Three Stories (3 page)

Ray grunted.

“Sweetie, you must eat,” Ethel told him.

He took his hand out of hers and looked out the window to his left. There was the other side of the building to see.

“Look at me,” Ethel ordered. “Twenty-two. The man’s catching up to me.”

The cowlick at the back of his head was plastered down.

“Hey, look at me,” Ethel said.

“Oh for Chrissake.”

“No Ray. Look at me.”

He turned to her abruptly, making a wide imitation smile out of his mouth. Ethel giggled. Then Ray let his eyes focus dopily on the foot of his bed.

“You ought to hear Miss Collins call me ‘Mrs. Nicolson.’ It kills me every time.

“I hate her,” Ray informed in the monotone he was using. “I hate her guts.”

“She has freckles. Like me.”

Ray seemed to think that over. Then he flopped a hand off the side of the bed to squeeze her left.

“Was your father in today?” Ethel asked him.

“Yeah. Dropped in to cheer me up. Told me how much money he’s losing this month.

“I brought you a book,” Ethel told him. “It’s not your present, though. That hasn’t come yet. But wait’ll you see it. It’s gorgeous. I wish I had one myself.”

“Yeah. Please don’t give me any wrist watches. I have three wrist watches.

“It isn’t a wrist watch. What’d your father give you?”

“Nothing. He didn’t know it was my birthday. What book you got there?”

“Didn’t you tell him? I should think his secretary would know!”

“What book?” Ray said.

Ethel looked down at the book on her lap.

“
Heaven I’m Yours
.” Phyllis lent it to me. She raved about it. Want me to read to you?”

“Is it dirty?”

“I didn’t ask her,” Ethel said, and flipped through the pages looking for dialogue.

“Read me one of the dirty parts.”

“I’ll begin at the beginning.”

Ethel proceeded to read aloud, which she did neither badly nor well. The first chapter began:

Stephen Dwight drew on his immaculate chamois gloves and signaled for a taxi. “Where to, sir?” asked a grubby cabby. “Tower Apartments, as quickly as possible,” instructed Stephen Dwight in his authoritative, resonant voice.

“Listen,” Ray interrupted. “You know what you can do with Steven Dwight and his gloves.”

Ethel pseudo-sighed, and shut the book. “Did you go up on the roof this morning?” she asked.

“No. Yeah.”

“You did or you didn’t.”

‘’Yeah. They wheeled me next to an old guy who talked my ears off.”

“What’d he talk about? What was the matter with him?”

“I don’t know. Gallstones. He has a boy at Yale who looks like me. Only huskier. How old am I and what do I do for a living and what’s wrong with me anyhow. Jesus God.”

“What’d you say?” Ethel wanted to know.

“What the hell’s the difference what I said?”

“Nobody recognize you? Old Joe Rotogravure.”

“No. Gimme a cigarette,” Ray said.

Ethel took a cigarette from a leather case in her handbag, lighted it, careful of lipstick. She got up, sat on the edge of his bed, and put the cigarette between his lips. He took two very deep drags with his eyes shut, then he smoked for a while normally, and looked out the window. Finally he turned to her slowly. The mouth didn’t change from the sluggish repose, but the eyes had warmth.

“Get the hell off this bed, Collins.”

“Nope.”

“Get off or get in.”

“Nope.”

“Let’s see here a minute.”

“No. Somebody might come in. Ray.”

“Nobody’ll come in.”

‘’Yes. Leggo.”

There was a long kiss, and passion a very remote part of it. Then Ethel broke away, and returned to the straight chair. Ray had begun to cry during the kiss. The wobbling of his lips had been her cue.

“Ray,” Ethel said from the chair. “Ray, who do you think I saw today?”

What he tried to answer sounded like “… give a goddamn who you saw.”

“Helen Masterson.” Ethel was leaning far forward. “She came in to look at a dress. Smothered in mink. Phyllis was at the door when she came in. Said Masterson went right up to Pierce and asked for me to show her the blue job in
Vogue
—the one I showed you? Do you remember?”

Ray was jamming his hands through his hair, as thought the pressure of his fingers could do away with it all.

“So I had to show it to her. What do you think was the first thing she said to me? But immediately. ‘How’s Ray?’ I said you were fine. Then she asked me when we were going to be married. I said as soon as you got back from Chicago.”

Every time he inhaled, his lower lip got jerked in, making a
thhhtttt
sound.

“I don’t know why I said Chicago, except it was the furthest place I could think of except California and that was too far.”

Ray was wiping his wet face with a corner of the pillow.

“She bought the blue job and two others. One gorgeous one.” Ethel got up, walked to the window and stood with her back to him. There was that
thhhtttt
sound behind her. Finally it subsided, as if he had got control of his lip, and only the jerking of his throat was audible.

“Ethel—”

“What?”—not turning. “C’mere.”

“I’m all right here.”

“No, c’mere.”

“I’m all right here. I’m counting bricks.”

“Ethel. Listen. Get me a drop. That’s all I want. Just a lousy drop. Ethel. For Chrissake.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do that.”

“But
listen
. All I want is a
drop.
I only wanna test myself. That’s all. Ethel. You know goddamn well a lousy
drop
won’t hurt me any. Ethel.
Turn your lousy face around here!
”

She turned. “I
can’t
Ray. You
know I can’t
. Why do you
ask
me?”

“You
can!
You know goddamn well you can. You can bring me a lousy drop. That’s all I want. On my word of honor. Don’t you want me to test myself? Don’t you want me to get better?
Look
at me!
”

“Please. You’re going to be on the floor in a minute.” She went over to him, and he got her by the forearm.

“Ethel. Lover, please. One stinking lousy drop. Listen. I’ve got an angle. Wait’ll you hear. You can put it in a toilet water bottle. And leave it in this goddamn table. Nobody’ll know the difference. I can test myself. Hear?”

“I hear.”

“—But will you? Will you do it? Lover?”

“Noooo! Please.” She yanked her arm free from him. There was no grip in his hand.

He slammed his mussed head back into the pillow, thinned the mouth that wobbled at the kiss, narrowed his eyes. There was trouble breathing.

“all right,” he told her, breathy. “You bitch.”

Ethel was back at the window.

“You love me. Oh, you love me! You love me like
hell,
you love me. What a liar. What a lousy little liar you are. Listen. Go on. Beat it. Get the hell out of here. Come on. You heard me. Get the hell out of here.”

They both heard someone rap on the door. Dr. Stone came in looking small and sanitary.

“Well!” said Dr. Stone. “What’s this? Visitors?” A smile for Ethel.

“I was just leaving,” Ethel told the doctor. She crossed to pick up Phyllis’s book, smoothing her skirt as she moved.

“And how’s this big goldbrick today?” asked Dr. Stone. “How do you feel son?”

For answer, Ray turned over on his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ray,” Ethel said.

Ray had most of his face in the pillow. “If you come back here I’ll kill you. Get out.”

“Whoa!” said Dr. Stone. “Whoa, there! Whoa, there, Bessie.”

Dr. Stone lent a hand at the double doors, and walked down the corridor at Ethel’s side.

“I think we’ll flush his kidneys this afternoon,” Dr Stone told her.

“Yes,” Ethel said.

“The human body’s like any machine, you know. Must be kept clean.”

“Yes,” Ethel repeated.

Dr. Stone’s nose made a brief snorty sound, doing away with some sort of obstruction in his nasal passages.

“It’s his birthday,” Ethel said.

“Well!” said Dr. Stone. “I didn’t know that!”

“He’s twenty-two.”

Then because the elevator was there, and people were standing in it, there was nothing for Ethel to do but get in.

“Goodbye,” Ethel said.

“Goodbye!” said Dr. Stone, taking his pince-nez from his nose. The elevator descended with a draft, chilling Ethel in all the damp spots.

On the fourth of May 1941 Hincher returned home from work at 6:30 to discover his wife sitting up in bed reading. Hincher inquired affectionately:

“What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

“Not too well,” said Mrs. Hincher, setting down her book.

“Oh,” said Hincher “Getting up for dinner?”

“I don’t think so dear. Do you mind terribly?”

“No. No. Of course not. What are you doing? Reading?”

“Mmm,” admitted Mrs. Hincher.

At the same time the following evening, Mrs. Hincher was still in bed.

“Shall I send for Dr. Bohler?” Mr. Hincher asked solicitously.

Mrs. Hincher laughed her warm, delicious laugh. “I don’t think so dear,” she said. “I don’t think there’s anything he can do.”

“How so? What do you mean?” Hincher sat down on the edge of his wife’s bed.

‘’You big nut!” said Mrs. Hincher good humouredly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

Stupification set into Hincher’s face, followed by sheer ecstasy. Then quickly he bent to kiss his wife first excitedly, then tenderly, and he began to make great promises and predictions. But he interrupted himself.

“I knew the damn fool was wrong,” he exclaimed happily. “What did he say?”

“Who, darling?”

“Dr. Bohler.”

“Dr. Bohler!” said Mrs. Hincher contemptuously, but not unpleasantly. “Darling, a woman knows whether she’s going to have a baby or not. At least this woman.”

“But I thought—”

“—Darling, I
know
I don’t have to see Dr. Bohler or Dr. Whoosis-Whatsis. I
know
. I always knew I’d know.”

“But I just thought—” said Hincher. “I thought Dr. Bohler said you couldn’t have one. I mean didn’t he say that?”

Mrs. Hincher laughed gloriously. She reached up two hands and gently took her husband’s concerned face between them.

“Darling, don’t
worry
,” said Mrs. Hincher, laughing softly. We’re going to have a baby.”

Finally, leaving the bedroom to wash up for dinner, Hincher called back:

“Getting up for dinner, sweetheart?”

“No, darling, I’d rather not.”

***

Weeks and then months passed and Mrs. Hincher stayed in bed, leaving it only to make certain small, obvious excursions to her bathroom, to her bureau drawers, to her dressing table,—and one afternoon when Sophie, the housemaid, begged off to see her dentist, Mrs. Hincher, in maroon wrapper and feathery mules, ventured downstairs to see if her
Saturday Evening Post
had been delivered. But all her little trips, side- and direct considered, approximately 23 hours of the day, 165 hours of the week, 644 hours of the month, Mrs. Hincher resided under counterpane. She breakfasted, lunched and dined in bed. She read and knitted in bed, all current newspapers and magazines, bags of wool and graduated sizes of knitting needles, within her reach. There was a silver hand-bell on her night table. Two shakes of it, and Sophie, the maid, instantly dried her hands, or turned off the vacuum cleaner, or snipped her cigarette, and literally came running. Sophie received her instructions from Mr. Hincher at the same time he had raised her salary.

***

“Darling. Will you come here a minute?”

Hincher re-entered his wife’s bedroom.

“Darling, I’m going to ask something strange of you. You’ll probably think I’m
utterly
mad.

Hincher smiled, “What is it little girl?”

“I want to stay in bed, sweet. I mean I want to stay in bed all during my time.”

“Nine months?” said Hincher, incredulously.

“Mmm. I want to. Are you furious with me? You are. I can tell. I see that severe look coming on your face.” Mrs. Hincher smiled up at her husband, pursed her lips slightly, and nodded to herself.

“No,” her husband denied quickly. “Of course, I’m not furious. But why do you want to stay in bed? I mean why do you want to stay in bed?

Mr. Hincher waited.

“You’ll laugh,” accused Mrs. Hincher gently.

“I will not.”

‘’Yes, you will.”

“Darling,” said Hincher, sitting down again on the edge of his wife’s bed. “What a thing to say.”

Mrs. Hincher clasped her husband’s hand, as though to say what she had to say required his proximate strength. Mrs. Hincher spoke slowly, her voice cool and brave, and yet Hincher detected a faint, a very faint note of fear.

“I so desperately want our baby born safely, darling. I’m afraid of falling. I’m afraid of a thousand things.” Mrs. Hincher paused, suddenly squeezed her husband’s hand, as though some sharp, horrible image had come to frighten her mind’s eye. She continued, “Cars and trucks and things. I’m so afraid. And if I stay in bed I’ll be safe with my thoughts of you and baby.”

The word “baby” sans the preceding definite article completely disarmed and waylaid Mr. Hincher’s heart. He replied to his wife in an exceedingly husky voice but with slight command in his voice.

“You stay in bed. You just stay in bed as long as you like.”

Mrs. Hincher’s reply, despite its brevity, seemed to identify Mr. Hincher’s immortality.

“Darling,” she pronounced simply.

Mr. Hincher patted his wife’s hand and repeated, “You just stay in bed as long as you like.”

They seemed to share a moment of profoundest silence. Mrs. Hincher broke it, but apparently only with great reluctance.

“Darling, there’s just one other thing. Don’t tell anybody. I mean don’t tell anybody that I’m in bed. Say I’ve gone back to New York to stay with my sister. Say my sister’s sick.”

“But
why
?” Hincher inquired gently.

“They’ll laugh,” said Mrs. Hincher simply. “They’ll all laugh. I know it.”