Margaret Millar - Wives and Lovers

It was as if, during a space of three days, a whole new cycle of life had begun. Under Hazel’s feet the ground seemed to move with bursting seeds and hatching eggs, with blind, brainless, soundless cells of things dividing and redividing; earthworms, sow bugs, nematodes, thrips, like rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief.

It’s no use, Hazel thought, a dozen Escobars wouldn’t change anything.

She heard the click of the gate, and turned and saw George. He looked tired and there was a bandage wrapped around his head so tightly that it crinkled his forehead and gave him a puzzled expression.

“Hello, Hazel.”

“Hello.”

“I thought you’d be up by this time. I’m on my way home and, well, I decided to drop in and see you first.”

“Oh.”

He touched the bandage lightly with his fingertips. “No questions?”

“You look like you had quite an evening.”

“I did.”

“In fact you look like you got into a fight.”

“In a way I did.”

“You’d think at your age you’d have learned to stay out of fights.”

“You’re sore, aren’t you, because I didn’t come back last night? Well, I couldn’t make it. Ruth phoned the police and they hauled me off to the hospital and wouldn’t let me go until a few minutes ago. The nurse hid my clothes so I couldn’t get away. And a couple of detectives kept asking me questions about who was my assailant, that’s what they called him, my assailant.”

“And who was he?”

“How should I know?” George said flatly. “It was foggy and dark. I didn’t get a good look at him. He jumped me, took me by surprise. I slipped on something and hit my head on the glider.”

“Is that what you told the police?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the truth?”

“Close enough.”

“What really happened?”

“What really happened,” he repeated thoughtfully, as if he had already spent a great deal of time trying to decide on an answer. “I don’t know. Maybe a lot happened, maybe I only got a cut on the head.”

“George, was it — is it a bad cut?”

He looked down at her irritably. “Don’t go into that Florence Nightingale routine. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

“Then why the hell don’t you?”

“Here we are quarreling again. Always quarreling.”

“Well, I can’t help it.” She turned and went up the porch steps. “There’s some coffee on the stove, let’s have a cup.”

He made no move to follow her. “No thanks.”

“Aren’t you even coming in?”

“No.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I like it out here. Besides I can get a cup of coffee downtown. Any downtown. I can go anywhere in the world and get a cup of coffee.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means a cup of coffee isn’t what I want.” He came up the porch steps, his head bent like a charging bull. “Listen to me. I did everything I could to get back here last night. I fought nurses and doctors and even policemen. I would have given my right arm to get back to you. It seemed the most important thing in the whole world to me, not because I’m hard up, as you put it, but because, well, I don’t know how to say it. I’m no good at saying things, you might laugh. And if you laughed, I might — I don’t trust myself — maybe I’d kill you.”

“I don’t feel like laughing.”

“Don’t I seem funny to you?”

“No.”

“I am, though. I’m pretty funny. What are you crying about?”

“I’m not crying. And if I am, I can if I want to.”

“What did I do to make you cry?”

She shook her head, holding her fists against her eyes. “Nothing.”

“I must have. Goddamn it, Hazel, don’t cry. I’m sorry. You hear that? I’m sorry. I don’t know what for, but I’m sorry. Now will you stop crying?”

“No.”

“Well, all right,” he said. “All right.”

He put his arms around her and she buried her face against his chest, and presently they went together into the house.