Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“Just relax,” Larry said. “They’ll probably be raves.”

“God, I hope so. It’s only seventeen days, you know.”

“What is?”

“To publication date. August thirtieth.”

“You mean you’re counting them?”

“I’m crossing them off on the calendar. August thirtieth. I get nervous even mentioning the date.”

“Take a Miltown.”

“I do. Regularly. They don’t help. I think I’ll get a woman tonight.”

“Good idea.”

“Aw, that won’t help either. I’m worthless until that damn book is published and I see the reviews.”

“Don’t curse it.”

“No, I shouldn’t curse it. It’s not a damn book, it’s a beautiful book, a lovely book. But I can’t wait for the damn thing to be published.

Larry laughed.

“Don’t laugh! Suppose I didn’t like the house you designed after it was all built?”

“It wouldn’t matter to me.”

“Sure, you’d get your damn ten per cent anyway. I’m surrounded by ten-per-centers. My agent, you...”

“The book’ll be all right. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s like telling a man with cancer not to have cancer. The Book-of-the-Month Club News arrived yesterday. They gave it a rousing shove.”

“What do you mean?”

“ Stone . Didn’t I tell you it was Book-of-the-Month for September?”

“No.”

“Well, it is. They send out this thing announcing their selections. Marquand or one of the other people up there usually writes a sort of review on the selection. They sound as if they really like this one.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Well, it’s not so good. They always like their selections. They’re certainly not going to give a bad review to their own selection.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But it’s pretty good because it sounds honestly enthusiastic. That’s one of the most difficult things to do nowadays. Sound honestly enthusiastic, I mean. Do you think people like to buy books in September?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I hope so.”

They were silent for a moment.

Then Larry said, “You haven’t called here recently, have you?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought you might have spoken to Eve.”

“I only talk to wives when I have plans for them.”

“All right.”

“So, now that I know why you really called, you can hang up.”

“Go to hell,” Larry said.

“Are you really going up to the house tomorrow or the next day?”

“Did I say tomorrow?”

“You said this week. You can’t go on Sunday. Not if you expect to see Di Labbia.”

“Is tomorrow Friday already?”

“All day,” Altar said, and then he chuckled. “My mother always says that. Ask her, ‘Is today Wednesday?’ and she’ll answer, ‘All day.’ She’s a character in Stone . Did I tell you?”

“No.”

“I’m worried about that damn book,” Altar said.

In his best family-relations-counselor voice, Larry said, “Mr. Altar, go, go to these people, beg their forgiveness, tell them your heart...”

“Aw, no sympathy in the world,” Altar said. “That’s the trouble. No sympathy.”

“I’ll leave you to your miseries,” Larry said.

“Everyone always does. Are we going up to the house or not?”

“Let it wait until next week.”

“I figured. Thanks for the call. If I turn on the gas or jump out the window, you’ll be sorry.”

“I will.”

“It’s too late to make amends,” Altar said, and he hung up.

Larry grinned. Perhaps, he thought solemnly, it is too late to make amends. He hung up, and then steeled himself for the eventual shattering of the silence.

The communication for the next week was handled in the classically comic tradition of transmission through the children.

“Ask your father to pass me the butter please, Chris.”

“Whyn’t you ask him yourself, Ma? He’s sitting right there.”

“Ask him, please.”

“Daddy, will you please pass Mommy the butter?”

“Here, Chris.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank your father, Chris.”

“I did.”

“For me.”

“Mommy says thanks, Dad.”

The silence persisted.

Maggie, unaware of the explosion in Larry’s home, busily made plans for the weekend they would share at the end of the month. She had already approached Don and he’d agreed to let her go provided his mother would come to stay with Patrick while she was away. He had not seemed at all surprised by her request, had asked relatively few questions about where she planned to go or what she planned to do. Breathlessly, on the telephone, she told Larry she could leave on Thursday night, August twenty-ninth. Would the house be finished by then? Could he get away by then? He could not tell her of the argument which had been caused by the Puerto Rican offer without revealing the offer to her. And so he said he would ask Eve as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The opportunity came on Friday, August twenty-third, the night the silence shattered.

He had gone to bed at about twelve o’clock, leaving Eve in the living room watching television. When she came into the bedroom at one, he was still not asleep. She turned on the small lamp, went to the bed, and sat on the edge of it.

“Can we discuss this sensibly now?” she asked,

“Well, well, it speaks,” Larry said lightly.

“If you want to continue this, that’s up to you,” Eve said coolly. “I don’t want another argument.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then let’s not be flippant, either of us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“All right.”

There was a long silence.

Eve sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t want to discuss why you kept this thing a secret,” she said in what sounded like the beginning of a rehearsed speech. “I’m sure you have your own reasons, and apparently your reasons are privately and exclusively your own.”

“I thought we weren’t going to be flippant.”

“I’m sorry,” Eve said instantly. “I’d like you to tell me about the offer now. I’d like you to tell me as if it were just presented to you yesterday and not in February. I’d like you to tell me all of it, and then I’d like to make a decision. I’d like us to make a decision.”

“I don’t know if a decision is possible right now.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He told her of the proposal. He left nothing out. She sat silently on the edge of the bed, listening. There was no emotion on her face, and he realized, while he was talking, that he had robbed her of what could have been a truly joyous experience by not telling her of the offer when it was first made. It was too late now. The thing had somehow become a cold business proposition about which a high-level decision had to be made. Like the President of the Board, Eve sat listening intelligently, but there was no spark of emotion in her eyes or on her face. If she felt anything, she did not reveal it. If she felt anything, it was contained within her rigid body, bottled there secretly.

When he’d finished, she said only, “It sounds good.”

“Yes.”

They were silent for a long time.

Then she said, “I think we should take it. I think we should get out of Pinecrest Manor.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said cautiously. “It’s a big move.”

“Or do you have personal reasons for not wanting to leave the States?”

“Eve...”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. This is too important. I feel we should take it. I think this is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you. I can’t understand your hesitation.”

“Well, I’ve always liked to work on my own. You know that.”