gateway to sleep: a tree, a gate, the corner of a house. The half-slip she was wearing could not prevent a draft reaching her legs and she pulled a cover over her, as, with her dark hair loose over the hotel pillow, she fell asleep.
She awoke when Charlie came back into the room. He leaned over to kiss her and lost his footing, so that he collapsed beside her on the bed, leaking fumes of alcohol. Mary sat up and stroked the hair back from his forehead.
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Boring bloody day. Christ, it’s so bloody boring.”
It was an art, knowing whether Charlie should be indulged, rebuked or put to bed, but it was one in which Mary was practiced. It was a failure to her if he could not be made to have dinner, but would only curl up with a bottle, rebuffing her attempts at friendliness. She decided to leave him where he was while she took a bath; sometimes a short sleep could pull him back onto the main line of the day, especially if followed by a shower and a large scotch on the rocks.
Mary sat in the deep tub, moving the hot water up between her legs and round her sides. She felt reinvigorated by her rest and wanted to go out to Chinatown, or Little Italy, or the Village: she didn’t mind what they ate provided she could experience some more of the city. After twenty minutes she climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel. Charlie was where she had left him, snoring softly; Mary put on a robe she found in the bathroom and took him by the shoulder.
“Get off, leave me alone.”
“No, darling, you’re coming out. Come on.”
She gauged that if she could withstand some abuse, Charlie was not so drunk that he could not be persuaded to cooperate.
“You have a shower and I’ll ring for some ice. When you’ve finished I’ll have clean clothes and a nice drink ready for you.”
Half an hour later, they were ready to go out, Charlie with hair still damp, but his mood somewhat restored by two large drinks and a cigarette. On Lexington Avenue he hailed a taxi.
“Where to, bud?” The driver craned round in his seat.
“Ask the lady.”
“I don’t know. Greenwich Village. Anywhere down there.”
They pulled out into the middle lane, where they hit a run of green lights as the cab went loudly downtown, bouncing on the potholes, sounding its horn as it swung from lane to lane to avoid the dithering schmucks, jerks and assholes identified by the driver.
“This good enough for you?” he said, as they pulled up in Washington Square.
“Just let me out,” said Charlie.
“Thank you,” said Mary. “This is fine.”
As they walked through the square, they noticed a group of young men lined up with their arms entwined through the double-barred iron railing, smoking, watching the people pass by. Although the night had turned cool, they wore only T-shirts, some of them rolled up over biceps; they hung forward from the rail as though captive, yet with a hungry impatience.
“What are those men doing?” said Mary.
“Not something that concerns a woman. Where are we going?”
Mary led him down Sullivan Street for a couple of blocks, then turned left, where the sidewalks glowed under the light of neon signs. There were bakeries and greengrocers still open, bookstores and a low brick building with a circular sign announcing it as the Circle in the Square Theatre. Colored awnings led into various restaurants and bars, and they eventually settled on a corner building with scrubbed wooden floorboards and tables set in candlelit booths.
As Mary ate her appetizer and looked across the table at his glazed but no longer hostile expression, she found her eyes sting with sorrow. She seldom allowed herself to remember Charlie as he had been when they first met: ebullient, clear-eyed, certain that he could reinvent the world or at least convert it to the invigorating plan he had for it. Nothing in her sorrow affected the love she felt for him or her devotion to their joint cause, the children, their
She awoke when Charlie came back into the room. He leaned over to kiss her and lost his footing, so that he collapsed beside her on the bed, leaking fumes of alcohol. Mary sat up and stroked the hair back from his forehead.
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Boring bloody day. Christ, it’s so bloody boring.”
It was an art, knowing whether Charlie should be indulged, rebuked or put to bed, but it was one in which Mary was practiced. It was a failure to her if he could not be made to have dinner, but would only curl up with a bottle, rebuffing her attempts at friendliness. She decided to leave him where he was while she took a bath; sometimes a short sleep could pull him back onto the main line of the day, especially if followed by a shower and a large scotch on the rocks.
Mary sat in the deep tub, moving the hot water up between her legs and round her sides. She felt reinvigorated by her rest and wanted to go out to Chinatown, or Little Italy, or the Village: she didn’t mind what they ate provided she could experience some more of the city. After twenty minutes she climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel. Charlie was where she had left him, snoring softly; Mary put on a robe she found in the bathroom and took him by the shoulder.
“Get off, leave me alone.”
“No, darling, you’re coming out. Come on.”
She gauged that if she could withstand some abuse, Charlie was not so drunk that he could not be persuaded to cooperate.
“You have a shower and I’ll ring for some ice. When you’ve finished I’ll have clean clothes and a nice drink ready for you.”
Half an hour later, they were ready to go out, Charlie with hair still damp, but his mood somewhat restored by two large drinks and a cigarette. On Lexington Avenue he hailed a taxi.
“Where to, bud?” The driver craned round in his seat.
“Ask the lady.”
“I don’t know. Greenwich Village. Anywhere down there.”
They pulled out into the middle lane, where they hit a run of green lights as the cab went loudly downtown, bouncing on the potholes, sounding its horn as it swung from lane to lane to avoid the dithering schmucks, jerks and assholes identified by the driver.
“This good enough for you?” he said, as they pulled up in Washington Square.
“Just let me out,” said Charlie.
“Thank you,” said Mary. “This is fine.”
As they walked through the square, they noticed a group of young men lined up with their arms entwined through the double-barred iron railing, smoking, watching the people pass by. Although the night had turned cool, they wore only T-shirts, some of them rolled up over biceps; they hung forward from the rail as though captive, yet with a hungry impatience.
“What are those men doing?” said Mary.
“Not something that concerns a woman. Where are we going?”
Mary led him down Sullivan Street for a couple of blocks, then turned left, where the sidewalks glowed under the light of neon signs. There were bakeries and greengrocers still open, bookstores and a low brick building with a circular sign announcing it as the Circle in the Square Theatre. Colored awnings led into various restaurants and bars, and they eventually settled on a corner building with scrubbed wooden floorboards and tables set in candlelit booths.
As Mary ate her appetizer and looked across the table at his glazed but no longer hostile expression, she found her eyes sting with sorrow. She seldom allowed herself to remember Charlie as he had been when they first met: ebullient, clear-eyed, certain that he could reinvent the world or at least convert it to the invigorating plan he had for it. Nothing in her sorrow affected the love she felt for him or her devotion to their joint cause, the children, their
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