The Black House by Patricia Highsmith Page B

and quite black, and he knew he had accomplished nothing. This was not the only Old Testament in the world. He had made an angry gesture to satisfy only himself. And he felt not at all satisfied, or cleansed, or rid of anything.
    A letter of condolence to Kate Greeves, Lee thought, was due. Yes, he would write it this evening. Why not now? Words came to his mind as he moved toward the table where he kept his paper and pens. A longhand letter, of course. Kate had lost her son and her husband in a span of only a few months.
    Dear Kate,
    By accident this afternoon I heard on my radio the sad news about Win. I can realize that it is an awful blow to receive so shortly after the death of Morton. I would like you to know that I send you my sincerest sympathies now and that I can appreciate your grief . . .
    Lee wrote on smoothly and slowly. The curious thing was that he did feel sympathy for Kate. He bore her no grievance at all, though she was a partner to her husband in his deception. She was, somehow, a separate entity. This fact transcended guilt or the necessity to forgive. Lee signed his name. He meant every word of the letter.

I Despise Your Life
    A hole is a hole is a hole, Ralph was thinking as he stared at the keyhole. The key was in his hand, ready to stick in, but still he hesitated. He could just as well ring the doorbell! He was expected.
    Ralph turned and clumped in a circle in his cowboy boots, and faced the door again. It was his father’s apartment after all, and he had the key. Ralph set his teeth, his lower lip curled forward, and he stuck the key in the lock and turned it.
    There was a light in the living room, ahead and to the right.
    â€œHello, Dad?” Ralph called, and walked toward the living room. A battered leather handbag swung from a strap over his shoulder.
    â€œHi there, Ralph!” His father was on his feet, in gray flannels and sweater, house shoes, and with a pipe in his hand. He looked his son up and down.
    Ralph, taller than his father, walked past him. Everything neat and orderly as usual, Ralph saw, two sofas, armchairs, one with a book on its arm where his father must just have been reading.
    â€œAnd how’s life?” asked his father. “You’re looking . . . pretty well.”
    Was he? Ralph realized that his jeans were dirty, and recalled that he hadn’t bothered shaving even yesterday. The left side of his short-cut, blondish hair was a dark pink, because someone had smeared a handful of dye into it suddenly, sometime last night or rather early this morning. Ralph knew his father wasn’t going to mention the dye, but his father’s face bore a faintly amused smile. Not nice, Ralph thought. Such people were the enemy. Mustn’t forget that.
    â€œSit down, boy. What brings you here? . . . Like a beer?”
    â€œYeah, sure. Thanks.” Ralph was at that moment feeling a little fuzzy in the head. He had been a lot sharper less than an hour ago, higher and sharper, when he had been smoking with Cassie, Ben and Georgie back at the dump. The dump . That was what had brought him here, and he’d better get down to it. Meanwhile a beer was what they called socially acceptable. Ralph took the cold can that his father extended.
    â€œYou probably don’t want a glass.”
    Ralph didn’t, and so what? He threw his head back a little, smiling, and sipped from the triangle in the can. Another hole, this triangle. “Life’s full of holes, isn’t it?”
    Now his father grinned. “What do you mean by that? . . . Sit down somewhere, Ralph. You look tired. Had a late night?” His father took the armchair, put a bookmark in the book and laid the book on a side table.
    â€œWell, yeah—practicing as usual. Always gets later than we think.” Ralph lowered his lean figure to the sofa. “We’re going—” Now where was he? He had meant to tell his father about the record they were going to cut next Sunday