Chapter 4
Harry Clarke had often wondered what it felt like to be divorced. After such a long time married, he found it hard to remember what a bachelor felt like. Besides, being a bachelor and being divorced were not the same thing-of that he was quite certain. A bachelor was a man who had never sampled the dish and so had no idea whether it suited him or not. But a divorced man knew precisely what he had lost, and gained.
Or so you would think. The question had been bothering him for some time now Harry had been divorced for three weeks, and he still had no idea how a divorced man felt.
Sally. It was hard for him to think objectively about her; hard to appreciate the fact that he would never see her again, or hold her again, or sleep with her ever again. Sally had been so much a part of his life that losing her was as unthinkable as losing an arm. But it had happened. There was no changing that.
The imagine of Sally in the other man's arms sprang into Harry's mind with a vividness that was almost painful. It was as if a powerful film projector at the back of his head was throwing the shocking scene in a blinding square just behind his eyes.
He could see her as he had so often seen her; the lithe, nude body he loved so well and so frequently; the hard, up-thrust breasts; the long, rich lines of the legs; the parted lips; the hazel eyes; the chestnut hair; Sally.
But the breasts were covered by a pair of hairy, thick-veined hands, the lips were pressed to a stranger's lips; the eyes were shut tight in passion; the hair was limp and wet on the pillow beneath them. Every detail of the scene was as clear and perfect as if he was seeing it again for the first time And the pain was the same. The pain would always be the same.
Of course, divorce had been inevitable. She had wanted it that way and there was nothing for him to do but give her her freedom. He knew they were finished; that what she had done had destroyed everything between them. He gave her up, not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
Now it was all over, and he still didn't have any idea how a divorced man felt. He knew how a man would feel whose wife had died, but that was different. At least, it should be different. When a person died, you knew that they were lost and gone forever, that neither you nor anyone on earth would ever see them again. A dead person was a minus sign-something subtracted from the total. A dead person left a small vacuum where they had been and only time would fill up the space. A dead person wasn't just away. A dead person didn't exist. After a while, a dead person would never have existed.
But wasn't that the same? Sally was dead. The Sally he knew was as dead and fallen as if she had been ground to dust and scattered to the winds. Somewhere behind him, there was a stranger wearing her name, and her face, but she was an impostor. Sally was dead. Rest in peace.
His mind drifted back to Mr. Mayo, of Mayo, Penner, Wesley and Fink, the advertising agency where he had built his career. Mr. Mayo had been very kind and understanding about the whole thing; in fact, everyone in the office had been kind and understanding. Naturally, the office staff knew about it as soon as it happened. The circle in which Harry moved was very conscious of the game of changing partners, and the latest divorce or remarriage was a topic of coffee break conversation, like the ball scores. Harry had the horrible feeling that they had known about the affair that had felled his marriage long before he had.
But they had all commiserated with him; especially Mr. Mayo. "Clarke," he had said, peering around the damp butt of a cigar, "I want you to know we all feel your loss deeply. Very deeply. Believe me, I know what it's like to shed a wife. Happened to me three times already. I think number four is coming up. Hah!"
Mr. Mayo spat a thread of tobacco into the ash tray.
"But don't let it throw you, my boy. There is only one cure for a man who gets divorced. It's the same thing as falling off a horse. You have to get right on again or you lose your nerve. You get when I mean?"
Harry had nodded dumbly.
"Get right on again. Hah! Pick somebody out of the crowd and marry her as soon as you can. Nobody who's been married can live single-take my word for it. I'm not just talking about bed either, although God knows that's important. Right? Right. But there are other things too. Like, for instance, shirts and socks. A married man gets used to the idea that shirts and socks just grow in the drawer like mushrooms, or something, and that all he has to do to get a fresh suit is to open the closet. That just ain't so, Clarke. I guess you've been finding that out."
Mr. Mayo glanced critically at Harry's clothing, but Harry didn't notice.
"You need a woman to take care of stuff like that, my boy. Every man needs a woman, one way or the other. Find some girl at a party, or go look in the mailroom downstairs, but find one and marry her before you go to pot.
"I'm giving you this advice because I think a lot of you, Clarke. You're one of the sharpest copy men we have. The way you handled that Stoll's Bathroom Tissue account last year-" Mr. Mayo laughed and slapped his knee. "Hah! I don't think anybody will ever forget that commercial, even if it was shown only once. The Stoll people think we're God now.
"So I want what's good for you, Clarke, because what's good for you is good for Mayo, Penner, Wesley and Fink. I want you to be happy, because that's good business. A man who doesn't have to worry when his next shirt or meal is coming from is a man who can concentrate on his job."
Mr. Mayo's eyes had lighted then in sudden inspiration. "Say, Clarke, you want to meet Harriet? You know, that chesty girl in Media. I'll introduce you. She's made love to practically everyone in the office at one time or another, but of course what she's really looking for is a husband. You're a good-looking young man, Clarke. She'd probably go for you if you asked her right. How about it? Come on, I'll take you down right now."
Harry finally convinced Mr. Mayo that what he wanted was a vacation. Mr. Mayo understood. Harry was given a month's leave, with pay, which was very generous. But then, as Mr. Mayo had explained, Harry was a valued employee. It wasn't just anybody who could devise such an unforgettable way of selling toilet paper.
So now Harry was on the road. The Great American Cure-All. If things are bugging you, get in a car and drive somewhere. There's bound to be something better over the next hill.
Harry had been driving for a week. He was no closer to Shangri-La, no farther from what was eating at him. The week had been a worthless succession of cheap motels, cheap diners, cheap bars, and cheap booze. And in the mornings, with the dull, rusty blade of the hangover taking slices off his brain, Harry had pushed himself out onto the road again, still looking, still hoping that there would be something for him beyond the next horizon.
He was feeling a bit better on this particular morning. He had not gotten as drunk as usual last night, for one thing. Perhaps that compulsion was wearing off. He had gotten nine hours of solid sleep, and the morning through which he was driving had a scrubbed, clean look that was very appealing. The deep greens of the trees on either side of the road was restful to the eye, and the patches where the long shafts of sunlight stabbed through the leaves were pretty enough to make even the unhappiest man start thinking that maybe things weren't so bad after all.
High in the trees, the birds were singing. Harry listened to them and smiled. They sounded so damned cheerful, he thought. Who could resist that sound?
It struck him suddenly what the birds were so happy about. It was morning, and they were up there in their nests, tending to their cruddy little homes and providing for their families and perhaps even making love to their wives. Birds had to make love, he figured, or else where did all the birds come from?
So there were the birds, having fun, making love, raising families, while down below them a member of a superior species hurtled along a black tar ribbon in a metal, rubber, and plastic idiot-box, without even a clear idea of his destination. He wondered if the birds noticed him at all, and if so, what they thought. It was an interesting speculation.
But the point had been made. They were up in the trees and happy because they knew what they wanted, and had it. Harry didn't. The difference was as simple as that.
Did birds get divorced, he wondered. Not likely. But maybe it happened once in a while that a bigger bird would come along and steal the wife of a ninety-seven gram weakling, and some poor slimoe of a bird would find himself less a wife. All right, here is this bird sitting on a branch, watching a big bruiser flying off with his missus. What does he do about it?
He finds another bird. Right? Right.
Mr. Mayo had the right idea there was no doubt about it. But Harry couldn't help thinking that it was much simpler for a bird than for a man. After all, one bird was much the same as another, even to another, even to another bird. But human beings came in such a variety of type that it was difficult to make a choice. Especially a choice upon which so much depended.
Harry had made the choice once. Now he had to make it again.
Well, the place to begin was in bed with somebody. You didn't have to be married for that. You just found a likely-looking, willing female, and you took her to bed. And from just such actions, many a mighty oak was known to grow.
If the chemistry was not right, then say good-bye and look some place else. You'll find it sooner or later.
Harry realized suddenly that he wanted a woman very much.
He was in bad spot for it. He was alone in unfamiliar country, for one thing. He had no place to stay, for another. Sure, there were plenty of motels along this stretch, but Harry didn't like to take girls to motels. Motels were about on a par with call houses, as far as he was concerned, and any girl who would let a man take her to a motel belonged in one. Harry longed for the comfort of his apartment back in the city, then shook the thought away. It was too far to drive, and he was supposed to be on vacation. So we must make do with what we've got.
Up ahead, Harry saw a sign which said: Red Apple Itm. There were a couple of unrealistic apples painted below the words. Harry decided that what he needed was a cup of coffee and some time to think. He turned the wheel and swung the car off the road into the parking lot.
He climbed out and stretched his legs gratefully. It was a pleasure to be out of the car for a while and standing up. Harry let the breeze air out the seat of his pants while he looked the place over.
That was another funny thing. You could drive through the most beautiful country on God's earth, drive until your tires wore down to the axles and your motor fell to rust, and never know just how beautiful your surroundings were. You had to stop for that.
The place Harry found himself in was delightful to the senses. The breeze was touched with a faint odor of pine and subtle green smells, and the blowing leaves across the road made a soft ragged edge against the blue, cloudless sky. Harry took a deep breath of the fragrant air. The hot metal of the car spoiled things slightly, so he stepped back aways. He found a doorway in one of the walls of the restaurant, and he stepped into it, standing on the step with only his heels, letting his legs stretch as his toes dangled in mid-air. He let his mind relax.
There was a flash of white on the road, and a big, fast convertible roared off the road and the parking lot. Harry's eyes were drawn to it, and the person in it.
It was a woman. Harry looked at her, fascinated. She was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen. Her long blonde hair was blown awry by the wind, so that delicate strands of it hung about her face and cheeks. Her costume was informal and simple, and showed off the fine lines of her figure in a wonderful natural fashion. Her face was devoid of make-up and quite pretty, in a plain, outdoorsy way.
Harry watched her climb from the car and start across the parking lot toward the entrance. He felt a pang for the loveliness of this woman, for the loveliness of all woman, for the loveliness of the woman he had lost. He wondered who had this woman, and whether he would ever have to give her up. He hoped not.
She stopped in the middle of the concrete parking field. Harry watched as she stood quite still and stared at something he could not see. Maybe she had come here to meet her man, whoever he was, and had just spotted him. But no, that couldn't be right. It was something else. Harry couldn't figure out what.
The woman was posing. There was no other word for it. She arched her body so that, the fine shapes of it stood out in relief against the material of her clothing. She acted precisely like a woman in front of a mirror. Harry had often seen Sally indulge in just the same thing. But Sally usually did it to get him aroused. And it always worked.
Why was this woman doing it then? There were no mirrors handy; that was obvious. So it must be for the benefit of some man. Who?
Harry glanced around the edge of a door and looked for the lucky stiff. There was no one visible. He glanced back at the woman.
She was looking at him, a strange expression on her face.
It hit him all at once that maybe, just maybe, she was posing for him Could it be? A woman as beautiful and desirable as that making a play for a man in the parking lot of the Red Apple Inn? It didn't seem possible.
But something was happening, and that was the only explanation he could find for it.
The expression on her face underlined the notion. She seemed to look at him without actually seeing him, as if she had something else on her mind. The rest of her body and the way she held it left no doubt that that something was bed.
Harry stepped out of the doorway and started toward her. It was all or nothing. She might yell for a cop, or punch him in the nose, or just run away. But he was going to ask her, first because he wanted a woman, a woman like her, a woman who could look clean and untroubled and fresh; and second, because he wanted to know if his judgment of her was correct, whether he was just dreaming or whether this beautiful woman was really available.
He walked toward her And as he watched her face, his heart sank. The far-away expression evaporated, and was replaced by a twist of fear. The woman's eyes went wide, and she turned suddenly and walked quickly to the door of the restaurant.
Harry stopped in his tracks and watched her go.
The glass and aluminum door swung shut behind her.
He stood for a moment, not moving. Then he turned and walked back toward the doorway where he had been standing.
He noticed that the Red Apple Inn was divided into two arts-a restaurant and a bar. The entrance to the bar was just beyond the doorway.
Harry went inside.
It was like coming home.