“I know.”

“Well...”

“I’m not,” Agnes said flatly. “Rhinelander 4-4598.”

Altar came thrashing through the woods.

“Here are the surveys,” he said, handing the photostated copies to Larry. “Are you going to lay her?”

And Larry burst out laughing.


The day with Altar and Agnes had been something of a narcotic.

There was about Altar the glamour of the unattached, irresponsible stud living in Bohemian abandon. This week’s blonde was Agnes, and when she was gone there would be another blonde, or a redhead, or a brunette. Altar owed allegiance to no woman; the idea was sinfully stimulating. And on the heels of such a heady concept had come the girl’s invitation, awakening in Larry a male ego which he thought had died in his teens.

That he responded, that he felt flattered at first, and then puzzled, and then terribly masculine, had disturbed him. He did not mention the incident to Eve, and his conscious concealment of something on his mind produced a feeling of guilt out of all proportion to what had actually happened.

By 5:30 the next afternoon, the feeling of guilt — inert to begin with — was totally immobilized by the dissipating power of two martinis.

“You are pretty,” he said to Eve. He recognized a certain fuzziness about his speech, and he wondered why a drink so subtly beautiful should possess such hidden muscularity.

He reached for the shaker, and Eve sitting opposite him in a straight black skirt and a pale-blue sweater, said, “Don’t get drunk.”

“Why not?”

“Because you get idiotic.”

“I get amorous.”

“You get incapable.”

“Well, you look pretty.” He nodded in agreement with himself.

“Those are the martinis talking, and I’m not flattered.”

“You should be flattered,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because,” he started, and he almost added, “a girl gave me her phone number,” but he clipped the word off so that it sounded like a simple childish declaration.

“I’m going to get dinner,” Eve said, rising.

“Let’s finish the drinks first.”

“No. You’re going to get romantic, and I’m hungry.” She paused. “Besides, the kids are still up.”

“We’ll invite them in.”

“Oh, Larry, for God’s sake.”

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a time and a place,” Eve said. “I hate to see you silly.”

“What’s so silly about drinking a few martinis?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sore or something?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. We need bread. Will you go up to the store?”

“The stores are closed. This is Sunday.”

“The delicatessen is open. You can get bread there.”

“Man does not live by bread alone,” he said, grinning.

“Listen, don’t...” Eve paused. “Larry, there’s always later. Will you go for the bread?”

“Sure. Will you be waiting for me when I come back?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Well?”

Eve smiled. The smile to Larry was a thing of a mystery and promise. “I told you,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“That means no.”

“Does it?” she said, and still she smiled.

“Do you want me to go to the delicatessen?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He rose and started unsteadily for the front door.

“Be careful driving.”

“I’m always careful driving. I’m too talented to die in an automobile accident.”

“A loaf of white bread.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re drunk already, aren’t you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“If you had any idea how absurd you look with that silly grin on your mouth...”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t get killed.” She studied him concernedly. “Maybe I ought to go for the bread.”

“I’ll go for the bread,” he said emphatically, and walked out of the house.

There was a cruel bite on the air, but he was just drunk enough to appreciate it. He liked this idea of sunny days and cool evenings — that was good weather provided by a most provident providence — what did we poor humans do to deserve it? He walked to the car, a ’52 Dodge, part of the prize money, he thought, did I once win a prize, did I really win a prize, where’s that money now, where’s the promise of the shining young star, why am I designing harems for the crazy-bastard writers, what’s the matter with you, Cole, what the hell is the matter with you?

He twisted the key in the ignition and started the car, looking at his house, the brick and shingle, the ridiculously outsized gable, the goddam shabby architectural pretense of lovely Pinecrest Manor, the affront, the insult, the padded cell of an eagle. I live there, he thought. Dammit, I live there!

“Gracious Living,” she had called it. Not the house, never such a sin for an architect’s wife, certainly not Eve, whose eye was true, who recognized the falseness of Pinecrest Manor, who could dissect the development with the cold logic of an Aesthetics professor. But the drinks. Eve’s idea, and Eve’s title. The first time he’d come out of the small third bedroom which served as his office to find hot hors d’oeuvres and a private cocktail hour. Had they ever been that naïve? Had “Gracious Living” been capitalized in quotes even then, or had they really discovered the before-dinner drink and then later given the title sarcastic overtones in defense of their earlier naïvete?

He backed out of the driveway and executed a screeching left turn.

He could remember the night they’d fed the children and then settled down to a most ungracious hour of getting completely plastered, forgetting their own dinner. God, how long ago was that? Are people ever really that young? Gracious Living. Boy, do we live graciously!

He gripped the wheel tightly and said aloud “Pinecrest Manor, I hate your guts!”

The center’s parking lot was almost empty, the way it always was on a Sunday. The delicatessen and the drugstore were the only open shops. He pulled up alongside a pale-blue Chevy, slammed on the brakes and snapped open the door almost in one continuous motion. There was a man with a crew cut sitting at the wheel of the Chevy.

Go ahead, say something, Larry thought.

The man said nothing.

Larry sauntered toward the delicatessen, feeling somewhat proud of himself. He pushed open the glass door, spotted the bread shelf immediately and was walking toward it when he saw the woman. The pale-blonde. The woman from the bus stop He walked past the loaves of bread. He stopped a foot away from her and said, “Hi.”

Margaret Gault turned.

An uncertain smile formed on her mouth, and he watched the spreading cushion of her lips and the revealed brilliance of her smile, the deep dimple in her right cheek and he thought, She’s beautiful.

“The bus stop,” he said. “I’m Chris’s father.”

“Oh.” The smile widened. “Yes.”

They stood opposite each other, silent for a moment. She seemed reluctant to leave, and yet he sensed an eagerness to leave, and he suddenly had the idea that she was afraid of him, and he thought, Am I that drunk?

And then for no reason that he could understand — it was not what he was thinking; it was the furthest thing from what he was thinking — he said, “You’re not so pretty.”

The smile faded from her mouth. There was, he noticed, a minuscule scar on her cheek. She seemed flustered for a moment, and then she picked up her package from the counter and said, “I must go. My husband’s waiting,” and she left the store.

When he got outside, the blue Chevy was gone. He drove home, pulled into the driveway, went into the house, and threw the bread onto the kitchen table.

“I just talked to a gorgeous blonde,” he said.

“Really?” Eve asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t have talked very long,” Eve said. “She from the neighbourhood?”

“I think so. I saw her at the bus stop once.”

“Oh.” Eve nodded knowingly. “Margaret Gault,” she said. “Go wash your hands. Dinner’s ready. Chris! David! Dinner!”

4

Don Gault walked into the house with his hands in his pockets.

It was Monday evening, and he had put in a long, hard day at the plant. He had pulled down his tie and unbuttoned his collar the moment he’d stepped out of the automobile. Then, hooking his jacket over his arm, he had put both hands into his pockets, removing one briefly to open the front door, returning it to his pocket as he entered the house.

He wore a slender gold chain around his neck. A small locket containing a picture of his mother was cradled in the hollow of his throat, exaggerating the muscularity of his neck. He looked for Patrick in the living room, then crossed to the windows, walking past the cobbler’s-bench coffee table, and glanced out at the back yard. His son was nowhere in sight.

“Margaret!” he called.

“Don?” Her voice came from the upstairs bedroom.

“Hiya.”

“I’ll be down in a minute, honey.”

“Where’s the mail?”

“Kitchen table.”

“Okay.”

He threw his jacket over one of the chairs and went into the kitchen. The mail had already been opened, and Margaret had neatly stacked the slit envelopes in a little pile near the sugar bowl. He sat at the large round pine-top table and picked up the stack, thumbing through it quickly. Bills. Naturally, there’d be bills. There were always bills. He sat in the deepening darkness of the kitchen, the envelopes in his square, compact hands, his face vaguely troubled.