Margaret Millar - Wives and Lovers

He inhaled deeply and extravagantly, opening his mouth wide to receive the bracing air. But his ageing lungs were not accustomed to such largess; he began to cough, pressing both hands against his chest as if to ease its troubles. His face looked pale and withdrawn and he seemed suddenly to have lost interest in George and the martini and the bracing air, in everything but himself. The judge was as ignorant of his body as he was aware of his mind, and this periodic rebellion inside his chest mystified and frightened him. If the day was warm and bright, and his calendar easy, he jeered at the cough, it was nothing. But on a day with a crowded calendar and pellets of rain exploding on the tiled roof of the courtroom so violently he could hardly hear what was going on inside, the cough was death, it had come like the bailiff to take him away, and away he would go, down long corridors to a dark and single cell.

“Devilish thing — don’t know what — causes it — maybe — the olives — did the olives — have pits?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it then — the pits have — lodged somewhere — devilish — damn.”

He coughed for a full minute, and when he had finished he took off his spectacles, wiped the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief. His chest was a little sore and his throat raw, but, having convinced himself that the cause was nothing more serious than an unfortunate lodging of olive pits, he felt quite cheerful again; the bailiff and the dark cell were years and miles away, the cough was nothing, the pits, wherever they were, would dissolve. A very dry martini would no doubt assist in their dissolution.

The judge repeated his order and when the martini came he sipped it very slowly and gravely as if it were medicine which had been prescribed for him and which he had to take whether he liked it or not.

George went out to the telephone booth in the foyer and called a cab. Through the window in the top of the door he could see Hazel’s blue Chevy coming toward the Beachcomber, bouncing over the worn planks of the wharf like a jeep. With a familiar feeling of irritation he watched her as she tried to park. Back and forth she maneuvered, three times, four times, and when she had finished the Chevy was still a good four feet from the wharf railing and straddling two parking spaces.

He opened the door and crossed the parking area. Hazel was just getting out of the Chevy, panting a little from exertion. She hadn’t dressed up as she usually did when she came to the Beachcomber. Her hair was tied up in a scarf, and she wore faded blue jeans, a striped T-shirt which had once belonged to Harold and a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses which she had borrowed from Josephine since Josephine was too sunburned to go out today anyway.

She gave George a long direct stare as if challenging him to make any remarks about her costume or the way she’d parked the car.

George could never resist a challenge. “You’re going to leave it there? ”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Look, all you’ve got to do when you want to park is pull up parallel with the car ahead, back in toward the curb until your engine is just about even with the rear window of the other car, then come to a full stop, reverse your wheel and—”

“That’s exactly what I did, and anyway you told me all that before.”

“You couldn’t have done it like that or we wouldn’t be standing out here in the middle of the road.”

Hazel colored slightly. “You seem to be pretty burned up about something. Is it the money?”

“No. And I’m not burned up.”

“You’re acting like it. It’s not my fault if I can’t park right. I do everything just like you taught me, but it doesn’t work out.”

“It isn’t the parking. It’s—” It was everything; it was the judge, the money, Ruby, it was life itself. “Hell, I don’t care if you park in the center of 101. It’s your funeral.”

“Thanks.”

He turned away, squinting up at the sun. “I guess I owe you something for last night. I guess you did your best.”

“I’d just as soon forget about it.”

“So would I.”

“Did you — you got the money all right?”

“Yes, sure.” He hesitated. “You want it now, or have you got time to come in for a drink?”

“I don’t know, it’s kind of early. The whole five hundred, did you get?”

“Here it is. Count it.”

“No. No, really—”

“Count it, go on.”

She counted the money quickly and put it in the back pocket of her jeans as if she was trying to get it out of sight as fast as possible.

“I don’t want to pry,” George said, “but I’d kind of like to know who the guy is. I deserve that much for my trouble, don’t I?”

“You’re going to get paid back. What difference does it make who the guy is?”

“Just say I’m nosy.”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

“All right, it’s your business.”

Hazel turned away, avoiding his eyes. She was tempted to give him back the money right away and make a confession: I was going to play what you’d think was a dirty trick, George, only I’ve changed my mind.

But her mind refused to change. She thought, it isn’t actually a dirty trick, it’s for his own good. He said himself he wished he’d never met her. It’s my fault that he did and now it’s my fault that she’s going away. Everyone will be better off.

She said, looking a little guilty: “Maybe I could use a drink at that. I’m not dressed, though. I didn’t figure on coming in.”

“That’s all right. There’s nobody around except Judge Bowridge.”

“Is he—?”

“He is.”

“That’s too bad.”

They went inside. The judge was still sitting at the bar, his arms forming a circle around the half-finished martini. He was talking quietly but distinctly to himself in a language which neither George nor Hazel recognized but which George from past experience assumed was Latin.

“Carpe diem,” said the judge, “quam minimum credula postero. What happened to you, Anderson?”

“I went out to meet Hazel.”

“Hazel. My dear lady, I did not recognize you without your hair. Here, sit down, take off your glasses, let me admire you. O mater pulchra filia pulchrior. ”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Hazel said, laughing.

“No, indeed. I speak from the heart. Sit down, sit down, the night is young.”

“It’s morning.”

“I was merely using a figure of speech. I am quite aware that it’s morning. Sunday morning, as a matter of fact. I am always perfectly oriented, even when I’ve been drinking. And I might as well confess that I’ve had one or two drinks throughout the night.”

“Maybe it’s time you thought about going home.”

“I have thought about it,” Bowridge said solemnly. “It seems like an excellent idea.”

“Then—”

“But not one which appeals to me. Carpe diem, I say. Seize the day. Swing it by the tail. Let it know who’s boss.”

Hazel’s smile was a little forced. For one thing she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, and for another she had never before seen Judge Bowridge when he’d been drinking. She had heard about his periodic bats, from George and a dozen other people, but she hadn’t witnessed one, and it embarrassed her.

“I sense opprobrium in the air,” Bowridge said. “Chide me no chides, Hazel.”

“It sounds like you’re talking in riddles.”

“Like the Sphinx. Yes. But that is not my sole resemblance to the Sphinx. We are both old, desiccated, frangible. I know many fine riddles. For example, what is it that can go up the chimney down, but not down the chimney up?”

Hazel took a careful sip of the beer George had drawn for her, and tried to look thoughtful.