asocial, so they spent the weekend at home. Linc did not even drink. He sat around brooding, alternately reading any of a number of books, staring blankly at the screen of the television set, or lost in some private thoughts all his own.
Then Monday morning came. Linc was awake at nine—early for him. He headed for the bathroom, showered, shaved. He came out, dressed, in a tremendous hurry.
“Bring a thermos of coffee to the study when you get a chance,” he said. “I’ll be in there.”
“You’ll have breakfast first, honey. It won’t take—”
“No, Roz. Not now. I think I’m going to be able to write. I don’t want to pass up a chance. Just bring coffee.”
She had known better than to argue with him. She went to the kitchen to make coffee while he went through the yard to the cottage he used for a study. She filled a thermos with the hot black liquid and took it to him, pausing at the door to listen to the hectic clatter of typewriter keys. It was a welcome sound, a sound she had gone too long without hearing. She listened for a moment, gauging the speed at which he was writing. He was going fast. That was a good sign, a sign that the slump was very probably over. He didn’t have to grope for words. The sentences were flowing freely and easily, flowing from mind to paper with the typewriter an intermediary. She smiled to herself, a happy and grateful smile. Then, knowing better than to interrupt him by knocking, she pushed the door open.
She set the thermos of coffee upon the desk, unscrewed the top, used the top as a cup and filled it with coffee. He had not stopped typing. He came to the edge of a page, looked up only long enough to nod at her, then separated the sheet of carbon paper from the sheets he had just finished. He slapped the carbon paper between a fresh first and second sheet, rolled the paper sandwich into his typewriter, glanced for an instant at the last few words on the recently completed page, and started in again, picking up in the middle of the sentence and rattling away.
She watched him for several seconds. A cigarette was burning in the porcelain ashtray. Another cigarette was jammed in the corner of his mouth. He had not lighted this one yet, but he would get around to it sooner or later.
She left the cottage, walked back to the house. He was over it now, over the slump, through with sitting and moping and drinking too much. Now he would work at breakneck speed, finishing Murder By Moonlight easily within the week, working night and day, plunging into a fresh book or story as soon as the current one was finished. She didn’t expect to see much of him for the next few days. He would be too busy catching up with himself, too busy pouring out all the words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs that had been bottled up for months, too busy grinding out all the pages he had not been able to write before.
But she did not mind. He was a writer and she was a writer’s wife, and the clickety-clack of the IBM electric typewriter was the sweetest music she had ever heard.
15
T HAT morning, as she kissed Howard good-bye at the station, Nan Haskell watched Elly Carr kiss Ted goodbye and send him off to the wars of Madison Avenue. Then, driving home in the Chevvie station wagon, she thought how thoroughly inconceivable it all was. Ted was Elly’s husband and Howard was her husband, and it was absolutely out of the question that she would consider giving herself to Ted Carr.
It was all a dream, she decided. All a dream, or all a fantasy, or something of the sort. He had said—Friday, on the telephone—that he would see her Monday or Tuesday. But he had gone off on the 8:03 to New York and he would not be back until dinner time. He was not going to see her at all, was not going to make love to her, was not going to alter the overpowering boredom which was her life.
Maybe he just liked to talk. Maybe he got his kicks saying dirty words to women, grabbing hold of them and
Then Monday morning came. Linc was awake at nine—early for him. He headed for the bathroom, showered, shaved. He came out, dressed, in a tremendous hurry.
“Bring a thermos of coffee to the study when you get a chance,” he said. “I’ll be in there.”
“You’ll have breakfast first, honey. It won’t take—”
“No, Roz. Not now. I think I’m going to be able to write. I don’t want to pass up a chance. Just bring coffee.”
She had known better than to argue with him. She went to the kitchen to make coffee while he went through the yard to the cottage he used for a study. She filled a thermos with the hot black liquid and took it to him, pausing at the door to listen to the hectic clatter of typewriter keys. It was a welcome sound, a sound she had gone too long without hearing. She listened for a moment, gauging the speed at which he was writing. He was going fast. That was a good sign, a sign that the slump was very probably over. He didn’t have to grope for words. The sentences were flowing freely and easily, flowing from mind to paper with the typewriter an intermediary. She smiled to herself, a happy and grateful smile. Then, knowing better than to interrupt him by knocking, she pushed the door open.
She set the thermos of coffee upon the desk, unscrewed the top, used the top as a cup and filled it with coffee. He had not stopped typing. He came to the edge of a page, looked up only long enough to nod at her, then separated the sheet of carbon paper from the sheets he had just finished. He slapped the carbon paper between a fresh first and second sheet, rolled the paper sandwich into his typewriter, glanced for an instant at the last few words on the recently completed page, and started in again, picking up in the middle of the sentence and rattling away.
She watched him for several seconds. A cigarette was burning in the porcelain ashtray. Another cigarette was jammed in the corner of his mouth. He had not lighted this one yet, but he would get around to it sooner or later.
She left the cottage, walked back to the house. He was over it now, over the slump, through with sitting and moping and drinking too much. Now he would work at breakneck speed, finishing Murder By Moonlight easily within the week, working night and day, plunging into a fresh book or story as soon as the current one was finished. She didn’t expect to see much of him for the next few days. He would be too busy catching up with himself, too busy pouring out all the words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs that had been bottled up for months, too busy grinding out all the pages he had not been able to write before.
But she did not mind. He was a writer and she was a writer’s wife, and the clickety-clack of the IBM electric typewriter was the sweetest music she had ever heard.
15
T HAT morning, as she kissed Howard good-bye at the station, Nan Haskell watched Elly Carr kiss Ted goodbye and send him off to the wars of Madison Avenue. Then, driving home in the Chevvie station wagon, she thought how thoroughly inconceivable it all was. Ted was Elly’s husband and Howard was her husband, and it was absolutely out of the question that she would consider giving herself to Ted Carr.
It was all a dream, she decided. All a dream, or all a fantasy, or something of the sort. He had said—Friday, on the telephone—that he would see her Monday or Tuesday. But he had gone off on the 8:03 to New York and he would not be back until dinner time. He was not going to see her at all, was not going to make love to her, was not going to alter the overpowering boredom which was her life.
Maybe he just liked to talk. Maybe he got his kicks saying dirty words to women, grabbing hold of them and
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