laugh, Larry. Don’t make me... don’t make me think when I laugh.” She paused. In search of common ground, she said, “I took your house out of the library yesterday. The magazine, I mean. I’d love to live in that house. I studied all of it — the floor plan, everything — last night before I went to bed. He thought I was crazy. He thought I wanted to move again. Do you know what I liked best about it?”

“What?”

“That big round fireplace jutting up in the center of the living room. What made you put it there?”

He shrugged. “The cave man huddling against the darkness, I guess. This way he can huddle on all sides.” She laughed. Encouraged, he added, “A very primitive school of architecture. Maintains that all a man needs is a roof over his head, a fire, and a hole to look out of.”

She laughed again. “It’s a strong fireplace. It sweeps you right up to the sky. I’d like to see that house sometime. Would you take me to see it?”

He had not, up to that second, thought past tonight. She had, in two sentences, added continuity to their relationship, and he did not yet know if he wanted continuity.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll take you to see it sometime.”

“Good. Do you read a lot? I was reading all last night. First the magazine with your house in it, and then some poetry.”

“Which?”

“You wouldn’t know it.”

On impulse, he said, “This Is My Beloved?”

She turned on the seat in surprise. “Why... why, yes! How did you know?”

“A lucky guess. I used to work in the public library on Fifth Avenue when I was still a kid going to Pratt. I used to mark the books with the library’s seal as they came through. I remember that when it was still a pamphlet, before a hard-cover publisher did it. There was a lot more to it then. They cut out a lot.”

“I love it.”

“Why?”

“I just do. Do you still feel guilty?”

“No,” he lied. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

Her answer surprised him. She should have lied, she should have said no. Her honesty puzzled him, or was it stupidity? He still didn’t know.

“Well, look, Maggie,” he said, “we’re here, we’re together, it’s done. There isn’t much sense brooding about it.”

“Why do you call me Maggie?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No, you’re the only one. Even he calls me Margaret.”

“Then I’ll call you Maggie. I’ll be the only one in the world who calls you Maggie.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s an ugly name. And you’re so beautiful that you make the name beautiful simply by wearing it. It’s a name like Kate or Bess. Those are ugly names, too.”

“What’s your favorite name?”

“Eve,” he said instantly.

“Oh.” He felt her stiffen beside him. He wanted to say, “I didn’t mean that . I meant...” and then he wondered why he felt he should apologize for liking his own wife’s name.

“I have a lot of favorite names,” he said in compromise.

“Do you?” she asked coldly.

“Yes. Gertie and Sadie and Myrtle and Brunhilde...”

She tried to stifle the laugh but couldn’t. “I have favorite boys’ names, too,” she said, laughing. “Percy, and Abercrombie, and Irwin...”

“Don’t forget Maximilian.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, and her laughter mounted.

“Do you know Fundgie?” he asked. “It’s really Fotheringay, but the British pronounce it Fundgie.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m serious.” He paused. “Or Sinjin?”

“Like in Sinjin the Baptist?” she asked immediately.

Surprised by her quick response, he said, “You’re not so stupid.”

“Did you think I was?”

“No, no.” He hesitated. “Well, yes, I did.”

“I’m not so pretty, either. Remember?”

“You are.”

“But you said I wasn’t.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Which times? When you notice the scar?”

“Who ever sees that?” he said.

She smiled. “Am I stupid sometimes, though?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know ,” he said, surprised.

“You’re very smart, aren’t you?” she said seriously. “You won a seventy-five-thousand-dollar prize. You must be very—”

“A what ?”

“I know,” she said, pleased with her knowledge.

“It was only seventy-five hundred ! My God, who told you that?”

“One of the neighbors.”

“Is that what they think? Wow!” He began laughing. “That would have been very nice indeed. You can buy a lot of beer with seventy-five thousand bucks.”

“Do you like beer?”

“I hate it. That was just an express—”

“I loathe it.”

“Good. We have something in common.”

“We have a lot in common,” she said, suddenly quite serious. He turned to look at her, and she smiled quickly, like a young child who had put on her mother’s heels and was waiting now for her father’s approval. He smiled back at her, suddenly wanting to touch her hand. He did not.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “You said you’d surprise me.”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I thought we’d stop for a drink first.”

“Then what?”

“Then...” He hesitated. “Well, let’s have the drink first.”

“Will you teach me to drink?”

“Well, sure, I...” He paused, puzzled. “What do you mean, teach you? You mean what to order?”

“Yes. And how to hold the glass. I don’t know how to hold the glass.”

He knew she was lying. You held whisky the same way you held water. Facetiously, he said, “Sure, I’ll teach you to hold it.”

“After the drink, what will we do?”

“We’ll have another drink.”

“And then what?”

He made his decision in a split second. “We’ll go to a motel.”

A small sharp cry escaped her lips. She sat bolt upright, and all the nervousness, all the fear, all the tension, seemed to come back into her in a rush.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I was right.”

“About what?”

“Anatomy!”

“What?”

“My breasts!” she said angrily.

“Oh, for Pete’s—”