Chapter 8

On a Friday afternoon in the middle of June, Paul phoned to tell Nadine, "I'm going to eat at the Merchants and Manufacturers with Lindsay and some visiting firemen from the Red Rover outfit in Elkart. And then Pritchard wants my okay on the first of the Weidberger girlie ads. He's having an engraver pull a few enamel proofs soon as it's finished, but it might be late."

"How late, dear?"

"I don't know. They're going to stay with it until the plate's finished. Eleven o'clock ... maybe midnight. Don't worry about picking me up. I'll take a cab from the station."

"No. Phone me, dear. I'll be up."

"Sher home?"

"No. The little Lindholm girl and her brother picked her up about an hour ago. They're having dinner at Frannie's and then they're going to somebody's house to listen to records. Call me from Union Station when you know which train you're catching. That'll be better than waiting around that dumb depot."

"All right. I don't know what I'll do to kill time after I leave Lindsay and the dog food exec. We might stroll over to Carrell's studio. The engraver's on Rush Street ... just a mile or so from where he lives. He lives on Rush, you know."

"I thought you didn't like him."

"It won't be a social call. He'll be interested in this proof, too. After all, it's his illustration."

"All right, darling. Try not to be too late."

"You know me. I'm a home boy."

Nadine spent a few minutes after that wondering if the combination of Paul, Old Man Pritchard and Monty might not pose a threat. Then she decided, no ... Pritch hadn't wanted Paul to know about the messenger-boy incident. Besides, he had probably forgotten about it by now. But how was she going to manage an evening alone?

She thought of Monty Carrell. Of how desperately she loved Monty Carrell. Of how he might be pacing his studio apartment at this exact moment, hungering for her. She reenacted their scene together, closing her eyes to experience, palpably, the firm possession of his mouth over hers, seeing the intriguingly arrogant, disdainful expression he assumed when discussing other women, the deeply buried passion erupting from every part of him when he spoke her name. Tonight ... tonight they could write history together. Amatica historia. Historia erotica. Hell!

Nadine drew open the draperies covering the glass window-wall. A light burned in Leila's front bedroom. Kill two birds with the single proverbial stone? Go over and kick it around with Leila? Must be awful to sit in that big, empty house night after night ... why didn't she get out and meet a few eligible men? Unbearable to be alone that long!

No, she wasn't up to Leila. But to be alone this way! ... How long had it been since Roy Stroud took off one morning, leaving nothing but a note: "This is rotten, Lei, but it would be just as rotten if I had the guts to face you and tell you why I can't...."

She began to remember Roy. From the beginning, going over that first realization several times because the details were fuzzy. Bringing them into focus. Sherry at a Girl Scout meeting, phoning home with a tearful request: could someone please bring the apron she'd worked on for the sewing badge ... it was Awards Night and she'd forgotten her project on her dresser! Rain. Paul off somewhere with the car ... Leila saying, "I don't think I can talk Roy into carrying an apron into a roomful of District big-wigs in green uniforms. But the least he can do for Sherry is drive you over, Nadine."

On the way home, it had happened like a violent, mutual explosion. Roy had only kissed her that night ... but the three days he was supposedly at an engineer's convention and she had driven every morning to that motel near Wheaton ... telling Leila something about dental appointments....

And suddenly Nadine recalled a date and found herself with a necessary project that would fill at least a few minutes of the evening that yawned emptily ahead. June eighteenth! She had remembered! June eighteenth was only two days away. Airmail to California ... she could get a note off to Roy in time for his birthday!

Nadine weighed the thought of driving to Clebb's drugstore to buy a card. Then, too anxious for delays, she settled for informal stationery, picturing the recipient ... Roy's bitter, heartbreaking half-smile, the stirring of old memories, the poignant resignation and yet the inward flutter of excitement in tearing open an envelope bearing her handwriting!

Dear Roy, she wrote.

(What would thrill him? What would he like to hear?)

Tonight, thinking of you, I can't help remembering that you predicted it wouldn't matter how many years or miles separated us. Whenever either of us thought of the other it would....

Nadine, deep in nostalgic reverie, jerked in her seat at the sound of the door chimes. She shoved the unfinished letter under a desk blotter and rose to go to the door.

Geared as she was for a possible visit from Leila, Warren Ryner came to Nadine as a shock.

"Hi, Nadine," he said. "The old bear around?" It was the voice he used for public consumption. He obviously didn't think she was alone.

"Paul's downtown," she said. (Sultry. Somehow she couldn't help the sultry intonation.) "Come in."

"I don't know. Is Sherry...?"

"She's out, too."

"I'd better come back. I came to talk to Paul about a brainstorm Mabel had at dinner. When do you expect him?"

"Any time now," Nadine said. It was only eight-fifteen, but the hours before midnight stretched interminably before her.

Warren followed her through the wide entry hall reluctantly. In the living room, he waited until she had seated herself before he settled in an occasional chair across the room. "Mabel thought I could use a few days at the lake."

The Weidberger clan, Nadine remembered, owned an enormous rustic lodge on the shore of a lake in northern Wisconsin. "Could you?"

"I could use a change of scenery. Get away, fish. I'm going to take the boys and I thought Paul might like to come. He's been driving himself pretty hard on the fall campaign. What do you think?"

"About Paul wanting to go? Oh, I imagine so. You know how he loves to fish. Depends on how full his schedule is."

"I always liked fishing with Paul," Warren said. He filled his pipe nervously and there was a wistful quality in the past-tense reference. "Overseas, we used to wonder if we'd ever get back and get to go fishing together. The few times we've made it to the lake we had a great time. We used to...."

He got up and started a systematic walk from one end of the room to the other, laying the pipe aside, forgetting to light it. "The kids tried to talk Mabel into coming. That would have meant inviting you, too."

"Didn't you want to invite me, darling?"

Warren stopped in the center of the room, staring through her with a disturbing intensity. "I'd get a lot of sleep, wouldn't I? With you in a bed in the next room. Christ! Oh, Christ! It's bad enough to wake up at night and know you're only eight blocks away. When it might as well be a million miles...."

"I know," Nadine said softly. "I know what you mean." (It wasn't exactly dishonest to comfort him with those words. Not too long ago she had known.)

"Someone's here," Warren said. He spoke in a hushed whisper, though there was no possibility of being heard by anyone but Nadine. "Car behind mine in the driveway."

Nadine joined him, seeing only a pair of glaring headlights. "You aren't worrying about Mabel?"

"She knew I was coming here. It was her idea."

They waited for the lights to be extinguished, for a car door to slam outside.

"We shouldn't stand here gawking," Warren suggested. "Maybe it's Sherry. Does she have a boy friend?"

"If she did, I doubt they'd be necking in our driveway with the headlights shining into the house."

"Oh, wait a minute...." Warren squinted his eyes, peering at the dim outline of the car. "That's a Buick ... Allegrettis', maybe? Why don't they come in?"

"There's one way to find out," Nadine said. She headed for the door.

Gwen normally drove the Buick, but she was nowhere in sight. Slouched behind the wheel, his face harshly illuminated by the dashboard lights, Vince watched her approach.

"Vince?" Nadine called. "What are you doing out here?"

Vince grinned blearily. "I am waiting for my lady love." He enunciated the words precisely. They managed to sound slurred in spite of his effort. "My beautiful, honey-voiced, dewy-eyed lady love...."

"Vince, you're drunk."

"Everybody keeps telling me I'm drunk. Everybody knows everything ... Vincent knows nothing."

"You ought to know better than to come here in that condition."

Vince started to get out of the car, sliding across the seat first and fumbling with the latch on the side where Nadine stood. "If I was drunk, I wouldn't remember ... third Friday of the month. Paulie goes to Ad Club ... this the third Friday? You're damned right."

"Not during the summer, he doesn't. Does Gwen know where you are?"

Vince had maneuvered to his feet on the driveway. "No-o-o, it's a deep, dark secret. Honey, you've got beautiful eyes. Wrote a song once...." He moved unsteadily toward the house, slipping his arm around Nadine's waist.

"Warren's here, you know," Nadine said.

Vince seemed unaffected by the warning. "Good man, Warren. Have to go to college ... learn all about chemistry ... can't make good beer if you don't know your chemistry. D'you know that?"

They were on the stoop. What was she going to do with him?

They came into the house and Warren got up, frowning as Vince greeted him with a wobbly, exaggerated salute. "How goes it, Ryner?"

Warren scowled at Nadine. "Fine. How're you, Vince?"

"Nadine says I'm drunk."

"Then suppose I drive you home?"

"I was going to fix some black coffee," Nadine said.

Vince sank to the piano bench. "No. Honey, no. I get sick if I drink ... what else you got?"

"There's nothing in the house," Warren said firmly.

"You know your way around the place!" Vince flashed a spasmodic smile. "You know it's the third Friday of the month, too?"

Warren's face had colored and he looked uncomfortably annoyed. "Let me get you home, Vince."

"He won't go home if he leaves here," Nadine whispered to Warren, her back turned to the piano wall. "He's liable to kill himself driving around in that condition." She walked toward the kitchen, Warren following her.

"I'm not going to leave you here alone with him!"

"Oh, Warren ... really!"

"I told Mabel I'd be back in half an hour. But I'm not going until he goes."

"He's just a neighbor. Do you think he'd be more manageable if I gave him a drink?"

"God, no. Nadine, you don't pamper drunks...."

"But he's lonely. You know he wouldn't come around if he didn't need someone to talk to. I'll make coffee ... he'll drink it once it's made."

"What do you do, adopt every alley cat that comes to the door?"

"I don't see any reason for you to get burned up, dear...."

Warren's mouth tightened. He slapped a clenched fist against an open palm. "You mean I shouldn't act like I'm your husband. What am I ... just one of the alley cats?"

"Warren, honestly!"

"I don't like the way he acts around you. At our house, while you were dancing with him, I...."

By ten-thirty, the situation, which seemed to be considerably more upsetting to Warren Ryner than to Nadine, had resolved itself as nothing more than a dull impasse.

Vince Allegretti, entertaining them intermittently with piano and vocal excursions, apparently had no intention of leaving. Warren was doggedly determined to wait it out until Paul arrived.

Between the senti mental music and lyrics, unmistakably intended as personal messages for Nadine, Vince grated on Warren's nerves with daring, physical allusions to Nadine.

Several times it took a pacifying sentence from Nadine to prevent a resentful outburst from Warren. Once he passed his hand over his face in an agitated motion, exhaling audibly and asking no one in particular, "What am I doing here?"

Contrasted with Warren's fearful discretion, Vince's pointed remarks were shockingly revealing. Almost as though he wants everyone in the world to know, Nadine thought. And she teetered between being mildly alarmed, and basking in the flattering realization that Vince loved her so terribly that he couldn't live with himself without drinking. And with liquor giving him courage, he couldn't keep the enormous secret closeted within himself. Dangerous, actually. She had promised herself she would be more careful. Get Vince out of the house before Sherry or Paul came home. But how, without hurting his feelings? Even soused, he was still a human being. Not fair to hurt anyone when it was so little trouble to be kind....

She dispensed with the benign attitude shortly afterward.

While Warren had excused himself, going to the den this time to phone Mabel, Vince turned the customary sexy stare toward Nadine. This time, however, there was an almost baleful quality in his expression. Only the faintest hint of malevolence, but it jarred her.

"I know you," Vince slurred. "Better'n anybody knows you. Not supposed to be observing. Drunken ole Vincent ... blind as a bat. That's what they think!"

"Vince, what's with you tonight? It's always so nice to be with you when ... you make sense."

Abruptly, he spun around to face the piano. Picking out the old nursery tune perversely with one finger, he began to adlib a parody on "Once There Was a Little Girl":

"Once there was a ... guy named Paul An' he wore a little horn ... Right in the middle of his forehead...."

"Vince ... that's enough of that!"

Vince snickered, delighted with himself. "Now you sound like the wife." Cuttingly, he mimicked a shrewish voice. "That's enough, Vincent! That'll be enough out of you!" He slammed his hands against the keyboard. The loud discord pleased him and he turned to smile, affectionately this time, at Nadine's discomfiture. Then he picked up the unfinished parody:

"... and while it was good, It was ... very, very good...."

Vince laughed, anticipating the next line, as Warren returned to the room.

"But when he caught on, it was hor-rid ... I"

"Mabel's going to phone Gwen," Warren muttered into Nadine's ear. "So she won't be worried about where he is. Christ, I feel sorry for that woman!"

They turned their eyes to the entry hall as the door opened, then closed, and Paul came into the room.

Nadine hurried to greet him. "You got home early. Good!"

Paul pecked at her cheek, smiling in bland surprise at the others as he set his leather portfolio on an end table. "Well, how about this ... a welcoming committee."

"How goes it, Paul?" Warren said. "Welcome, welcome!" Vince said effusively. "How did you get home, dear?"

"McLean. You know, Chet. He's sales chief for that link-belt outfit. They live on Oakcrest. I ran into him at the M. and M. Club and he was driving."

"Was your proof all right?"

"Beautiful. I'll have to show it to you, Warren. Pritch and I expected a long wait, but I phoned during dinner and those demons at Edco told me it was ready. What a deal!"

"Edco. Oh, sure. The engravers," Warren said stiffly.

"Excuse the shop talk," Paul addressed Vince. "This is the first ad in a new campaign. Wait'll you see, boy. A stacked doll guzzling Weidberger-how can we miss?"

"They have a new artist," Nadine told Vince.

"I met him," Vince smiled, emphatically polite. "I can't wait to see what he can do."

"Let me get my bearings, I'll drag it out," Paul said.

"Are you hungry, darling?"

"God, no. I could use a drink. That Lindsay would make a drunkard out of Billie Graham." Paul looked around, glimpsing the empty coffee cups. "Hey, you're a swell hostess. Can't we afford booze? Why don't we mix a few ... call the girls and celebrate?"

"You got something to celebrate, Paul?" Vince wanted to know.

"The new campaign. Is that an excuse, Warren?"

"I can't stay," Warren said. "Reason I came, though ... He seemed pathetically anxious for Paul to know there had been a legitimate reason. "I'm taking Junior and Bucky to the lake Friday. Would you like to come?"

"Friday? For how long?"

"Just the weekend. Well, you'd have to take Friday off ... I figured on leaving early ... maybe five o'clock ... get up and beat the traffic. You'd be back at the office Monday."

"I dunno, Warren. I've got a lot of things in the mill."

"One day won't break anybody. Muskies, Paul! Remember those big, mean bastards that time we went with Mabel's Uncle Ed?"

Paul looked to Nadine for a decision. "Muskies, Mommy."

"Well, don't look at me, honey. You make your own decisions."

"I hate to leave you alone over a weekend...."

"Oh, she'll be all right," Vince said. They had almost forgotten he was in the room.

Nadine was unaccustomed to surprises from Warren Ryner. She opened her eyes widely at his next statement:

"Vince is coming, too. Aren't you, Vince?"

"Crawl out of bed in the dark ... freeze your ass on a goddamn boat waitin' for some goddamn sardine to ... whoa-a, no! Not me!"

"I'll bring a case of Canadian Club. You'll be in charge of the ... non-fishing duties." Paul laughed. "Come on, Vince. We'll pretend we're bachelors."

"Not me. Nah-nah-nah."

"Ex-Captain Ryner, laying it on the line for a shavetail. "You're in, Allegretti. I won't take no for an answer."

Vince shrugged his shoulders. "If that's the way you put it, okay! Okay, so I'll go! Who the hell cares what I do?" Surprisingly, too, he wandered blankly to the door immediately afterward, ignoring the goodbyes and snorting at Warren's offer to convoy him home. He was unbelievably rude and, Nadine thought dejectedly, unbelievably lonely. It would be good for him to get out with the boys-away from Gwen. But none of the others understood the lost romantic, the hopelessly idealistic soul that was disguised from everyone but Nadine by the alternately silly, sexy, surly facade. She watched Vince Allegretti leave with a poignant yearning inside herself. Comfort him, make him feel important, tell him you know what none of the others know ... love him!

Saturday morning. Nadine in bed, only half awake. Mrs. Sefcik whining the vacuum cleaner fiercely around the guest room.

Paul's voice cut through the monotonous drone. "Mom, did you happen to see a...."

"Come in here, Darling ... I can't hear you."

The door opened and Paul appeared in the doorway. "I had a little sheet of scratch paper with some phone numbers on it ... when I was working in the den a few nights ago. Have you seen it around?"

"I can't recall...."

"What the devil did I do with ... maybe I was at the other desk." Paul moved out of the doorway into the hall, mumbling to himself.

"Was it important?"

He called back, "Couple of people I promised Jim I'd contact."

"Did you ask Seffie?"

"She wouldn't know. I may have left it at the office, but it seems to me I...."

"Ask Sherry."

Paul's voice carried to her from the living room. "She's still asleep. Don't worry about it ... just something I want to clean up before I take off Friday."

"Honey ... you left the door open!-Paul?" Under her breath, Nadine murmured, "Nuts!" She jammed a pillow over her head to shut out the vacuum cleaner sound.

She was almost asleep when she heard the door close. It took several seconds before she realized that Paul had come into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"Find it?" Nadine asked sleepily.

"No. I thought I may have slipped it under the . .

Under the desk blotter ... under the desk blotter! My God, she must be losing her mind! To go to bed after the company left last night, leaving....

"Oh, hell! Oh, hell!" Paul's cry had a strident, unnatural sound. In the same instant she felt the weight of Paul's body dropping to a corner of the bed. Nadine shoved the pillow aside and opened her eyes, propping herself up to see Paul sitting near her feet, the incriminating sheet of deckle-edged paper in one hand, the other covering his face ... a mannerism familiar to Warren, chillingly alien in Paul.

When he realized she was looking at him, Paul turned toward her, a look of utter confusion in his eyes. "Say something," he whispered hoarsely. "Explain it to me. Tell me I've gone off my rocker ... I didn't read it right!" The unfinished letter trembled in his hand. "Tell me this isn't your handwriting ... it's one big, fat mistake...." He was fighting for control. A losing battle. Suddenly he crumpled the letter viciously with one hand and hurled it to the floor. It rested on the carpet like a discarded gardenia, monstrously huge, dominating the room.

Think, think, think! Horrible to see Paul so crushed ... hard to believe shock could change not only his expression, but his appearance. He looked like a dazed old man.

Nadine searched hard and deep in the bottomless barrel of her imagination. After all, she hadn't signed her name to the letter. What she could remember of it included no personal identification....

"Roy! Roy Stroud!" Paul was saying in a curious, broken voice.

There was a spark, a glimmer, then a gradual flooding of brilliant white light in Nadine's mind. Could be...? Why not? Why, certainly! Yawning, in a tone that implied only the vaguest interest, she asked, "Is that the letter Leila and I started yesterday ... the thing to Roy?"

The question threw Paul a curve. He could only gape un-comprehendingly.

"Why'd you crumble it up, hon? 'Course, she'll have to copy it over before she sends it, anyway ... but why the fuss?" Nadine softened her approach, then, pouring out an understanding, slow-dawning effect. "Oh ... I know! You don't want me ... meddling in their business."

"You weren't writing a letter for Leila." It was neither a question nor an accusation. Unsure of himself, Paul's words were ambiguous.

Nadine laughed quickly. Mocking the ludicrous thought, she said, "No, dear! I was writing a love letter to Roy myself!" More patiently, the story developing in credence so that Nadine actually sympathized with Leila's writing block, she elaborated, "Leila'd die if she knew I ... broke her confidence. But she freezes up ... literally freezes up inside when she goes to write a letter. I think that's typical of quiet, kind of ... introverted people, don't you think?"

"Nadine, she was married to this man. She can certainly tell him whatever's on her mind without...."

"You'd think so. I argued the same point, come to think of it. But she...." Nadine shook her head dolefully. "Paul, she took it a lot harder than she lets on. I can't imagine myself ever having something I wanted desperately to tell you ... and not being able to find the words. But we aren't all alike. And, hon, what was I going to do ... tell her to go to hell when she asked me for help?"

"Don't tell me a woman's going to...." Paul leaned over, retrieving the letter, smoothing out the wrinkles, eager to relinquish his more credible first impression, yet, being far from stupid, not quite ready to accept the switch. Not quite ready, but not wanting to believe, unable to believe that his own wife....

Nadine shoved the covers aside and wriggled her way toward Paul. Tilting his chin upward with her index finger, so that they faced each other, she said, "If I thought you thought I was writing letters to Leila's ex, I'd spit in your eye, Mister!"

Paul looked deeply into her eyes, as she wanted him to do.

"You'd like to see Roy and Leila get together again," Nadine said, "as much as I would."

Paul turned his head, and Nadine couldn't be certain that he had accepted her explanation. But he said, "When two people carry their differences through to a divorce, there might be ... underlying causes that we don't know anything about. What business would you have mixing into...."

"She'd be terribly embarrassed if she thought you knew this, Paul. Women say things to other women that they wouldn't dream of...."

"Leila's still in love with Roy?"

"Didn't you know that, Paul? Naturally she isn't going to go around in widow's weeds. She has some pride."

"Sure, a person's bound to ... try to save face. But I had a strange notion she...."

"Yes?"

"No, skip it."

"She what, Paul?"

"Oh, there's an impression I sometimes get when she's around...."

Nadine tensed. Not acting now. Not pretending the slow sunrise of an astoundingly new revelation. Feeling it in her marrow. "You think Leila's...?" She caught a sharp swallow of breath. "About you?"

Paul made a short, deprecating sound and got up from the bed. "It was just male intuition, which isn't worth a damn." He still hadn't dismissed the possibility that Nadine had written the letter to Roy in her own behalf; she saw no relief in his expression.

"I meant well, darling," she said testily.

"Look, if Leila wants Roy back, she knows why she lost him and she'll know what to do about it. I'm pulling for her, but we didn't mess up their marriage, so let's not think we can patch it up."

Nadine followed Paul to the door. "I'm sorry, honey."

He looked at her for a long time, unresponsive when she kissed him, wearing a determined, far-away expression that revealed nothing of his decision.

"At least I don't want you thinking I'd write a silly letter to...."

"Let's wake Sherry up and have some breakfast," Paul said flatly.

He left the room abruptly, opening the door to let in the persistent droning sound of the vacuum cleaner, then closing the door quietly.

He'll believe me, Nadine assured herself. He won't question Leila. He'll believe me.

Her hands shook as she dressed for breakfast, but she repeated the assurance to herself with mounting conviction. Of course he'll believe me. Paul would never believe that I'd had anything to do with Leila's husband.