Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“Come upstairs,” she said.

“What... what’s today?”

“It’s all right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes” she said.

“I don’t want any accidents. I don’t want—”

“I’m sure.”

“When will Patrick be back?”

“I told her I’d call.”

“Does she know what—?”

“Come upstairs.”

“Margaret...”

“Come upstairs.”

“It’s still light.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“Margaret...”

“Come with me, Don. Come upstairs with me.”

“What about dinner? Have you—?”

“Don’t you want me, Don?”

“I...”

“Don’t you want to be inside me?”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“How do you want me to talk?”

“You’re a mother, for God’s—”

“Don, Don...”

Her fingers tightened, and there was no smile any more, only her hand, and his entire life clutched in the warm full palm of her hand, and then she released him suddenly and turned and started up the steps. She walked swiftly, the skirt swirling around her legs, the sharp heels leaving tiny rounded squares in the pile of the rug. Dusk had invaded the living room, spreading into the corners, spreading darkness into the silent house. In the basement, the oil burner started with a sudden click.

He brushed his hand across his eyes, and then he started up after her. She was naked when he entered the bedroom. He could see the line of her body against the deep blue of the blanket, softened by dusk. She stirred when he came into the room, twisting the familiar golden head on the white pillow.

He went into the bathroom. He did not turn on the light. He stood looking into the sink for a long time, the darkness growing around him. He took off his clothes then and folded them neatly over the edge of the tub. Then he washed his hands and went out to her.

The room was very dark. He found his way to the bed, and he sat, and her hand went to him instantly, and he climbed onto the bed feeling immense and clumsy, and then he lay beside her on his back, and whispered, “Make love to me.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think of me when you’re working?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think of going to bed with me?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don...”

“Make love to me.”

“What do you want to do to me? What do you think of doing to me?”

“Nothing. I don’t think anything like that. You know I don’t.”

“What do you think then?”

“I think of you.”

“What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“I just think of you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“In bed?”

“No.”

“Naked?”

“No.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready all day.”

“Help me.”

“Why?”

“I want you to.”

“Don’t you know where it is?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then help me, Margaret.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“If you really wanted me...”

“I do, I do.”

“Say it.”

“Help me, Margaret.”

“No.”

“Margaret...”

“Tell me you want me.”

“Margaret...”

“Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“Oh, Margaret, Margaret...”

“Why won’t you touch me?”

“Honey, can’t we...?”

“Kiss me.”

He kissed her, and her hand tightened, and he pulled his mouth from hers.

“Touch my breasts. Don’t you like my breasts?”

“I love them.”

“They’re good. They’re big and soft, and the nipples—”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“Why don’t you ever touch them?”

“I do. You know I do. There. There.”

“Do you like the way they feel?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I like them.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I do.”

“Tell me. Talk to me, Don. Tell me! ”

“Honey, honey, help me!”

“No! Do it yourself.”

“Honey, I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t...”

He stopped. The room was very silent. When her voice came, it came as a slow, sepulchral command.

“Touch me!”

“No.”

“Touch me.”

“No.”

“Don, why? Why? Why?”

“I don’t... I don’t want to get you dirty,” he said.

He heard her heavy sigh, and he held his breath for a moment, and then he felt the weight of her body on him, her hands guiding him, and he closed his eyes tightly and said again, “Make love to me.”

In the second act of The Pajama Game , Eddie Foy, Jr., had trouble with his trousers, and Larry almost fell out of his seat laughing. His laughter was both surprising and encouraging to Eve. She had known Larry for ten years, been married to him for eight, and still could not understand what made him laugh.

She knew he had a good sense of humor. The things he said were truly funny, and he was the first to laugh at a good joke. But he would sit at a play or a movie when a comic line came along, and the house would collapse into waves of uncontrolled hilarity while Larry remained steadfastly deadpan. And then one of the actors would say or do something which no one else considered comical, and Larry would erupt into secret laughter which continued long after the line was broken or the gesture made.

Having resigned herself to this peculiarity after years of puzzlement, she was pleased on Friday night to see Larry laughing along with the rest of the house on the trousers routine. His response added to the surprise-party atmosphere surrounding the entire evening.

He had come home Wednesday evening after a day in the city and announced “We’re being wined and dined this Friday.”

“By whom?” she asked.

“Baxter and Baxter.”

“And who are Baxter and Baxter?”

“Just about the biggest architectural and planning firm in New York,” Larry said smugly.

“My! What’s the occasion?”

“They have a proposal to make.”

“I thought you liked working at home. You don’t want to join any firm do you?”

“No, but this isn’t that kind of proposal. They want my advice on something.”

“Really? Larry, that’s wonderful. Aren’t you flattered?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, as if first coming to the realization.

“I’ll have to get a sitter,” Eve said, and she started for the phone. Larry followed her into the bedroom.

“Make it early, Eve. We’re meeting them for dinner, and they’re taking us to a show.”

“I’m thrilled,” Eve said, her eyes glowing as she dialled. “Will Baxter and Baxter be there?”

“No, just Harry Baxter and his wife.”

“What’s she like?”

“Never met her.”

“Do you think...?” She paused. “Hello?” she said into the phone, and then began the intricate womanly business of exchanging cordialities with a seventeen-year-old sitter.

Eloise Baxter had turned out to be a mild-mannered woman in her middle forties. She was a native New Yorker, but there was about her the aura of an out-of-towner who is bewildered by the clutter and noise of a big city. At dinner, Eve confessed to her that this was the first time she’d been in Sardi’s. With simple honesty, Eloise answered, “The food is good and they get you to the show on time. Besides, the waiters know Harry. When they call him ‘Mr. Baxter,’ he feels like a celebrity.”