Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“This would be almost the same thing.”

“I suppose so. It needs thought.”

“It was my understanding you’d been thinking about it since February.”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t reached a conclusion?”

“No. It’s not an easy decision to make.”

“It seems very simple to me. Baxter’s right. A hundred architects would cut off their arms for this job.”

“Well, it’s not that simple.”

“Apparently not.” Eve rose and went to the dresser for her nightgown. She came back to the bed and said, “I think we should take it, Larry.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“When will you know? If we’re going to Puerto Rico for five years, there’s a lot of planning to be done.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, when will you know?”

“Baxter’s not leaving until September sometime.”

“Will you know by then?”

“I thought...”

“Yes?”

“I thought I might go away by myself for a few days. To... to really think it over.”

“Will that help?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“When?”

“The end of next week, I thought. I thought I’d leave on Thursday night. The twenty-ninth. For the weekend.”

“And on this weekend... will you make up your mind?”

“Yes.”

“Fully?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you make the right decision,” she said, and he had the feeling she was not talking about anything as simple as Baxter’s offer.

The telephone rang.

It shrilled into the silence of the sleeping house, and they both turned to look at it in surprise. The clock read 1:30 A.M. The phone kept ringing.

For a moment it seemed to Larry an evil instrument of torture. He made no move to answer it. Despair had come over Eve’s face. She put her gown down on the edge of the bed and then walked to the telephone. She lifted the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Eve?” The voice was cracklingly brisk.

“Yes?”

“This is Mama. Can you and Larry get over here first thing in the morning?”

“What’s wrong?” Eve asked quickly.

“Your darling sister has eloped, that’s all,” Mrs. Harder said.

The meeting on that Saturday morning, August twenty-fourth, was a grim and purposeful one. It would have seemed frivolous to have held it at the Easthampton cottage. Sensing this with the instinct of a natural actress, Mrs. Harder gathered the clan in the New York apartment.

When Larry and Eve arrived with the children, the Harders had already finished breakfast and were sitting in the living room overlooking Fifth Avenue and the park. The drapes were drawn back, and the hot, flat glare of the sun filled the room. Lois sat demurely on the piano bench. She was wearing a black sweater which somehow seemed to match the solemnity of the occasion and which, for a welcome change, was neither form-fitting nor too snug. The piano, together with the other furniture in the room, was covered for the summer. The Harders had not expected to be in the city again until after Labor Day and would not have been in the apartment had something dire not drawn them there.

One look at Mrs. Harder’s face would have informed the most casual observer that something dire indeed had happened. Her face and her body had been browned by the Easthampton sun. Her arms where the short-sleeved cotton dress ended were muscularly lithe from ocean swimming. She looked oddly out of place in the living room where the furniture was covered, ghostly white against her tan. Her face, though, in contrast to her holiday coloration, was grim and set unyielding.

The first thing she said to Eve was “You didn’t have to bring the children.”

“There was no place to leave them, Mama,” Eve said, and then instantly asked, “Is Linda all right?”

“How do I know?” Mrs. Harder said. “I don’t even know where she is. A telegram! A girl gets married, and she sends her mother a telegram!”

“I’m sure she’s all right,” Mr. Harder said. “Hank is an intelligent, capable boy.”

Sitting on the window seat overlooking the park, Mr. Harder did not seem terribly disturbed. He seemed concerned, but not disturbed.

“That’s just my point!” Mrs. Harder said, whirling on her husband. “He’s a boy, just a boy .”

“We were all boys once,” Mr. Harder said.

“Alex, you were twenty-three years old when we got married, and I do not consider that a boy. But Hank MacLean happens to be twenty-one, and that is a boy. A boy !” she repeated in emphasis.

“I don’t see what difference two years makes,” Mr. Harder said.

“There’s a lot of difference!” Mrs. Harder snapped.

“Chris, don’t go near the windows!” Eve shouted. Mrs. Harder turned sharply. Apologetically, Eve said, “I’m always scared to death they’ll fall out.”

“They won’t fall out the windows,” Mrs. Harder said. “This isn’t the first time they’ve been here, and they haven’t fallen out yet. I raised three children in this apartment and none of them ever fell out the window.”

“I know, but...”

“You shouldn’t have brought them anyway. This is no place for children. Not when we’re discussing—”

“Mama, there was nowhere I could—”

“May we see the telegram?” Larry interrupted.

“Where’s the telegram, Alex?” Mrs. Harder said.

“On the table, I think.”

“Lois, get the telegram.”

Lois rose from the piano bench and walked silently into the hall. It was difficult to tell from her face exactly how she felt about her twin sister’s rather impulsive action. Instinctively, she knew that a double wedding would have been more acceptable to the family, and she somehow wished Linda had taken her into her confidence. But at the same time, she realized this would not be treated as another cute twinnish prank, and so, cautiously, she watched and waited. Picking up the telegram, she brought it back into the living room and offered it to her mother.

“Give it to Larry,” Mrs. Harder said, waving the telegram aside impatiently, as if it were crawling with vermin.

Larry took the telegram and read it:

DEAR MAMA AND DADDY. MARRIED THIS AFTERNOON. DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY. SEE YOU ALL SOON. LOVE. LINDA AND HANK.

Larry handed the wire to Eve.

“Deliriously happy,” Mrs. Harder said, as if that sentence of all the others had particularly annoyed her.

“The telegram was sent from New York,” Larry said.

“Yes. That doesn’t mean a thing. It was sent at nine P.M. They could have been married anyplace.”

Eve looked up, puzzled. “What difference does it make where they were married?”

“Linda’s only seventeen,” Mrs. Harder said. “In New York State, you’ve got to be eighteen. That’s the law. That much I know. I don’t know what it is in other states. But if she got married in New York, we can have it—”

“Why don’t we talk to the girl first, for Pete’s sake!” Mr. Harder said. “You’re already getting the thing annulled, and we haven’t even—”

“She’s only seventeen!” Mrs. Harder said, and she began to weep.

“She’s almost eighteen, Patricia,” Mr. Harder said.

Mrs. Harder did not answer. She sat in her chair weeping into a small lace handkerchief.

“Do Hank’s parents know about this?” Larry asked.

“They received an identical telegram,” Mr. Harder said. “I spoke to Mr. MacLean last night. He seemed like a sensible man.”

“What does he care?” Mrs. Harder said. “Is it his daughter? His son hasn’t even been in the Army yet. Suppose he gets drafted? What does Linda do then? Become a camp follower? She’s just a baby.” She turned to Eve suddenly. “Eve, she’s just your baby sister.”