It was such a joy to once again be with people. I knew my time was almost up. The Express was scheduled for midnight, and I intended to be high in the sky, ready to swing aboard. I still had an hour to play.
Would it be safe to say that Fate intervened? Was it written in the stars that I should drop into this evening’s party? Or had Wiggins considered possibilities and felt no need to dispatch another agent in the expectation that when en route to the Express and with time on my hands, I couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of a party? Was Wiggins that crafty?
I pictured Wiggins, stiff dark cap riding high on brown hair, broad, open face still youthful despite a walrus mustache and muttonchop whiskers, white shirt high-collared, gray flannel trousers sturdily upheld by broad suspenders. Yes, he had a turn-of-the-century formality about him (the early twentieth century), but Wiggins often surprised me with a glint of humor.
Certainly I was on the most innocent of errands when I strolled to the ladies’ lounge to check on my hair. Red hair is distinctive, and I was afraid that last vigorous tango had left me looking as if I’d stepped out into an Oklahoma wind. (It isn’t vain to want to appear at your best.)
Moreover, a quick glance in the mirror would remind me to be thankful that I always appeared as I had been at twenty-seven, even though I’d been considerably older when I departed the earth. It is one of Heaven’s thoughtful aspects that we are seen as we were at our best. I found twenty-seven splendid. There are many other cheerful surprises in Heaven, such as the way that joy can be seen in colors. For example, imagine an incandescent violet with… Oh. Sorry. Precept Seven again. One of these days you will see for yourself.
As I crossed the hallway, a dark-haired woman in her thirties bolted toward the door of the ladies’ lounge. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and strained. The hand reaching for the knob trembled. She yanked open the door and entered the lounge.
Quick footsteps sounded behind me.
I paused to admire a tapestry, one of those dun-colored, pretentious representations of an English hunting scene.
A plump blonde in a pink palazzo jumpsuit, her face creased in concern, opened the door. I saw the convulsive start of the dark-haired woman. As she turned, her low-cut beige blouse slipped from one shoulder, revealing a purplish-red bruise on her upper arm. She gasped and yanked the blouse up, hiding the mark. The door closed.
I disappeared. In an instant, I was in the mirrored anteroom with its comfortable tufted-satin hassocks. I still get a thrill when I move through a solid wall. It gives me such a sense of freedom.
One hand still clasped to her blouse, the brunette sank onto a hassock and gave a travesty of a smile. “Hi, Joan. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Her voice was brittle. “I heard you and Jack went to Alaska. Did you have a good time?”
“What happened to your arm, Eleanor?”
“My arm? Oh.” A strained laugh. “Just one of those odd accidents. I’m fine.”
The blonde frowned. “You and Brad didn’t look like you were having fun tonight.”
It might have been a non sequitur. It wasn’t. She stared at the younger woman with anxious, worried eyes.
Eleanor fumbled with the clasp of her purse, lifted out a lipstick. Her hand shook. She stared at the tube, abruptly thrust it back into her purse. Did she fear that her hand was shaking too badly to be able even to dab color to her lips? She came to her feet, stared at Joan with hollow eyes. “Brad? Oh, it’s nothing to do with him. I’m afraid I’m getting a migraine. I’ll ask him to take me home.” She moved toward the door.
Joan stepped in front of her. “Are you sure? Look”-her tone was awkward-“if there’s anything we can do. If you’d like to come home with us-”
Eleanor gave a trill of ragged laughter. “I’m all right. I promise. It’s just…” She gripped Joan’s arm. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. It would be dreadful for me. Please. You’ve got to promise me.”
“Don’t go with Brad. Come home with us. Or let me call the police.”
Eleanor dropped Joan’s arm. “The police? Oh, my God. Never. You don’t understand. Everything’s okay. I swear it is. I just can’t think straight when I have a headache. You’ve misunderstood. Brad would never… No. It isn’t like that at all.” She whirled away.
Joan took a step after her, but as the door closed, she stopped with a frown and shook her head. She’d tried to help, and her help had been refused. She had no real option. If she called the police, they would need more than her assumptions.
However, there might be another way to forestall abuse.
In an instant, I was walking alongside Eleanor. She moved steadily, managing strained smiles to acquaintances. I wondered if she realized that her distress was obvious.
Her steps grew slower as she approached the terrace, then, with a quick-drawn breath, chin held high, she curved around a cluster of tables.
An athletic young man stood near a splashing fountain. I was reminded of a young Van Johnson, a broad, freckled, all-American face topped by reddish gold hair. Instead of disingenuous charm and good humor, however, this face was set and hard, blue eyes burning with anger.
She stopped a few feet away. “I need to go home. I have a headache.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling everyone?”
She folded her arms, looked frightened.
“Dammit, stop that. If anyone sees you like that-”
Shoes clicked on the terrace. Joan strode up to them. She stopped and gave Brad an uncompromising look. “I’m sorry Eleanor isn’t feeling well. Perhaps it would be a good night for her to come home with us. I’ve had migraines. They’re hellish.”
Brad flushed. “She’ll be all right.”
The chunky blonde stared at him. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be all right. Now.”
I had underestimated Joan. Her commanding stare warned him.
Brad flashed a black look at Eleanor. “If you’re ready.” His tone was clipped.
Eleanor avoided looking at Joan as they walked past.
MY first surprise was when they reached a Mercedes coupe and she clicked to unlock the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
He slid into the passenger seat and stared glumly forward as she expertly maneuvered the small car and whipped out of the parking lot.
She drove with the sunroof open, the warm summer air ruffling her hair. He turned his face away, stared out at the moonlit night.
They spoke not a single word.
In only a few minutes (Adelaide is a small town), she pulled into a circular drive in front of a big house with a bloated appearance and a plethora of superfluous spires on the steep roof.
When the car stopped, he threw open the door and walked toward the front steps, ignoring his wife.
She followed him into the marbled entryway and dropped her evening bag on a side table. Her reflection in a huge beveled mirror was at odds with her appearance at the party. She looked cool, amused, and confident.
A double staircase embraced a fountain and clumps of greenery. He was halfway up the left stairs, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.
“You haven’t asked,” she lifted her voice to be heard over the splash of the fountain, “if I had a good time at the party.”
He stopped, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned and looked down at her. “You’re a bitch.”
She continued to smile. “Sticks and stones… Come down. We’re going to talk.”
He remained midway up the stairs. “I want out.”
“Not in this lifetime.” Her tone was relaxed.
“I’ve got proof about you and Roger.” The muscles ridged in his face.
She shrugged. “A private detective? I’ve always wondered if they get a kick out of wondering what goes on behind the closed doors. I don’t care if you have a picture of us in bed; it isn’t going to do you any good. And here’s my hole card: you’re running for reelection next year. Do you think anybody will vote for a judge who beats on his wife? Shall I tell you what good work I managed at the party this evening?”