Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“Oh, sure,” Don said.

“Why not? Is it so damn impossible?”

“Well, I just don’t think...”

“Suppose I was meeting another man, Don?”

“I don’t like this kind of talk, Margaret.”

“Would you be jealous, Don?”

“Well, I...”

“Would you be infuriated, Don? Could you picture him kissing me, Don, and touching me and—”

“Now stop it. You know I don’t—”

“How would you like that, Don? Another man making love to me?”

“I wouldn’t like it at all. Now stop that kind of talk. The way you talk, sometimes I think—”

“What?” she said, whirling from the mirror to face him.

“Nothing. But it’s not becoming, Margaret. I mean it. You talk like a... a...”

“A what , Don?” she said, her eyes flashing.

“I don’t know what, but it’s not right for a woman to talk that way. Suppose Patrick heard you? His mother. Talking like that.”

“I think I’ll pick up a man tonight,” she said brazenly, angrily.

“Now come on, stop it.”

“I’ll find one in the storm and—”

“You won’t find anything . Now cut it out. You’ll go away just the way you’re supposed to, and you’ll come back to me just the way you’re supposed to.”

“Suppose I don’t come back?”

“You will.”

“You’re pretty damn sure, aren’t you?” she said, and there was so much vehemence in her voice that he opened his eyes wide and stared at her for several moments before speaking again.

Then he said, “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Well, don’t count on it!” she snapped.

“Margaret, what—”

“Stop taking me for granted! I’m a woman! And one of these days I’m liable to walk out of here and never come back!

Don gently said, “Now Margaret, you know that isn’t true. You’ll always come back to me.”

She turned away from him and viciously picked up the lipstick brush again, her fingers trembling. In the mirror, she could see her eyes flashing with rage. Damn stupid fool, she thought. I’ll always come back to him . Damn smug satisfied stupid fool!

But he’s right, she thought. You always come back to him. He’s right about that. Didn’t you know that?

No, I didn’t know that. I damn well ...

Didn’t you know you’d never leave him? she thought.

No! I can leave him any time I want to. I can...

Oh, Margaret, don’t. Please. Look at the truth, Margaret. You can have Larry and a hundred men after him if you like, but you’ll always go back to Don. Don’t you know why, Margaret? It’s because you were made for each other.

Made for...!

Yes, yes, oh surely you know that. You couldn’t leave him if you wanted to. And you don’t want to. Didn’t you say you liked things the way they are? You want everything to stay the way it is, don’t you? Don’t you?

I won’t listen! she thought.

You’ll listen, she thought, because you know it’s true. You know you’re caught in a personal Hell. You’re stuck with Don until the day you die, and then maybe you’ll really go to Hell, but...

I’m not listening! I don’t have to...

... in the meantime, this is fine, this is Hell enough. No matter how much you want to break away from him, no matter who’s waiting out in that storm now or forever, you’ll never do it.

Stop it, she thought. Stop it. I’m not listening!

You’ll never do it because Don is safe! He’s the safest goddamn man you could find, and that’s why you married him.

No!

Admit it, admit it! Look into your own eyes and admit it. Larry may fill you for a while but you’ll always go back to Don because he doesn’t want as much. He doesn’t want your heart.

No , she thought. Stop it. Please .

Yes, yes, she thought, get used to Hell. Get used to staying here and to coming back here and to living with a man who’ll never know and never care. But things will stay the way they are. Always. Forever. You’ll have company, but you’ll be alone for the rest of your goddamn life!

Not She shook her head. No, that isn’t true. No, it —

The front doorbell chimed. The sound startled her. She dropped the lipstick brush and then looked up into the mirror at a pale white face she had never seen before.

From the bed, Don said, “Is that my mother? So early?”

She did not answer him. She kept staring into the mirror at the terrified white face, shaking her head over and over again. Don left the room. The doorbell chimed again. She could hear him as he rushed downstairs to open the door.

“Mom!” he said happily. “Mom!”

When Larry left the Harder apartment at nine o’clock that night, the city was as silent as a tomb. The rain had stopped, and there was a strange glow in the sky, a sense of foreboding in the streets. He started for the garage where his car was parked, and then stopped at a newsstand on the way to pick up the early edition of the morning paper. Hastily, he thumbed through it to the book page. The slug at the top of the review read:

He felt intense sudden pride. He folded back the page and, standing under a street lamp, began reading the column:

When any reviewer’s fortune includes one major novel in any given month, he has reason for rejoicing. When, in the month of August, the traditional doldrum month, he receives two such novels, he has surely heard the heavenly choir. If Roger Altar’s new book, The Fall of a Stone , is not a masterpiece, it comes very close to being one. It is certainly a mature work of art, and one of the finest books published this year, if not this decade. Stone , unlike the earlier August entry which...

Larry could not finish the review. He had not been so excited or honestly happy for another person in as long as he could remember. He was shaking with vicarious joy. He had to see Altar at once. He had to share the writer’s triumph with him, if only for a few minutes. Quickly, he got his car from the garage and drove downtown. He made it to Altar’s apartment in ten minutes. He raced up the steps with the newspaper in his hand, wondering if Altar had seen it yet, hoping he would be the one to bring the good news. He rang the doorbell impatiently, and then knocked on the door. It opened wide. Altar stood there with a drunken grin on his face. He had already seen the review.

“Hot damn!” he shouted ecstatically.

Larry grabbed his hand and slapped him on the back with the newspaper. “Congratulations, you bastard!” he said, and Altar pulled him into the apartment, apparently not at all surprised to see him in New York.

“Hot damn!” he roared ecstatically. “Hot damn ! You want a drink?”

“A short one.”

“Did you see it?”

“ Did I see it!”

“ Hot day-am!” Altar shouted. He reeled to the liquor cabinet and feverishly poured a drink, the whisky sloshing over the brim of the glass. He staggered back to Larry hurriedly, thrusting the drink into his hand. “Drink up!” he said. “Did you read it? A work of art! Crisp sharp dialogue and true characterization! Penetrating! That’s what the man said! A work of art!” he shouted joyously, tensely ecstatic.

Larry grinned at him stupidly.

“This is it, Larry,” Altar said excitedly. “This is it, man! What’s left after this? Man, this is the peak, the top, the gateway to heaven!” He poured whisky down his throat ferociously. “I did it, Larry!”

“Yes!”

“I really did it this time!”

“Yes!”

“I knocked them on their asses,” he said, his eyes bright and glowing hotly, his head nodding nervously. “I did it, I wrote a work of art, I got a...” and suddenly his voice trailed off and the room went silent.