bills and counted them once more, packed them away before leaving the room. I knew that I would never forget that scene. Lamplight slanting on the lithe marble body. The rustle and slap of the bills. Head bent, strand of black hair reaching down toward the quick fingers. The perfect groove down her back, convex at the shoulders, concave at the small of her back where the waist was slimmest. It was the way I had seen her, crouched at the file cabinet, just three weeks before.
Friday night we packed the total of $23,800 into one of her small suitcases. We took a train to Syracuse, and we did not sit in the same coach. I had the money for the car with me, withdrawn from the joint savings account. When I met her outside the Syracuse station, near thecabs, I saw that she had changed her make-up and hairdo as before. This time she had reddened her white cheeks with rouge. We got in a cab and went to Warren Street. I introduced her to the landlady as my wife, Mrs. Marshall. When we had closed ourselves in the furnished room, she looked slowly around at the shiny depressing maple, faded chintz, rose-flowered rug, and said, so very softly. “I’ll never live like this. Never, never, never.”
“Just temporarily, Mrs. Marshall.”
She studied me. “Those glasses change you. We look like Walter C. Marshalls, don’t we? Tomorrow I’m going to buy some clothes. Silly, bright, cheap clothes that are too tight for me, the kind I used to wear before I was married. And clattery, jangly junk jewelry. Harry taught me never to wear jewelry, how to dress, how to do my face and hair.”
I unpacked the suitcase I had brought, put the contents in the drawers and closet with the things I had brought over the first time. These were the things I would keep. Now nothing was left in my apartment that I wanted.
She sat on the double bed and watched me. The room seemed to be something to her, seemed to put her beyond my reach. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. She plunged away from me, spun, and faced me. “No,” she whispered.
We walked five blocks to a restaurant, ate like strangers who happened to be seated at the same table. She carried the small suitcase with her. She did not want me to carry it for her. I bought reading material. She wanted a paper. Back in the room she spread the paper across the pillows, lay propped up on her elbows. I sat in a chair and read. From time to time I glanced over at her. She read the paper line by line. Classified ads, local society notes. Everything.
“Don’t you read anything else?” I asked her.
She looked at me for a few moments. “No. Just papers.”
“Funny habit.”
“Why is it? This is real. This is what has happened topeople yesterday and today. Who cares about imaginary people? They bore me.”
“You know, I know so little about you. It seems funny. When you’re alone all day, what do you do?”
“Nothing, really. Oh, if I’m bored, I keep putting on different dresses and things, and looking at myself. And every day I exercise a long time.”
“Exercise?”
She rolled over onto her back, her head on the crumpled newspaper. She put her hands on her hips, put her heels together, legs straight, lifted her heels about six inches off the bed, and held them steady. “This is one,” she said.
She held her feet that way for an incredibly long time—until her face at last began to shine with perspiration and she began to tremble with the strain. She lowered her feet to the surface of the bed and exhaled deeply. She slapped herself casually on the flat diaphragm. “That’s how I stay like this.”
“I don’t know what I was trying to ask you, Emily. Maybe I just wanted to know what you think about. I never get much of a clue.”
“Oh, I remember the things Harry gave me, and took back.”
“Do you ever think about me?”
“You’re my luck, aren’t you?”
“I keep wondering if you think I’m a fool, a big damn fool.”
“Sometimes you are. Like wanting to
Friday night we packed the total of $23,800 into one of her small suitcases. We took a train to Syracuse, and we did not sit in the same coach. I had the money for the car with me, withdrawn from the joint savings account. When I met her outside the Syracuse station, near thecabs, I saw that she had changed her make-up and hairdo as before. This time she had reddened her white cheeks with rouge. We got in a cab and went to Warren Street. I introduced her to the landlady as my wife, Mrs. Marshall. When we had closed ourselves in the furnished room, she looked slowly around at the shiny depressing maple, faded chintz, rose-flowered rug, and said, so very softly. “I’ll never live like this. Never, never, never.”
“Just temporarily, Mrs. Marshall.”
She studied me. “Those glasses change you. We look like Walter C. Marshalls, don’t we? Tomorrow I’m going to buy some clothes. Silly, bright, cheap clothes that are too tight for me, the kind I used to wear before I was married. And clattery, jangly junk jewelry. Harry taught me never to wear jewelry, how to dress, how to do my face and hair.”
I unpacked the suitcase I had brought, put the contents in the drawers and closet with the things I had brought over the first time. These were the things I would keep. Now nothing was left in my apartment that I wanted.
She sat on the double bed and watched me. The room seemed to be something to her, seemed to put her beyond my reach. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. She plunged away from me, spun, and faced me. “No,” she whispered.
We walked five blocks to a restaurant, ate like strangers who happened to be seated at the same table. She carried the small suitcase with her. She did not want me to carry it for her. I bought reading material. She wanted a paper. Back in the room she spread the paper across the pillows, lay propped up on her elbows. I sat in a chair and read. From time to time I glanced over at her. She read the paper line by line. Classified ads, local society notes. Everything.
“Don’t you read anything else?” I asked her.
She looked at me for a few moments. “No. Just papers.”
“Funny habit.”
“Why is it? This is real. This is what has happened topeople yesterday and today. Who cares about imaginary people? They bore me.”
“You know, I know so little about you. It seems funny. When you’re alone all day, what do you do?”
“Nothing, really. Oh, if I’m bored, I keep putting on different dresses and things, and looking at myself. And every day I exercise a long time.”
“Exercise?”
She rolled over onto her back, her head on the crumpled newspaper. She put her hands on her hips, put her heels together, legs straight, lifted her heels about six inches off the bed, and held them steady. “This is one,” she said.
She held her feet that way for an incredibly long time—until her face at last began to shine with perspiration and she began to tremble with the strain. She lowered her feet to the surface of the bed and exhaled deeply. She slapped herself casually on the flat diaphragm. “That’s how I stay like this.”
“I don’t know what I was trying to ask you, Emily. Maybe I just wanted to know what you think about. I never get much of a clue.”
“Oh, I remember the things Harry gave me, and took back.”
“Do you ever think about me?”
“You’re my luck, aren’t you?”
“I keep wondering if you think I’m a fool, a big damn fool.”
“Sometimes you are. Like wanting to
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