He looked again and thought, very nice legs. But the fact remained that they were attached to Beatrice.
“What are you frowning about?” she asked.
“Nothing. Just wondering what’s happened to Aunt Vi.”
“She’s probably arguing with Mrs. Henderson. She usually is. It’s her way of getting a kick out of life.”
“She’s quite a girl.”
He stifled a yawn and Beatrice said immediately, “Can I mix you a drink or something?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got to be going in a few minutes.”
“You just got here. It’s not even dark yet.”
“I go to bed pretty early.”
“We’ve hardly talked — or anything... But of course you need your rest, don’t you?”
The light in the room was quite dim and he couldn’t see her very well, but he had the impression she was smiling again. He wondered whether her smile was a nervous tic; when she couldn’t think of anything to do she smiled instead of lighting a cigarette or something like other people.
“You’re thinner,” she said.
He moved restlessly in the chair. “Oh, am I?”
“Mother and I were thinking if you — wanted to stay here, we have an extra bedroom and we wouldn’t bother you, and you’d get the right kind of food...”
She spoke very coldly, as if she were trying to make it clear that they didn’t give a damn if he starved, but they didn’t want to waste that extra bedroom.
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said.
“We just thought, if you wanted to, you might as well stay here.”
“It’s swell of you...”
“Of course, it’s pretty far out, isn’t it, and you wouldn’t find it very interesting, living with two older women.”
“It isn’t that,” he said, not realizing until the words were out that he had refused her offer, and that she had known he was going to.
“It was mother’s idea,” she said. “She thought you might want a little home life since you’ve been away so long.” She got up and switched on a lamp, averting her face from the splash of light. “But I told her, if Steve wanted home life, he’d want his own, he’d get married. What ever happened to Martha?”
He had the impression from her careful, measured tones that she’d been waiting all the time to ask him about Martha.
“She got married,” he said.
“Oh. I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry.”
He laughed suddenly, and the noise seemed to jar the room. “There’s a home life for you. You can measure it by the ton. Maybe you know her husband. His name’s Charles Pearson.”
“I’ve heard of him. He has something to do with a trust company.”
“I didn’t know that. Oh, Lord.” He began laughing again. He didn’t know why, and neither did Beatrice.
She said anxiously, “I’d really like to mix you a drink.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got Scotch and brandy.”
“Scotch.”
He went out into the kitchen with her and watched her while she mixed his drink. She had remembered exactly the way he liked it, with water and a twist of lemon peel. She fixed one for herself, too, though he knew she didn’t enjoy drinking and was doing it only to please him. He felt very grateful to Beatrice. When she handed him the glass, he said, “You’re a very nice girl, Bea.”
“I’ve been called that before. It’s an apology, not a compliment. What’ll we drink to?”
“How about to trust companies?”
“All right.”
Their glasses touched and he said, “As soon as I left, she must have figured me for a dead pigeon, and dead pigeons don’t do anybody any good. There never was one yet who had anything to do with a trust company.”
“I only met her a few times, but she didn’t strike me as being like that.”
“Well, I’m not trying to be fair to her. Why in hell should I?”
“She struck me,” Beatrice said, staring into her glass, “as being crazy about you. Why didn’t you get married?”
“We were engaged. I gave her a ring but she gave it back to me. She wanted to get married right away. I didn’t. I thought we were too young, and it was too risky.”
“She didn’t think so.”
“With Martha, it was a question of now or never. When I went away I told her I’d be back. She didn’t answer any of my letters.”
“Perhaps she understood you better than you understand yourself. You’re one of these men with a congenital fear of being — hooked.” She made the word sound obscene. “And now, of course, you can’t bear it to come back and find her happily married.”
“I’m bearing it fine,” he said flatly.
He finished off his drink and Beatrice, without asking, made him another.
“We don’t really have to stand around the kitchen,” she said. “Let’s go in and be comfortable.”
In the parlor she sat down again on the chesterfield and this time he sat beside her. She seemed embarrassed and kept pulling at the hem of her skirt as if she were half-afraid he would see her knees and half-afraid he wouldn’t. It was partly this gesture and partly the Scotch and his gratitude to her that made him intensely aware of her beside him, not as his cousin Beatrice, but as an anonymous female, warm, soft, comforting, smelling of flowers.
Without any intention other than to preserve this pleasant anonymity, he reached across her and turned off the lamp. Beatrice drew in her breath as if she were going to object, but she didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure that she had moved, but he thought for an instant her body had come up to meet his as he reached across her. The idea excited him and he had to sit up straight and cross his legs because he was afraid his aunt might pop in suddenly. His aunt probably wouldn’t understand that he had no designs on Beatrice at all. It was just pleasant to be sitting so close to a woman and not have to be afraid of catching something if he kissed her.
“Nice here in the dark, isn’t it?” he said.
She stirred and sighed, “Yes.”
Quite naturally he put his arm around her and drew her head down to his shoulder. “I feel very, very good,” he said. “I feel like singing or quoting poetry or doing all the talking I couldn’t do in front of those people.”
“Go ahead.”
“Whenever I feel good, I want to make noises. I’m a very noisy guy.”
“Are you?” she said in a faraway, contented voice.
He turned his head and talked with his mouth against her hair. “You’re a very quiet girl.”
He must have been crazy to think Beatrice’s hair wasn’t soft. It was like cornsilk, or like the down on a baby duck. He had been given a real stuffed baby duck when he was a child, and for months he couldn’t bear to look at it. It disturbed him and he used to dream of it. In the dreams he himself was the one who’d killed the duck, and sometimes he woke up crying bitterly because he’d hurt the helpless thing; but other times he would feel triumphant and strong, contemptuous of the duck’s weakness and quite glad that he’d killed it. After a while he got used to the duck and didn’t feel anything about it, one way or the other.
He didn’t know why he had to remember the thing now, or why remembering it made him feel suddenly savage and enraged at Beatrice.
“For Christ’s sake,” he said, and pushed her head back as if he wanted to break her neck. He kissed her hard on the mouth. She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to thrust him away but the gesture only excited him more. In a moment she stopped struggling and fell sidewise. She lay in his arms completely motionless. Slowly he drew his mouth away. His eyes strained through the darkness trying to see her face, trying to make out whether this soft, limp, helpless thing was still breathing or whether he’d killed it.