teeth gleaming. He’d heard her voice, soft, polite, “You are good for nothing, eh, little baby?” Then felt her long, sharp fingernails gouging down the side of his face.
He’d awakened on the edge of a swamp, muddy, face bloody and sore, arm-stump hurting because he’d been rolled down to the edge of that swamp; there was a fever in his head.
He’d stumbled, staggered, crept into town, to the Salvation Army and claimed he had been the victim of a hit-run accident. He’d refused a doctor’s examination and been able to hide the fact that the arm was newly gone. They gave him food, a bed. Slowly he’d got control of himself and got some decent strength back. They had loaned him a ticket for a bus back to Loma City. He went back to discover that his mother had died while he was gone. He’d lived on the money from a small insurance policy she’d had, in Loma City. When that ran out he’d married Cicely, who’d idolized him when he was a football hero in high school.
Now they were together in a room in Cheyenne. And he was thinking that one of the things he was going to do with that $100,000 was return to New Orleans. He was going to find Charissa. She was going to know what kind of money he had. She was going to get down on her knees and plead for his favor. And then he was going to enjoy her again, because he’d never forgotten what she was like. Then she was going to pay for the way she’d left him by that swamp. The fingernail scratches had healed, but not the wounds inside. And she was going to pay for them…But New Orleans was a long way off. He could not keep his mind on Charissa right now. He was thinking of that money, how it had better be there when he went to get it in the morning. Then ditch, only maybe not before he’d made a try with Margaret Moore, just because she reminded him of Charissa…
He suddenly thought of Mrs. Landry, how she’d stood down there in front of the desk when they’d checked in, running on about when they were leaving in the morning. His entire body tensed.
“When,” he said to Cicely, “did they say we’re leaving in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock,” Cicely said, looking at him hopefully, as though wishing desperately for his mood to shift and place her in greater favor.
He swore softly.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, the hope going from her voice.
“Why is that damn faucet dripping in the bathroom?” he asked angrily, thinking: eight o’clock. Why didn’t I pay attention to that before? The post office won’t even open before nine o’clock.
“I don’t hear any dripping, dear.”
“Well, check it!” He would, he thought, have to stall some way.
Cicely hurried to the bathroom. He watched her peering at the sink, trying to tighten the faucet. She came back. “It wasn’t dripping, dear, really.”
“You say,” he snapped bitterly, his mind spinning back to that moment when Charissa had come out of the shower in that shanty house outside of New Orleans, her body gleaming. He said to Cicely harshly, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”
She blinked at him, wholly confused.
“Why,” he said, “don’t you turn the lights out?”
When she had gotten into bed, in the darkened room, he put his hand on her savagely.
Later, perspiration on her upper lip, her teeth tight together, she lay with her eyes closed, the fury of it over. She was content. So long as it was this way, then nothing else at all mattered. She turned to him again, kissing his cheek lightly, tenderly. But he was already asleep.
CHAPTER
10
When the elevator had brought up the boy with dinner for the Garwiths, John Benson and Margaret Moore rode down to the lobby, just in time to miss the invitation by Miss Kennicot and Mrs. Landry to join them for dinner. There, Mr. Brander, standing beside his desk clerk, had motioned to John.
“Will you wait for me at the door?” John asked Margaret Moore, and crossed the lobby to the desk.
Mr. Brander bent
He’d awakened on the edge of a swamp, muddy, face bloody and sore, arm-stump hurting because he’d been rolled down to the edge of that swamp; there was a fever in his head.
He’d stumbled, staggered, crept into town, to the Salvation Army and claimed he had been the victim of a hit-run accident. He’d refused a doctor’s examination and been able to hide the fact that the arm was newly gone. They gave him food, a bed. Slowly he’d got control of himself and got some decent strength back. They had loaned him a ticket for a bus back to Loma City. He went back to discover that his mother had died while he was gone. He’d lived on the money from a small insurance policy she’d had, in Loma City. When that ran out he’d married Cicely, who’d idolized him when he was a football hero in high school.
Now they were together in a room in Cheyenne. And he was thinking that one of the things he was going to do with that $100,000 was return to New Orleans. He was going to find Charissa. She was going to know what kind of money he had. She was going to get down on her knees and plead for his favor. And then he was going to enjoy her again, because he’d never forgotten what she was like. Then she was going to pay for the way she’d left him by that swamp. The fingernail scratches had healed, but not the wounds inside. And she was going to pay for them…But New Orleans was a long way off. He could not keep his mind on Charissa right now. He was thinking of that money, how it had better be there when he went to get it in the morning. Then ditch, only maybe not before he’d made a try with Margaret Moore, just because she reminded him of Charissa…
He suddenly thought of Mrs. Landry, how she’d stood down there in front of the desk when they’d checked in, running on about when they were leaving in the morning. His entire body tensed.
“When,” he said to Cicely, “did they say we’re leaving in the morning?”
“Eight o’clock,” Cicely said, looking at him hopefully, as though wishing desperately for his mood to shift and place her in greater favor.
He swore softly.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, the hope going from her voice.
“Why is that damn faucet dripping in the bathroom?” he asked angrily, thinking: eight o’clock. Why didn’t I pay attention to that before? The post office won’t even open before nine o’clock.
“I don’t hear any dripping, dear.”
“Well, check it!” He would, he thought, have to stall some way.
Cicely hurried to the bathroom. He watched her peering at the sink, trying to tighten the faucet. She came back. “It wasn’t dripping, dear, really.”
“You say,” he snapped bitterly, his mind spinning back to that moment when Charissa had come out of the shower in that shanty house outside of New Orleans, her body gleaming. He said to Cicely harshly, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?”
She blinked at him, wholly confused.
“Why,” he said, “don’t you turn the lights out?”
When she had gotten into bed, in the darkened room, he put his hand on her savagely.
Later, perspiration on her upper lip, her teeth tight together, she lay with her eyes closed, the fury of it over. She was content. So long as it was this way, then nothing else at all mattered. She turned to him again, kissing his cheek lightly, tenderly. But he was already asleep.
CHAPTER
10
When the elevator had brought up the boy with dinner for the Garwiths, John Benson and Margaret Moore rode down to the lobby, just in time to miss the invitation by Miss Kennicot and Mrs. Landry to join them for dinner. There, Mr. Brander, standing beside his desk clerk, had motioned to John.
“Will you wait for me at the door?” John asked Margaret Moore, and crossed the lobby to the desk.
Mr. Brander bent
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