late hour there were cars on the city streets.
Soon the trucks would begin their nightly deliveries, but he wouldn’t
hear them; his ears had become inured to the grind of brakes and the
vibration that was gradually eroding the fabric of buildings and
pavements. He was used to the sounds and the grime and the press of
human beings. They were part of his habits; without them he probably
couldn’t work. Yearning for apple blossoms and fresh country air and
crocuses (crocuses?) pushing their tender green tips through the damp
brown earth—sentimental nonsense, that was what it was. A nice place to
visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Soothed and comforted by the familiar cacophony and the
friendly dirt, he was drifting off to sleep when he remembered
something else. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time to Randolph’s
remark; he had been tired and confused, and the remark hadn’t made any
sense anyhow. Now he remembered it, and the utter illogic of it brought
him out of his doze, wide awake and staring.
“If she should come to you,” Randolph had said, “try to
get her to see a doctor. Maybe you can do it.”
Had Gordon Randolph really said that? Of all the weird,
crazy things to say…And he had simply nodded and muttered, “Sure, of
course; be glad to.”
Michael groaned aloud. What had he got himself into this
time? What kind of tacit admission could be read into that acquiescing
mumble of his? He was always doing things like that, agreeing to
propositions without listening to them, letting his mind wander off
into byways and returning to a conversation to find that he had
committed himself to ideas he violently opposed or plans that he had no
intention of carrying out. But this was his worst fiasco yet. Did
Randolph really think…?
Of course there had been those two episodes. When a man
walks into a room and finds his wife in another man’s arms, he may be
excused for thinking there is something between them. Was Linda
Randolph a nymphomaniac as well as an alcoholic?
Michael groaned again, so heartily that it provoked a
loud response from Napoleon, out by the front door; but at the same
moment he denied the thought. He had spotted Linda as a heavy drinker
the first time he saw her. The symptoms of the other were just as
obvious, and she wasn’t…No, indeed, she wasn’t. His face burned, in the
darkness, as he remembered the strength with which she had held him off.
So, all right, he told his wounded male ego—so you made a
mistake. You got carried away. Perfectly natural. But the girl really
was sick, she had passed out cold.
“If she should come to you…”
Damn it, why didn’t he listen to what people said? He
should have rejected the preposterous suggestion. He shouldn’t have
seemed to accept any such possibility.
Then the most disturbing thought of all forced its way
into his reluctant mind. Had he failed to deny the proposition because,
in reality, it had not seemed so incredible? Did he, unconsciously,
want Randolph’s wife to seek him out—for help, for anything? He pushed
the idea away, outraged; but it came back. If a desire was really
unconscious, he wouldn’t know it himself. If he really wanted…
“Oh, damn it,” Michael said helplessly. There was only
one thing to do with an idea like that one. He turned over and went to
sleep.
Chapter
5
THE FANTASIES AND SELF-DOUBTS OF THE
NIGHT were easy to dismiss in the cold light of
dawn—which was not only cold, but gray, rainy, and sooty. But it was
several days before Michael could make himself stop listening for
footsteps coming toward his door.
He threw himself into work as a cure for mental
degeneration, and found that after a while he didn’t have to force
himself; the hunt was up, and as usual it gradually gripped him. Even
the inevitable frustrations were minor challenges, to be overcome.
One such challenge was Randolph’s book. Michael could
have sworn he owned a copy of The Smoke of Her Burning ;
it took two
Soon the trucks would begin their nightly deliveries, but he wouldn’t
hear them; his ears had become inured to the grind of brakes and the
vibration that was gradually eroding the fabric of buildings and
pavements. He was used to the sounds and the grime and the press of
human beings. They were part of his habits; without them he probably
couldn’t work. Yearning for apple blossoms and fresh country air and
crocuses (crocuses?) pushing their tender green tips through the damp
brown earth—sentimental nonsense, that was what it was. A nice place to
visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Soothed and comforted by the familiar cacophony and the
friendly dirt, he was drifting off to sleep when he remembered
something else. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time to Randolph’s
remark; he had been tired and confused, and the remark hadn’t made any
sense anyhow. Now he remembered it, and the utter illogic of it brought
him out of his doze, wide awake and staring.
“If she should come to you,” Randolph had said, “try to
get her to see a doctor. Maybe you can do it.”
Had Gordon Randolph really said that? Of all the weird,
crazy things to say…And he had simply nodded and muttered, “Sure, of
course; be glad to.”
Michael groaned aloud. What had he got himself into this
time? What kind of tacit admission could be read into that acquiescing
mumble of his? He was always doing things like that, agreeing to
propositions without listening to them, letting his mind wander off
into byways and returning to a conversation to find that he had
committed himself to ideas he violently opposed or plans that he had no
intention of carrying out. But this was his worst fiasco yet. Did
Randolph really think…?
Of course there had been those two episodes. When a man
walks into a room and finds his wife in another man’s arms, he may be
excused for thinking there is something between them. Was Linda
Randolph a nymphomaniac as well as an alcoholic?
Michael groaned again, so heartily that it provoked a
loud response from Napoleon, out by the front door; but at the same
moment he denied the thought. He had spotted Linda as a heavy drinker
the first time he saw her. The symptoms of the other were just as
obvious, and she wasn’t…No, indeed, she wasn’t. His face burned, in the
darkness, as he remembered the strength with which she had held him off.
So, all right, he told his wounded male ego—so you made a
mistake. You got carried away. Perfectly natural. But the girl really
was sick, she had passed out cold.
“If she should come to you…”
Damn it, why didn’t he listen to what people said? He
should have rejected the preposterous suggestion. He shouldn’t have
seemed to accept any such possibility.
Then the most disturbing thought of all forced its way
into his reluctant mind. Had he failed to deny the proposition because,
in reality, it had not seemed so incredible? Did he, unconsciously,
want Randolph’s wife to seek him out—for help, for anything? He pushed
the idea away, outraged; but it came back. If a desire was really
unconscious, he wouldn’t know it himself. If he really wanted…
“Oh, damn it,” Michael said helplessly. There was only
one thing to do with an idea like that one. He turned over and went to
sleep.
Chapter
5
THE FANTASIES AND SELF-DOUBTS OF THE
NIGHT were easy to dismiss in the cold light of
dawn—which was not only cold, but gray, rainy, and sooty. But it was
several days before Michael could make himself stop listening for
footsteps coming toward his door.
He threw himself into work as a cure for mental
degeneration, and found that after a while he didn’t have to force
himself; the hunt was up, and as usual it gradually gripped him. Even
the inevitable frustrations were minor challenges, to be overcome.
One such challenge was Randolph’s book. Michael could
have sworn he owned a copy of The Smoke of Her Burning ;
it took two
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