only one night, and Charley's letting me have her on a permanent basis. He's--"
It didn't need more than that. Mattone had leaped up and the deck of cards was out of his hand, the cards flying off the table.
"You're--" Mattone wrestled with it, choked on it. "You've done it, haven't you? You've really moved in."
Hart didn't reply. He sat there looking at the dismay and defeat in Mattone's eyes. He wondered what showed in his own eyes. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with contentment. He told himself he mustn't let it show, and he tried to get it out of his eyes but before he could do that he heard a squeak from the mattress upstairs.
And he heard Mattone saying, "You don't seem happy about it."
He shrugged. So here it is, he said to himself. It shows and you know it shows, there comes a time when you just can't pretend.
The truth of it sent a slight quiver along his spine. Mattone was correct after all, you're scared and you're lonesome, there's no one on your team but you and you and you. It's a kind of starvation, and it isn't easy to take, that's for sure. Damn sure.
11
But later of course it was pretending again when in the bed with Frieda. Somehow it was easier than it had been in the afternoon, but that was due to the darkness of the room, in the afternoon the daylight factor had handicapped him because every now and then she wanted him to look at her. Now in the dark she couldn't ask him to do that, except at one point she murmured maybe they ought to switch on the lamp. He didn't say anything, but kept her too busy to execute the idea.
The sighs that came from his lips were sheer pleasure. But if she'd switched on the lamp and seen the look on his face it would have gone bad, because the look on his face was the tight-wrinkled grimace of doing something extremely unpleasant. There was no way to rub off the grimace; it would stay there just as long as the ordeal went on, the hammering ordeal of feeling the insistency of her fat arms around him, her gasping and moaning that was inexhaustible. From time to time he'd wonder what the clock showed. Its illuminated face was on the table across the room but he couldn't even turn his head to look, she was holding him too tightly.
Yet all at once she loosened her hold and mumbled, "Cigarette," and he rolled away from her, an almost frenzied motion like a fish rolling out of a loosened net. The cigarettes and matches were on the floor and as he reached down blindly he almost fell off the bed.
He heard her saying, "Whatsa matter? You tired."
"Me?" He held back a crazy laugh. "I haven't even started yet."
She took him seriously. She said, "I knew it the first time I put eyes on you."
He handed her a lit cigarette, took a long puff from his own. He was resting flat on his back and gazing across the room at the clock whose green numbers showed twenty minutes past three.
"Tell me something," she said.
"Like what?"
"Anything," she said. "Just talk to me."
"All right." He thought for a moment. And then, not too sure of where it would go, "Ever hear of Indianapolis?"
"Where they teach the sailors?"
"No," he said. "Not Annapolis. Indianapolis."
"So?"
"It's where they have the big race. The auto race."
"On the fourth of July?"
"Memorial Day."
"That's what I said. The fourth of July?" She sounded rather sleepy. Or maybe it was because she had no interest in the topic.
He said, "It's May thirtieth. You're getting your holidays mixed up."
"What?" And then, motedistinctly, "What the hell are we talking about?"
"Indianapolis," he said. "The five-hundred-mile race on Memorial Day."
"You were in it?" Sleepily again. "You a racing car driver?"
"No," he said, "just a spectator. I guess you'd call me a fan. This thing at Indianapolis is something to see and every chance I had I'd go there. I remember one year I was lucky and made friends with some mechanics, and they let me hang around the pits. The pits are wherethe cars come in for fuel and repairs. It's all very interesting, the way they
It didn't need more than that. Mattone had leaped up and the deck of cards was out of his hand, the cards flying off the table.
"You're--" Mattone wrestled with it, choked on it. "You've done it, haven't you? You've really moved in."
Hart didn't reply. He sat there looking at the dismay and defeat in Mattone's eyes. He wondered what showed in his own eyes. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with contentment. He told himself he mustn't let it show, and he tried to get it out of his eyes but before he could do that he heard a squeak from the mattress upstairs.
And he heard Mattone saying, "You don't seem happy about it."
He shrugged. So here it is, he said to himself. It shows and you know it shows, there comes a time when you just can't pretend.
The truth of it sent a slight quiver along his spine. Mattone was correct after all, you're scared and you're lonesome, there's no one on your team but you and you and you. It's a kind of starvation, and it isn't easy to take, that's for sure. Damn sure.
11
But later of course it was pretending again when in the bed with Frieda. Somehow it was easier than it had been in the afternoon, but that was due to the darkness of the room, in the afternoon the daylight factor had handicapped him because every now and then she wanted him to look at her. Now in the dark she couldn't ask him to do that, except at one point she murmured maybe they ought to switch on the lamp. He didn't say anything, but kept her too busy to execute the idea.
The sighs that came from his lips were sheer pleasure. But if she'd switched on the lamp and seen the look on his face it would have gone bad, because the look on his face was the tight-wrinkled grimace of doing something extremely unpleasant. There was no way to rub off the grimace; it would stay there just as long as the ordeal went on, the hammering ordeal of feeling the insistency of her fat arms around him, her gasping and moaning that was inexhaustible. From time to time he'd wonder what the clock showed. Its illuminated face was on the table across the room but he couldn't even turn his head to look, she was holding him too tightly.
Yet all at once she loosened her hold and mumbled, "Cigarette," and he rolled away from her, an almost frenzied motion like a fish rolling out of a loosened net. The cigarettes and matches were on the floor and as he reached down blindly he almost fell off the bed.
He heard her saying, "Whatsa matter? You tired."
"Me?" He held back a crazy laugh. "I haven't even started yet."
She took him seriously. She said, "I knew it the first time I put eyes on you."
He handed her a lit cigarette, took a long puff from his own. He was resting flat on his back and gazing across the room at the clock whose green numbers showed twenty minutes past three.
"Tell me something," she said.
"Like what?"
"Anything," she said. "Just talk to me."
"All right." He thought for a moment. And then, not too sure of where it would go, "Ever hear of Indianapolis?"
"Where they teach the sailors?"
"No," he said. "Not Annapolis. Indianapolis."
"So?"
"It's where they have the big race. The auto race."
"On the fourth of July?"
"Memorial Day."
"That's what I said. The fourth of July?" She sounded rather sleepy. Or maybe it was because she had no interest in the topic.
He said, "It's May thirtieth. You're getting your holidays mixed up."
"What?" And then, motedistinctly, "What the hell are we talking about?"
"Indianapolis," he said. "The five-hundred-mile race on Memorial Day."
"You were in it?" Sleepily again. "You a racing car driver?"
"No," he said, "just a spectator. I guess you'd call me a fan. This thing at Indianapolis is something to see and every chance I had I'd go there. I remember one year I was lucky and made friends with some mechanics, and they let me hang around the pits. The pits are wherethe cars come in for fuel and repairs. It's all very interesting, the way they
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