Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

She wanted to blot out the thought, crush it, squash it, but, elusive as quicksilver, it raced through her mind over and over and over again. She sat sweating, feeling the oppressive heat inside the small house, hearing the sounds of the children splashing outside, feeling a black despair starting within her, combining with the heat to leave her limp. He has a reason, she thought. He must have a reason. And then the reason leaped into her mind again, the only reason, the only possible reason and she told herself, Don’t cry, goddamnit, don’t cry! Breathing heavily, sucking in great gulps of air from the still, hot moistness, she sat and waited.

She heard the screen door clatter shut when he returned to the house.

“Hon?” he called. “Where are you?”

“In the bedroom,” she said, and she thought it fitting that they should have this out in the bedroom, that this important thing in their life should be thrashed out in the only room in the house which was truly and privately theirs alone, the way this monstrous thing was theirs alone.

She could hear his footsteps coming through the house. He paused just outside the bedroom door.

“Hi,” he said. “I got the stuff.”

“Hi,” she answered.

“What are you doing in here? Cooler in here?”

“No.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “You left the kids outside all alone?”

“Yes.”

“In the pool? Honey, they can drown in an inch of—”

“Harry Baxter just phoned,” Eve said.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“What did he want, Larry?”

She wondered whether he would try to bluff his way out of this. She hoped he would not. Looking at him, holding his face in sharp, clear focus, she hoped he would not lie.

“Puerto Rico?” he said, and his shoulders slumped.

“Yes.”

“He told you?”

“I’m listening, Larry.”

“I didn’t expect...”

“I’m listening, Larry. Goddamnit, I’m listening!”

“What are you getting sore about?”

“Why didn’t you mention this to me?”

“I wanted to think about it.”

“Alone? I thought we were married? I thought we shared things? Since when did you—”

“Eve, for God’s sake, every window in the house is open.”

“I don’t care! Why didn’t you tell me about this? What right did you have to keep it from me?”

“I wasn’t going to keep it from you. I wanted to think about it for a while.”

“For how long?”

“Eve, please stop shouting.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn please! If you can keep something as important as this—”

“All right, it’s important! I wanted my own ideas to be clear before I broke it to you.”

“When did you start doing that?”

“I’ve always done that.”

“It was my impression we—”

“Well, your impression is wrong.”

“... we talked things over—”

“Well, you’re wrong!”

“... together! Stop telling me I’m wrong. You’re wrong this time! I had every right to know about this offer. Am I your wife, or what am I?”

“You’re my wife.”

“Then why? Goddamnit, why? ”

“I told you. I’m not even going to talk to you if—”

“Don’t leave this room, Larry. If you leave, you don’t have to come back!”

“Then lower your voice.”

“When did he make the offer?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When?”

“Sometime in—”

“When, when?”

“It... it must have been February.”

“ February! And this is August! You’ve had this inside you all this time? Larry, what’s the matter with you? What the hell is the matter with you?” and she began crying.

“Oh, here we go,” he said.

“Yes, here we go, here we go. I’ve done nothing but cry about you since... since... I don’t know how long. You rotten... thing! What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing’s the matter with me. I was simply thinking over the possibilities, that’s all.”

“Stop it. You’re lying. Don’t lie to me, Larry!”

“I’m not lying!”

“Aren’t you?” She sat in the chair and looked across the room at him. The room was suffocatingly hot — their bedroom — and they faced each other streaked with sweat. Their clothes hung limply to their bodies, as if the clothing too were exhausted after the bitterest argument they’d ever had. Up the street a telephone rang. Outside, Chris and David splashed in the pool. They could hear the drone of an airplane somewhere high above.

“Are you in love with another woman?” Eve asked.

He did not flinch, he did not move. His eyes held hers in what seemed to be utter honesty.

“No,” he answered. “And that’s the truth.”

Truth or not, they did not speak to each other for more than a week. He was, in a sense, glad for the respite. He knew that once they began talking again, the Puerto Rican offer would be the first topic of conversation. He did not know what Eve was thinking, and he began to wonder if he’d ever known what she thought. He’d suspected that one day the Puerto Rican offer would inadvertently come to light and that he would have to face the fact that he’d withheld it from her. But he had not expected her to forge any link between his concealment and the possibility of another woman’s existing. He had been totally unprepared for her baldly presented question and rather impressed by what he thought was his unblinking lie in answer to it.

He knew that once the silence broke, Baxter’s offer would again be dragged into the living room. And this time it would not be allowed to bleed unnoticed on the rug. This time it would be rolled over and scrutinized. Answers would be demanded decisions would be expected. He did not want to decide. He did not want to lose Maggie, nor — he realized with some surprise — did he want to lose Eve. What the hell do you want? he asked himself. A harem?

He dreaded the lifting of the silence because he had the uncertain sneaking dread that Eve would accomplish it by announcing she was leaving him. He did not want Eve to leave him. But he recognized the irrevocable error of having concealed Baxter’s proposal. What possible excuse could he find to justify such behavior?

And exactly how much had Baxter told her? Did she realize the full scope of the opportunity he’d presented? Was she aware that this could be a turning point in their lives, the possible answer to his professional dreams? And if she knew that, how could he excuse the fact that he had not discussed it with her? A sudden shocking thought came to him. Had she spoken to anyone else? Had Altar ever called on the nights he’d used him for an alibi?

Hastily, he went to the phone and dialed Altar’s home.

“Hello?”

“Altar?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Larry.”

“Oh, hello, Larry. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I was planning on going up to the house this week. I thought you might like to come with me.”

“Oh, good. I was up last Saturday. Di Labbia’s really clipping along. All the outside painting is done, and they’d already started to paint inside. When do you think he’ll be finished?”

“The end of the month easily,” Larry said.

“I wanted to discuss colors with you,” Altar said. “I don’t know what color to paint the study.”

“Well, that’s up to you. I can make suggestions, but the final choice—”

“Maybe black would be appropriate,” Altar said.

“Black?”

“Well, Stone ’ll be published soon. The reviews may be bad.”

“I doubt it,” Larry said.

“I’m on pins and needles. I’m stupid, I know. I shouldn’t feel this way. But I can’t help it.”