On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks Page A

domestic life together on their Washington street—the things he referred to as “1064 and All That.” She felt only an anguished sympathy for what he seemed to suffer and, periodically, a fear that it might have some awful outcome. When she had once confided her anxiety to Katy Renshaw, however, Katy had told her that there was nothing to worry about. Charlie drank only a little more than most men they knew. So what if he went to see a psychoanalyst? Everyone did, particularly in New York. Katy made it sound as though the sky over midtown was a jam of uninterpreted dreams, the drains below the fuming manhole covers a network of suppressed desires. Anyway, Katy said, men like Charlie and Edward were creative, unusually clever guys who needed to beallowed their foibles and their games, like when they tried to catch each other out with lines of poetry they pretended to have read but might instead have made up. Had Mary seen the pleasure in Charlie’s eyes when he had passed off a line of his to Edward as one of Wallace Stevens’s? It was a game; it was all just a game.
    Such was Mary’s temperament that she was inclined to believe her. All would be well, because all usually was well, more or less; and anyway, they were locked together in a common endeavor: dealing with Charlie was part of her life and she would have it no other way.
    “I have to go to Chicago,” said Charlie, pushing a piece of chicken round his plate. “Tomorrow. I have to take a plane from La Guardia at ten o’clock.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t ask. It’s this bloody election. Trouble is, I don’t think I can manage it. The flying.”
    “You’ll be all right, darling. You’ll be fine. Have you got some of your pills with you?”
    “Yes, I have. But I have to take so many that then I can’t perform at the other end.”
    Mary put her hand on his. “Would you like me to come with you?”
    “No, I’d hate that. You stay here.”
    “All right. How long will you be gone?”
    “Two nights. I’ll be back on Thursday. Will you be all right? You can go back to Washington if you like.”
    “I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
    Charlie lit a cigarette and pushed his plate away. He held his head in his hands. For a moment Mary thought he was crying. Then he wrenched his hands away and pushed back the chair noisily, losing his balance for a moment as he stood up.
    The next morning, in the taxi on the way to La Guardia, Charlie looked pale, and there was a tremor in his hand; but he was also quiet and resigned.Mary suspected that he owed his mood to one of the pills Weissman had prescribed, but knew he would be irritated if she asked. She stood with him on the ramp outside the departure building, checking that he had everything he needed. As she kissed him, she did up the middle button of his jacket, and patted his ribs, as though he were a child. She felt the little death of departure.
    He licked his dry lips, turned, bag in hand, and made off through the revolving door.
    Mary climbed back into the waiting taxi and told the driver to return to the hotel. She wondered how Charlie would manage the flight; she hoped he would not be so doped by the time they landed that he would be incapable of getting off the plane.
    Back inside the hotel, she went to the front desk to collect the key.
    “Mrs. van der Linden?”
    “Yes.”
    “Message for you. A Mr. Renzo called.”
    “Oh. I see. Did he leave a number?”
    “Sure did, ma’am.” The desk clerk held out a piece of paper along with the key.
    Up in the room Mary paused before telephoning. She could perfectly easily spend the day alone, doing what she wanted to do. This would entail some of the things for which New York was more obviously well known: going to the Frick Collection and looking in some of the shops on Madison Avenue behind it; a light lunch overlooking the park and then, one of her particular pleasures, a film in the afternoon, emerging while it was still light for a