Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Scott and Sidney Meredith, my agents, who from the very beginning provided honest enthusiasm and encouragement for what I was attempting; to Peter Schwed and Herbert Alexander, who, through creative and fastidious editing, opened for me previously non-existent avenues of writing; to Gerry Ash, who, reading the manuscript pages as they left the typewriter, became a responsive and illuminating touchstone; to Ingram Ash, my friend and neighbor, who graciously carried the manuscript or portions of it to and from the city more times than I can remember; to Bill Breger, who patiently corrected and explained and shared the joy of completion as only an artist could; and most of all to Anita, who suffered on the bleak days and rejoiced on the good ones, who mirrored the many defeats and small victories, who criticized and comforted, assuaged and assured — and who was always there.

E. H.

Monday morning.

Gray October, and an early-morning chill in the house and a sullen sky pressing against the windowpanes. The sound of the children in the kitchen, Chris haggling with David, hounding the younger boy over the fact that he’d wet his bed again the night before.

Another day.

There is a routine in this house, as prescribed as the steady cadence of minutes ticking off time on the face of the bedroom clock. There is a routine here, he thought, and it governs the people living here, and the routine is broken only on Saturdays and Sundays, and even then it is replaced only by another routine, as disciplined and relentless as the first.

“Better get up, Eve,” he said, and beside him, her head under the pillow, one arm tangled in the blanket, Eve mumbled something incoherently.

He looked across at the clock on the dresser, the drill-master, the sergeant who handled the Early Awakening Detail. 7:00 A.M. What a ridiculous hour to be facing the world! By 7:10, the sergeant would relinquish his duties, pass them on to the white-faced disciplinarian who scowled down from the kitchen wall. You could see him from the bathroom. You could poke your head around the door jamb while you were shaving and there he was, tocking off minutes in his rigid voice.

Time.

He rose and stretched. He was a tall, sinewy man with brown hair and dark-brown eyes, eyes which were almost black. He had high cheekbones, and a straight nose, and a full mouth which looked amused even when it was not. He raised muscular arms to the ceiling and opened his jaws wide in a great lion yawn, and then he unbuttoned his pajama top, took it off and threw it onto the chair alongside the bed.

“Eve,” he said, “let’s go.”

“Is it time?” she asked.

“It’s time,” he answered.

Time.

In the kitchen, Chris said, “You’re a big boy, and you shouldn’t wet the bed at night.”

“I di’n wet the bed,” David answered.

With perfect adult logic Chris said, “Then who did?”

“A fairy made it in my pants,” David said.

Abandoning the logic, Chris laughed hysterically. David joined him. Together they bellowed until they’d forgotten what was so funny, until the house reverberated with their delighted cackling.

“Quiet down in there,” Larry called. He reached behind him, touched Eve’s warm shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Come on.”

“Are you up, Daddy?” Chris asked from the kitchen. “Will you make pancakes?”

“Pancakes are for Sunday. That was yesterday.”

“What’s today?”

“Monday.”

“Do I go to school today?”

“Yes.”

“Does David go to school?”

“No.” He paused. “Are you dressed yet? How about it?” He pulled on his trousers and then shook Eve vigorously. “Hey, honey,” he said, “get up and supervise Chris will you?”

Eve sat bolt upright. “What time is it?” she asked.

He looked at the clock. “Seven-ten.”

Eve rubbed her eyes. Her eyes were blue, and they always looked faded in the morning as if the color somehow drained out of them during the night. She had long black hair, and he knew her next gesture even before she made it. Yawningly, she put both hands to the back of her neck and then ran them up toward the top of her head, lifting the black hair, stretching the sleep from her body.

“Oh, God,” she said, “I had a horrible dream. I dreamt you left me.”

“I will if you don’t get out of that bed,” Larry said, tying his shoes.

“Seriously. You were a beast.”

“Are you getting up?”

“I was pregnant when you left.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“It was terrible,” Eve said. She shuddered slightly, and then swung her legs over the side of the bed. The shudder seemed to dispel all memory of the dream. She smiled sleepily and said, “Good morning, beast.” He kissed her gently, and she said, “Pwhhh, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

“You’re not supposed to brush them until after your first meal.”

“That’s what dentists say. What do they know?”

His hand had settled on her knee. Effortlessly now, it glided onto the smooth flesh of her thigh, and his fingers settled in the pocket of warmth where the short nightgown ended.

Eve wriggled away from him, smiling. “Stop it,” she said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“You always have to go to the bathroom.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” she asked lightly. She winked at him and then started down the corridor to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“Ma,” Chris said, intercepting her.

“Don’t call me ‘Ma.’”

“Mother...”

“That’s better.”

“Does David go to school?”

“No.”

Chris turned. He was five years old, with his mother’s black hair and blue eyes. “See, David?” he said. “You can’t go to school because you wet the bed.”

“Did you wet again, David?” Eve asked.

“Yes,” David answered in a small voice.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“A fairy made it in my pants, Eve,” David said, hoping his earlier joke would convulse his mother, knowing too that she thought it devilishly cute of him to call her by her first name.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Eve said, and she closed the bathroom door behind her.

“Are you dressed yet?” Larry asked, coming from the bedroom.

“No,” Chris answered. “What shall I wear?”

“Ask your mother.”

Chris banged on the bathroom door. “Ma, what shall I wear?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Eve answered. As an after-thought she said, “Larry, will you put up the coffee water?”

“Sure.” He walked into the kitchen. David followed him like a penitent shadow. David had brown hair and brown eyes, and he was three years old. His wet pajamas hung limply on his spare frame.

“Hi, Dad,” he said.

Larry filled the tea kettle and then tousled David’s hair. “Hi, son. Have a good sleep?”

“I wet the bed,” David said matter-of-factly.