move to get out. Poncho stood up on his hind legs, curious, and sniffed at the window.
The two men embraced in silence. Moreany’s smooth, rosy cheeks with their white sideburns smelled of Old Spice. Henry looked over at Betty. Why didn’t she get out? Had she already confessed everything to Moreany?
Moreany extricated himself from Henry’s embrace with reddened eyes.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What can one say?”
“I asked Betty to come too. She was in my office when you rang.”
Henry opened the door and held out his hand to Betty. The smell of her perfume flooded out of the car. She felt his firm, warning hold as he embraced her; his stubbly chin scratched her cheek. They kissed each other like brother and sister; she felt another fierce twinge in her womb.
“Please try not to hate me, my darling.”
“I love you. How’s our baby?”
“It just moved. I can feel it.”
“Have you told Moreany anything about us?”
“Of course not. Are you sure she’s dead?”
Disconcerted, Henry gave her an icy stare. “Do you want her to come back?” he whispered.
Henry’s studio smelled of cold tobacco. The manuscript was next to the typewriter on his desk. A broken elastic band was rolled up beside his fountain pen. The slats of the blinds at the enormous picture window were half-closed. Notes and crumpled-up paper lay scattered all over the floor.
Henry had spent all morning shuffling things around in his studio and decking it out with creative mess. To indicate the trace elements of complex thought, he’d made little stacks of unread books, inserting a bookmark here and there. He’d even remembered a half-full coffee cup and a chewed cigar butt. All the sports supplements and men’s magazines had vanished, and he’d rolled the drilling rig into a corner underneath the Botero painting of fat children. It looked like a place where work was done. Apart from the manuscript it was all his.
Betty caught sight of the manuscript immediately and made a beeline for it, her hand outstretched.
“Don’t touch!”
She stopped in her tracks.
“Please don’t. It’s not finished yet.”
“Sorry. You work on a typewriter ?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“There is a copy of the text, isn’t there?” Moreany put in.
“Not yet. That’s the original. It goes in the safe every evening.”
Moreany and Betty exchanged glances. “That’s risky, Henry, to put it mildly.”
Henry opened a bottle of single malt and filled three glasses. Moreany disappeared briefly into the visitors’ restroom, walking unsteadily. Betty looked around herself. The room had been very tidy when she’d examined it in the dark the night before. Now everything was a mess and it reeked of tobacco. She scrutinized the hairy dog blanket next to the desk chair and the wastepaper basket overflowing with rejected ideas, probably worth millions even half-full. In the darkness she’d discerned the drilling rig as an unidentifiable structure standing in the room. Now it had vanished.
Moreany came back looking even worse, his hands smelling of soap. Henry handed him a glass.
“Ice?”
“One cube, if you have some.”
“Martha didn’t leave a note.” Returning from the kitchen with the ice, Henry began his report. “Her bike was on the beach.”
Moreany stirred the ice in his glass with his index finger. “Did you find her?”
“No one’s found her. The current pulled Martha out to sea. Her rubber sandals, her things, the bike—everything was still there.”
“On the beach?” Betty asked.
Henry saw her astonished look.
“Yes. Down in the little bay next to the harbor where she always goes swimming.”
Henry took a large swig of scotch, sucked the ice cube briefly and spat it back into the glass. He didn’t seem to be suffering overmuch, Betty thought, but then what does suffering look like?
“When she didn’t come back for lunch, I went to the beach. Down by the water there was a woman in Martha’s green parka,
The two men embraced in silence. Moreany’s smooth, rosy cheeks with their white sideburns smelled of Old Spice. Henry looked over at Betty. Why didn’t she get out? Had she already confessed everything to Moreany?
Moreany extricated himself from Henry’s embrace with reddened eyes.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“What can one say?”
“I asked Betty to come too. She was in my office when you rang.”
Henry opened the door and held out his hand to Betty. The smell of her perfume flooded out of the car. She felt his firm, warning hold as he embraced her; his stubbly chin scratched her cheek. They kissed each other like brother and sister; she felt another fierce twinge in her womb.
“Please try not to hate me, my darling.”
“I love you. How’s our baby?”
“It just moved. I can feel it.”
“Have you told Moreany anything about us?”
“Of course not. Are you sure she’s dead?”
Disconcerted, Henry gave her an icy stare. “Do you want her to come back?” he whispered.
Henry’s studio smelled of cold tobacco. The manuscript was next to the typewriter on his desk. A broken elastic band was rolled up beside his fountain pen. The slats of the blinds at the enormous picture window were half-closed. Notes and crumpled-up paper lay scattered all over the floor.
Henry had spent all morning shuffling things around in his studio and decking it out with creative mess. To indicate the trace elements of complex thought, he’d made little stacks of unread books, inserting a bookmark here and there. He’d even remembered a half-full coffee cup and a chewed cigar butt. All the sports supplements and men’s magazines had vanished, and he’d rolled the drilling rig into a corner underneath the Botero painting of fat children. It looked like a place where work was done. Apart from the manuscript it was all his.
Betty caught sight of the manuscript immediately and made a beeline for it, her hand outstretched.
“Don’t touch!”
She stopped in her tracks.
“Please don’t. It’s not finished yet.”
“Sorry. You work on a typewriter ?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“There is a copy of the text, isn’t there?” Moreany put in.
“Not yet. That’s the original. It goes in the safe every evening.”
Moreany and Betty exchanged glances. “That’s risky, Henry, to put it mildly.”
Henry opened a bottle of single malt and filled three glasses. Moreany disappeared briefly into the visitors’ restroom, walking unsteadily. Betty looked around herself. The room had been very tidy when she’d examined it in the dark the night before. Now everything was a mess and it reeked of tobacco. She scrutinized the hairy dog blanket next to the desk chair and the wastepaper basket overflowing with rejected ideas, probably worth millions even half-full. In the darkness she’d discerned the drilling rig as an unidentifiable structure standing in the room. Now it had vanished.
Moreany came back looking even worse, his hands smelling of soap. Henry handed him a glass.
“Ice?”
“One cube, if you have some.”
“Martha didn’t leave a note.” Returning from the kitchen with the ice, Henry began his report. “Her bike was on the beach.”
Moreany stirred the ice in his glass with his index finger. “Did you find her?”
“No one’s found her. The current pulled Martha out to sea. Her rubber sandals, her things, the bike—everything was still there.”
“On the beach?” Betty asked.
Henry saw her astonished look.
“Yes. Down in the little bay next to the harbor where she always goes swimming.”
Henry took a large swig of scotch, sucked the ice cube briefly and spat it back into the glass. He didn’t seem to be suffering overmuch, Betty thought, but then what does suffering look like?
“When she didn’t come back for lunch, I went to the beach. Down by the water there was a woman in Martha’s green parka,
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