under too great a strain."
"No," she said. She got to her feet. When she stood up, it was as if her swollen bladder had to be lifted after her, hauled up an impossible distance. "No," she said again, "you don't understand."
"Then make me understand," he said, looking up at her.
She studied his face, tried to read the truth in his eyes. Was he really pleading with her? Or was it all a monumental con?
"Where did you get that necklace?" she suddenly asked.
She saw him look back down at his desk as though the answer was somewhere among the chaos of papers that covered it.
"It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you when you've calmed down."
She said nothing. She turned her face to the window, to the fury of the rain against the glass.
"I've got to go," she said.
"You'll get drenched. At least wait until it eases up."
"I can't," she said.
She was at the door when he stopped her, called her name. She turned to face him again. He looked so different to her now, so changed, not Hal at all anymore.
Without another word, she stepped out into the hall.
She hurried to the ladies room—and stayed there fifteen minutes, long enough for him to give up if he'd gone looking for her at the elevators. Maybe it was the crazy thoughts that rush through your head when pent-up urine finally rushes from your body—but as she yanked down her pantyhose and briefs and then let go, she had the queerest feeling that it was Miss Putnam he'd been talking to when she'd caught him murmuring into the telephone.
***
The streets were awash. The instant she stepped off the curb to search the uptown flow of traffic for a free cab, a delivery truck cut in close to her and splashed a wave of water over the front of her dress. She was soaked through—drenched, just as he'd said.
Peggy stood for a moment, limp with feelings of impotence and frustration, like a child in a world of grown-ups who all rode cozily in cabs. Then she gave up and set off to work her way home by subway, drying out by the time she'd made it to the Ninety-sixth Street stop, getting soaked again as she walked the block and a half to her building.
She pressed the button for the elevator, stepping away from the puddle that was forming at her feet and starting a new one just as big. When she got off on eight, she waited until the elevator door had shut behind her, and then she stripped out of her things, dropped her clothes on the vestibule floor, and fished her keys from the bottom of her handbag.
With one naked foot she held the door propped open while she reached back and bundled her wet things under her arm. She left her shoes in the foyer, carried everything else to the little laundry room off the kitchen, and then, shivering slightly, she retraced her steps, cursing Hal when she saw the empty suitcases still lying in the hallway that led to the back. He knew she wasn't strong enough to lift them onto the top shelf of the storage closet. He knew he had to do that for her!
FORGIVE
She used to think she could forgive him anything, forgive him for leaving a million suitcases lying on the floor. But maybe there were some things too terrible to forgive.
She hadn't yet reached the doorway to their bedroom when she heard it—and stopped dead in her tracks. At first she thought it must be the rain, a kind of trick the rain played against the fancy brickwork that bordered he windows. But then, a second later, she realized that neither water nor wind could make a sound like that, and that it was coming from inside the apartment itself.
She stood listening, trying to hear it over the pounding of her heart, the roaring sussuration of her breath.
It was rhythmic, a steady, muted swinging sound, as of something moving relentlessly back and forth in the bedroom. The rocker! It must be the bentwood rocker at the foot of the bed! Yes, that was it—there was someone in there in the rocking chair, someone rocking back and forth.
She crept closer, her toes
"No," she said. She got to her feet. When she stood up, it was as if her swollen bladder had to be lifted after her, hauled up an impossible distance. "No," she said again, "you don't understand."
"Then make me understand," he said, looking up at her.
She studied his face, tried to read the truth in his eyes. Was he really pleading with her? Or was it all a monumental con?
"Where did you get that necklace?" she suddenly asked.
She saw him look back down at his desk as though the answer was somewhere among the chaos of papers that covered it.
"It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you when you've calmed down."
She said nothing. She turned her face to the window, to the fury of the rain against the glass.
"I've got to go," she said.
"You'll get drenched. At least wait until it eases up."
"I can't," she said.
She was at the door when he stopped her, called her name. She turned to face him again. He looked so different to her now, so changed, not Hal at all anymore.
Without another word, she stepped out into the hall.
She hurried to the ladies room—and stayed there fifteen minutes, long enough for him to give up if he'd gone looking for her at the elevators. Maybe it was the crazy thoughts that rush through your head when pent-up urine finally rushes from your body—but as she yanked down her pantyhose and briefs and then let go, she had the queerest feeling that it was Miss Putnam he'd been talking to when she'd caught him murmuring into the telephone.
***
The streets were awash. The instant she stepped off the curb to search the uptown flow of traffic for a free cab, a delivery truck cut in close to her and splashed a wave of water over the front of her dress. She was soaked through—drenched, just as he'd said.
Peggy stood for a moment, limp with feelings of impotence and frustration, like a child in a world of grown-ups who all rode cozily in cabs. Then she gave up and set off to work her way home by subway, drying out by the time she'd made it to the Ninety-sixth Street stop, getting soaked again as she walked the block and a half to her building.
She pressed the button for the elevator, stepping away from the puddle that was forming at her feet and starting a new one just as big. When she got off on eight, she waited until the elevator door had shut behind her, and then she stripped out of her things, dropped her clothes on the vestibule floor, and fished her keys from the bottom of her handbag.
With one naked foot she held the door propped open while she reached back and bundled her wet things under her arm. She left her shoes in the foyer, carried everything else to the little laundry room off the kitchen, and then, shivering slightly, she retraced her steps, cursing Hal when she saw the empty suitcases still lying in the hallway that led to the back. He knew she wasn't strong enough to lift them onto the top shelf of the storage closet. He knew he had to do that for her!
FORGIVE
She used to think she could forgive him anything, forgive him for leaving a million suitcases lying on the floor. But maybe there were some things too terrible to forgive.
She hadn't yet reached the doorway to their bedroom when she heard it—and stopped dead in her tracks. At first she thought it must be the rain, a kind of trick the rain played against the fancy brickwork that bordered he windows. But then, a second later, she realized that neither water nor wind could make a sound like that, and that it was coming from inside the apartment itself.
She stood listening, trying to hear it over the pounding of her heart, the roaring sussuration of her breath.
It was rhythmic, a steady, muted swinging sound, as of something moving relentlessly back and forth in the bedroom. The rocker! It must be the bentwood rocker at the foot of the bed! Yes, that was it—there was someone in there in the rocking chair, someone rocking back and forth.
She crept closer, her toes
Similar Books
