Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“Used to what?” He felt extremely naïve all at once, and yet the idea of other men approaching her had never occurred to him. “Men annoying you?”

“Yes. Men annoying me.”

“But why should—”

“Why do you think?” she asked. “Larry, can we please drop this? I’m sorry, but it’s very upsetting. Every time it happens, I get—”

“You sound as if you’re approached ten times a day!”

“I am.”

“By whom? Which men?”

“Any men. All men. Men, Larry. Men!” She paused and then said, “Oh, Larry, forget it, please. What difference does it make? I’m what I am. Sometimes I wish I were ugly. Sometimes I hate my face and my smile and my hips and my breasts, these damn—” She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m used to it by now. Men are men, and they want what they want.”

“Does that include me?” he asked.

“I love you,” she said simply.

“You didn’t always.”

“No. And you also saw what you wanted and asked for it, didn’t you?”

“And got it,” Larry said.

“The rest don’t.”

“How do I know that?”

“Oh, please don’t sound like a suspicious husband. You’re the only one, believe me. Everyone else looks and tries to touch, but you’re the only one who—”

“How’d that boy know your name?” Larry asked abruptly.

“He didn’t.”

“He did. He called you ‘Margaret.’ I heard him.”

“He probably heard me say ‘This is Margaret’ when I started speaking to Don.”

“You said he came in after you were talking a while. How could he have heard the beginning of the conversation?”

“No, he came in while I was dialing.”

“You know him, don’t you?” Larry said.

“No.”

“Who is he?”

“I never saw him before in my life.”

“Who is he, Maggie?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know. Why are you lying to me?”

“Stop it, Larry. Please.”

“I want to know.”

“What gives you the right to know?”

“I thought you loved me.”

“I do,” she said.

“Then that’s my right.”

“And when you know? What then? Goodbye, Maggie?”

“Why? Is the truth so terrible?”

“The truth is always terrible. You’re upset because men make passes at me. What happens when you find out—”

“... that I’m not the only one? That the boy I hit has been—”

“He hasn’t!”

“Then what is it? What are you hiding?”

She moved away from him to the opposite side of the car. Her lashes fluttered, and she seemed nervous and confused all at once, and he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. She lighted a cigarette inexpertly, blew out a puff of smoke, and then pulled her legs up under her on the seat, her skirt pulling back slightly over a nylon-sleek knee. Desire came full upon him in that moment. In that moment he did not want to hear her, he only wanted to hold her. And seeing his eyes, she said, “Go ahead, touch me. See if I’m real.”

“Maggie...”

“If it annoys you, it annoys me more. I don’t like it, not one damn bit. But don’t blame other men for making the same assumption you made, and still make. And don’t blame me.”

“Tell me about the boy,” he said.

“Sure.” She sighed heavily. “In July...”

She was starting a story. She had said “In July” like “Once upon a time,” and he knew from the first two words that the story would be extremely painful to her. He kept his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes riveted to the road ahead.

“Don came home one day. He had a chance to become a foreman. The factory wanted to send him to school in Detroit.” She spoke as if by rote, as if she had gone over these words in her mind until they were bare of all emotion, all meaning. “He didn’t want to go unless I said it was all right. I let him go. A woman shouldn’t stand in her husband’s way. He left. Right after the Fourth. It was a very hot Fourth, Larry. Do you remember?”

He did not answer. He was hearing the pain in her voice, and he wanted to tell her to stop, but he could not.

“It was a very hot Fourth,” she repeated! “A hot summer, too. I can remember, just standing still I would sweat. I sweat very easily. I took a lot of baths. I like baths. I always...” She stopped and sighed again. “But that summer, in July...”

She had not really begun the story yet. She was back to the beginning again, back to the words “In July.” He glanced at the speedometer and had the strangest feeling that the sands were running out all at once, that this would be the last car ride, and the last words he ever heard from her.

“I was very lonely. I told you that the first time in your car. Before you asked me out, I told you that. After Don’d been gone only a week, I was lonely, Patrick was with my mother at Montauk Point. I was alone. Things hadn’t been going right with Don, there’d been a boat ride in June... and... and maybe they’ve never gone right between him and me, and maybe they never will. I don’t know, Larry, but I missed him. And... and it was a very hot summer. Larry, do I have to tell you this?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“All right.”

“But you have to know, don’t you? Men always have to know. You have to be certain the aroma isn’t on me.” A bitterness had crept into her voice. For a moment he had the odd feeling she was no longer addressing him but some unknown specter. “All right,” she said wearily. “I was sitting outside one day, on the front stoop.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“On the front stoop,” she said. “The streets were very quiet, even all the children seemed to have disappeared, and all the women. I don’t know. I had the feeling I was the last person alive on earth. I was wearing shorts and a halter, it was so hot, Larry, I wasn’t trying to show off my body or anything, honestly, I hate to wear a bathing suit, I detest hungry eyes on me, I abhor it! I wore shorts and a halter because it was so hot, that’s all, only because it was so hot. And I wouldn’t have been sitting on the front stoop if there’d been any shade in the back yard. Do you believe me?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t want you to think I was asking for anything. I never do, and I wasn’t then. I was sitting on my own front stoop, that’s all. I had my arms wrapped around my knees, and I had my hair back with a little ribbon to keep it off my face because it was so hot. The streets were empty and hot. And then a truck came around the corner.”

She caught her breath sharply.

“I don’t know if I can explain it. It was like feeling there was another survivor after an atom-bomb attack, another human being, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“The truck slowed down when it passed the house. There was a young boy behind the wheel.”

“Him?”

“Yes. Him.” She paused. “He smiled at me... and I smiled back. That was all. I swear to God, there was no more than that. He smiled, and it was a hot summer day, and I was lonely, and so I smiled back. That’s all, Larry, nothing more. He looked at me, and at the house, and then the truck went down the street, and that was the end of it. For then.”

“What happened?”

“He came back.”

“When?”

“The next night. I was ironing in the living room, and there was a knock on the door. I went to the door and opened it, and he was standing there. He said, ‘Hello. Can I have a drink of water?’ She shrugged slightly as if once again faced with the simple inevitability of the boy’s request. “I got him a glass of water.”

“Go ahead.”