Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

Feeling hysterical myself, I raced across the room and held her tightly. “Michele, my darling Michele, the heat takes it out of all of us. Guess it was a mistake for you to teach summer school. Now get a hold of yourself. After all, in two weeks you'll be in Paris, then in the south of France with your folks. Things will look different. When you come back, we'll talk this through.” My hands stroked the small of her back.

She pushed me away, her body actually shaking with sobs.

It was the first time she had ever pushed me from her and meant it. I said coldly, “Don't feel so damn sorry for yourself. Who am I ambitious for? Myself? It's for us, for you! Can't you get that through your head?”

She raised her wet face, and the tears seemed to make her more lovely than ever. “And can't you get it that I love you so much it is a torture not having children? I married you, not a.. a... medicine chest.”

“All right, honey, I'm with you, remember? Cut the tears and... I never knew it meant so much to you. Tell me, suppose it turns out we can't have kids? I mean, if we try for real. Then what? Are we finished?”

“If that is nature's wish then.... Oh, Norm-man, Norm-man, it is not only the matter of children. It is... sometimes I think we live like man and mistress instead of husband and wife.”

“Lord! Isn't that a peachy little thing to say!”

She turned away, muttering something in weary French as she closed the bedroom door. I understand French fairly well, when she speaks slowly. At least I can get the drift. I heard myself yelling after her, “What was that? What did you say?”

Through the closed door she whispered, “It does not matter. You can only understand what you want to see.”

“Yeah? And what the devil do you see except your own nose?”

There wasn't any answer. I waited a few seconds, then went back to the table and jammed some tobacco into my pipe. I was sweating like a pig. I took a can of beer and drank it slowly, standing in the kitchen doorway that led to the garden. I stared at the lighted windows all around us, most of them open, and wondered how many people had heard us. I'd never seen Michele like this before, but the more I thought about things, the more indignant I became. I mean, what the hell! Where did she come off giving me that? Anybody listening would think I was giving her a hard time! That I was a penny pincher or a bottle-head! That I ran around with bimbos! Here she practically blew a fuse, and over what? Exactly what? That I didn't jump through the loop when she mentioned a house or a kid! It was positively an uncalled for—

I heard the bedroom door open. Stepping back into the apartment I told myself to cut it out; sometimes women get cranky and have no control over.... She was slipping on her gloves. Michele was not only dressed, but she had a suitcase beside her. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To the airport. I phoned—there is the possibility of a cancellation on a Paris flight. Please do not try to stop me.”

“What the devil makes you think I want to stop you!”

Michele stared at me for a moment, her eyes sad and troubled. I thought she was going to bawl again. All she did was to say softly, “Au revoir. Norm-man,” and walk out of the apartment.

The closing of the door hit me like a kick in the stomach. Then I laughed out loud, a shrill nervous laugh, as I thought: She's only bluffing. Heu, European women never take the initiative, walk out on a marriage. Oh, that's a bunch of nonsense. Michele has to be bluffing, we've had it too good for it to be otherwise. A bluff. My God, of all the melodramatic corn—and she had the gall to complain about the TV show! Maybe I should have stood up to her more? But this caught me completely unprepared. Anyway, I couldn't be hard with Michele. I suppose I'll have to drive up with her and see this stone outhouse Saturday. Summer is half-over, I can stall until next Spring. When she comes back I'll tell her I want to see the house. She'll return by midnight Taking a suitcase!

But a few minutes after twelve when I turned off the commercial-ridden old movie on the TV screen, I wondered what I should do. “I suppose I should get crocked,” I said aloud. The words made such a lonely ring in the quiet of the apartment the very sound frightened me. And there was only a half a bottle of vermouth around, and some cooking sherry. Neither of us drank very much.

I stretched out on the bed, telling myself, “She's checked the bag and is walking around, acting like a kid. No point in my being childish too. Let her come home and find me asleep, as if nothing happened. She's gone to a movie. Or maybe visiting this Edith, or that UN couple she likes so well, I can phone and.... But how would that look? Damn, damn, we never had a spat anything like this before.”

At 3 p.m. I could no longer endure the waiting or the hot silence of the apartment. I dressed and went out. It was too late to get drunk now, even if I wanted to. I walked across town and up a deserted Broadway, which further depressed me. At 72nd Street I decided I couldn't take it, that I would phone the house and agree to anything Michele wanted. While I still didn't understand what had come over her, still, she always was a level-headed kid, so maybe I was the jerk.

I phoned and there wasn't any answer. I tried to tell myself she was spending the night with Edith, but I was frightened and jittery. I started walking back downtown and suddenly went into a Turkish bath. I sat in the hot room for a while. I was alone and trying to think—and all I could think of was I must be in Hell. At 5 a.m. I went up to my room and fell into an uneasy, exhausted sleep. When I opened my eyes it was 9:45.

Miss Park opened the office door. “Mr. Connor, Mr. Kuan is on the phone. Do you want to speak to him?”

“Damn, the last thing I need is a game of handball! Tell Mm I'm tied up in a sales... no. I'll talk to him.” I waited until Miss Park left, then picked up the phone, trying to choose the right words. For a new thought had entered my head— Francine Anthony's death could very well be the solution to my own problems.

“Frank? Norm Connor here. Sorry as all hell I didn't get a chance to phone you back but I'm jammed up to my ass with work. Guess you've read about the Matt Anthony mess? Well, there's all sorts of complications here and I've been busier than a whore on a battleship.” I threw in a few more cuss words, trying to make it all sound like 'man' talk, and inwardly a trifle ashamed of the phony act I was putting on. The trouble was I hadn't decided what my play should be; impress Frank with the fact this had to be my own decision, or should I play the young squirt asking the seasoned older executive for advice?

Frank said he was busy as a bastard himself and needed a workout to shake up his brains. It would do me good, too. He finished with, “I've reserved a court at the Midtown for 1 p.m. Can you make it?”

“I think I can make time for it. You're right, be the change of pace I need. But only one game.”

“Fine. Then we'll lunch at the Ad Club. By the by, I'd like to read the Moorepark novel you have scheduled for September. Judging by the catalog blurb, it will be a shocker. Can I get a copy of the galleys?”

“I'll see if I can sneak out a copy. But I'll have to have it back within a week.” A deadline always seemed to heighten Frank's enjoyment of a book.

“Of course. One sharp, Normboy.”

Hanging up I phoned the sales department for a copy of the galley proofs, told them, “And give me one that's marked up, if you can.” The higher up you went the more obvious was the childish side of big money men. Or was it that I didn't expect to find any defects in the big shots? I never could figure who Frank impressed by reading galley proofs, unless it was himself.