Now Jennie’s quivering hands behaved as she dialed the number. This was only a call of warning, for nothing else, for no plea or intrusion where she was no longer wanted. A call of warning. She would make that clear.
There was no answer at the apartment. When she tried the office, the answering service reported that the office was closed until Monday morning. Did she wish to leave a message? No. One could hardly leave a warning to watch out for a man with protruding yellow teeth.
She called Martin next, tracked him down at his home, and cried out her story. “I’m sure it was George’s man,” she concluded. “George was right, the teeth are the giveaway.”
“If he’s not the killer, he obviously knows who the killer is.”
“Well, he practically said as much. I wonder whether Fisher did the actual job on George.”
“I don’t know. We’re watching him very closely. And there are other developments out of town, which I can’t talk about on the phone. Incidentally, be careful on your phone until we get rid of the bug. I’ll see that it’s taken care of on Monday.” There was a pause. “I understand you’re not on the case anymore.”
“That’s true. I was dismissed.” A kind of defensive pride rose in her. “Not for any professional reason. It was entirely personal.”
“I had an idea it must have been. And I’m sorry. You’re a credit to the profession.”
She felt a renewed surge of tears at the praise and thanked him.
“Well, good thing you weren’t hurt. That’s the most important thing. But you’ve had a close call, and my advice is to go home, have a shot of Scotch, and rest.”
When the telephone contact was broken off, fear flowed back into the room. I need someone, anyone, she thought. Not friends, who knew nothing of all these troubles. Not Jill. One didn’t lean on a young girl, nor did one scare her to death.
But there was Peter … And she telephoned the Waldorf-Astoria.
He sounded surprised and pleased. “You just caught me. I was on my way to dinner with some people who flew in today from Chicago.”
“Oh.” These words, finally, defeated her. “Oh,” she said, sighing.
“What’s the matter? Are you crying?”
“No. Yes.” And again she sobbed out her story.
“My God! Did you call the police?”
“No. He didn’t actually do anything to me. What can I prove?”
“That’s ridiculous. What are police for? Call right now.”
“You don’t understand! I deal every day with these things! They must get a thousand calls a minute in this city. You don’t know. They’re not going to bother about something that almost happened but didn’t. And the man’s … vanished, anyway.” She faltered. “Besides, I’m exhausted.”
“I’m coming right over,” he said promptly. “Lock the office door until I come up. I’ll keep the cab waiting and take you home.”
“You have a dinner appointment.”
“The hell with it! Wait there for me.”
“My phone was bugged. Can you imagine? He knew about Jill.” She had taken off not only the torn blouse but also the jacket and skirt, everything she had been wearing, as if they were defiled; she would never wear them again. Now she sat enclosed by the wings of the chair, huddled and trembling, cold even in her thick quilted housecoat.
“My God, if I hadn’t found that letter! He was in such a rage, a queer, quiet rage. He never raised his voice. It was eerie. Thank heaven I found it, and thank heaven he believed it.” She hadn’t stopped talking since Peter had brought her home. Her words poured out in a high, nervous voice. “I can’t get it through my head. The land is so innocent, Peter, it’s lain there forever just growing trees, so quiet, with little wild things and geese coming in from Canada. So innocent!” she cried. “And then come the two-legged beasts to fight over it, tearing one another to shreds or killing for it. Yes, beasts! I’ve seen plenty, you know. In my work one doesn’t exactly deal with sweetness and light, but still, until you go through it yourself, you can’t believe what people will do for money. The violence you read about is nothing until you become a victim, an object… . Oh, I can still smell him; can you understand that, Peter? He had a cologne or shaving cream I would recognize again; it had a sweetish smelllike cinnamon, almost. If those cleaners hadn’t comeoh, God, do you think … do you think maybe he would have killed me afterward? Or maybe just slashed my face? He said something about cutting it. There was a case like that, remember? Oh, I can’t believe this happened to me! It’s something you only read about in the newspaper.”
With her hands around her knees she rocked, making herself small in the chair. A gust of wind-driven rain rattled the windows and startled them so that they both looked around.
“It’s nothing,” Peter said. “Only a miserable winter night, and we’re facing north.” He looked large and calm. “No one can get in, Jennie. The door’s locked. I slid the bolt.”
She had to smile. “Thank you for reading my thoughts.” With him there she felt safe. It was the second time. “You’re being very good to me,” she said.
His brows were ruefully drawn together. “I never thought I’d live to hear you say I was good to you.”
“I didn’t mean then. I’m talking about now. These last few days and this minute. You’re helping me get through this minute.”
“I’m staying all night. I’m not going to leave you.”
She raised her eyes to meet a painful, troubled frown. He seemed about to speak, then closed his lips, looked away, and finally did speak.
“I haven’t told you enough about the guilt I’ve felt.”
“Yes, you have, Peter. Don’t beat your breast anymore. It’s not necessary.”
But he persisted, “I should have gone after you when she was born whether you wanted me to or not.”
When she raised her hand in protest, he resisted. “Don’t stop me. Yes, I should have. I want you to know that. And I did think about the child. But you made it so clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me”
She interjected, wanting to hear no more, “It’s true. I did. So what use is it now to”
“Only to unburden myself. That’s the use. Maybe this is selfish of me, I don’t know, but it’s been bottled up, stored away in an effort to forget it or to deny it, and I wantI need, JennieI need to say it all.”
Things stored away, to forget or to deny. And she said, very low, “I suppose, after all, that I hurt you too.”
He turned his hand out, palm up, in a gesture of rueful dismissal. “A scratch compared with a sledgehammer blow. It’s not enough of an excuse, the one I’ve made to myself, that I was very young. Not enough.”
The lamplight fell on his bent head and clasped hands,
emphasizing sadness and penitence. There was something familiar to her in the posture. It took a few minutes for her to recall when she had seen him like that before. Among all the fleeting, faded images, now one returned with sudden, shocking clarity: On the last night before she had taken the plane to Nebraska, he had been sitting just like that at the end of the bed in the dingy motel, watching television.
“Jennie? It doesn’t seem like nineteen years, does it? I mean, I don’t feel the strangeness that I imagined I would feel. Do you?”
She turned away from the searching question, answering, “I guess not.”
“We did well together while it lasted, didn’t we?” There was something hopeful in his voice, wanting confirmation.
“That’s true.”
She felt a wave of sadness at this reminder of loss. Was that what life was, a series of adjustments to loss? The optimist in Jennie refuted that; there had to be more to life. There was more. Nevertheless the sadness settled.
“Do you want a sleeping pill?” Peter asked.
“I never take them.” The words sounded brave.
“I thought maybe after today you’d need a little help.”
“No. But I think I want to go to bed now. Are you sure you want to stay here?”
“Sure.”
The decision satisfied her. On the surface she could maintain bravery, but still, it was good not to be alone. It wasn’t natural to sleep alone; even a dog liked to be near somebody, to feel a presence at night.
“I’ll get some blankets. I’m sorry there’s only the sofa.”
“It’s fine.” When he curled on his side to demonstrate, his knees were brought up almost to his chest.
“Shorty,” she said, looking down at him, and giggled. “Pop asked me why you were called Shorty, and I told him because you were six feet three. You’ll be miserable on that thing. You’d better go back to the hotel.”
“I’m not going back. Not after what you went through a couple of hours ago.”
She considered something. Her bed, which she had brought from her parents’ spare bedroom in Baltimore, was king-size. Three strangers could sleep in it without even touching one another. And she made a hesitant offer.
“You can have the far end of my bed if you want. It does seem ridiculous for you to be cramped on the sofa. You won’t be able to sleep.”
“If you really mean it, I’ll accept the offer.” He sat up and grimaced. “This is really pretty painful.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll turn out the light and you can just crawl in whenever you’re ready.”
“No problem.”
For a long time she stayed awake, fighting the memory of that creature’s contempt and violent hands, trying to wipe out the hideous memory of what had been, what had almost been, and what would have happened next if … if …
The night sky above the city poured its glow through the blinds, so that she could just see the outline of Peter’s motionless back as he lay on his side. Wryly she thought, I was accused of being in bed with him when I hadn’t been, and now I really am in bed with him. The very last time was at the motel all those years ago. We lay apart then, too, but for a different reason. He was afraid to touch me, scared because I was pregnant, I suppose, or perhaps even repelled by what was in my belly. The bitterness of that night!
But once we used to consume each other, counted the hours of longing from weekend to weekend. From one Friday night to the next was one hundred sixty-eight hours. When, during the week, we met in passing, our eyes used to speak what they remembered and anticipated.
How lovely their beginning had been! Fresh as spring all that year through, and warm with its light. There had been so much wild, young laughter between them. And she wondered now whether, if their marriage had not been blocked by other people, they would have lasted together, after all; lasted with all that tenderness and laughter.
There would have been no Jay, then. Queer thought. She would never have known his tenderness, his subtle wisdom, or his special grace. Neither would she have known nor lost him. Queer.
The sheets rustled now as Peter turned.
“Stretch out your arm.”
Across the wide bed their fingers barely managed to touch.
“I only wanted to say good night. Have easy dreams, Jennie. Try not to think about today, if you can.”
The voice and the brief touch were consolation. The sound of his breathing soothed. You’re safe, she argued with herself. You’re not alone. Traffic on the avenue was a distant rushing, like surf. She felt herself drift… .
And she dreamed. She dreamed she was enfolded, that arms enclosed her, loving, tender arms; at the same time she was saying, “Yes, you are having this healthy dream so you won’t think of how sex can be a terrifying weapon. So go on, dream, don’t wake up, don’t stop, it’s delicious, it’s wonderful.”
She was half awake. Someone was kissing her, and she had been responding.
“Darling,” Jay said.
And “Yes, yes, don’t stop me,” she heard, and started, fully awake now.
“Peter, for God’s sake, what are you doing?” she cried, appalled, and sat up to slide out of the bed.
“I’ve been holding you for the last ten minutes. You wanted me to,” he said simply.
“I was dreaming! You don’t understand,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.
“I know. And I was too. I dreamed that you wanted to be loved.”
Her lips quivered. “This was a stupid idea. It’s I who should have thought of sleeping on the sofa. It’s long enough for me.”
She turned on the bedside lamp. Peter’s eyes, the prominent opals with the lavender tint, were frightened and ashamed.
“Dream or not, you did want to be loved, though.”
“Yes,” she said miserably.
“But not by me.”
She couldn’t answer, and he said, persisting, “By him, still?”
“You ask too many questions. I can’t answer. I don’t know.”
Yet she did know. In her dream it was with Jay that she had lain, it was his face she had seen and his name she had spoken. And she knew, abruptly and sharply, that she was not ready for anyone else. Would she ever be?
The light fanned out over the carpet, over the rumpled blanket, over Peter’s crestfallen, heated face.
“Only one more question,” he urged. “Are you furious with me?”
She was painfully confused. He’d had no right to think that she would… . And yet, asleep or half asleep, she had lain in his arms, in the warm, tight cave. And she understood that he felt his manhood had been rejected, and she was sorry.
“You’re still one of the most attractive men I’ve ever known,” she said gently.
“Thank you, but you don’t have to say that. You’re saying it because you think you’ve hurt me.”
“That doesn’t make it any less true. You still are one of the most attractive men.” She clutched her throat and her mouth twisted. A sudden, tearful awareness of the absurdity of the situation, the scene, the picture they made, had overwhelmed her.
Peter said at once, “I’m going to the sofa. You get back to bed.”
“I’m wide-awake. I can’t go back to sleep.”
She followed him into the other room. It had grown colder because the heat was lowered at night. The wind was still rattling the windows. Now he, wrapped in a blanket, and she in the quilted robe, sat down to face each other again. After a minute Peter broke the bleak silence with another question.
“It was he who got you into the land case, wasn’t it?”
“He?”
“Tom, if you like. It’s as good a name as any.”
“That’s why you were relieved of your job.”
“Yes. Why bring that up?”
“Just wondering. Anyway, it’s as well you’re out of it. The party’s gotten rough and dangerous.”