“I’m”—she drew in through her nostrils—“just finishing.” She picked up a fresh stencil. “I’ll only be a minute … Hello,” she finally said.
Paul moved into the office. “Libby—”
But Libby was bending over now, sorting through the papers on the floor. Then, giving up, she raised her body, centered herself on her chair, centered the stencil, lifted her fingers, and her mouth began to widen across her face. Her eyes swam out of focus for a moment, as she turned to say, “I’m just having a little trouble. The typewriter”—she brought herself under control—“sticks.” She looked down and made the smallest of sounds: she whimpered. “Another minute.”
I remained in the doorway, while Paul’s long figure inclined toward his wife. “Are you feeling all right? Are you feeling sick, you’re so flushed—”
She picked her ratty, lifeless kerchief out of her lap, where it had dropped, and blew her nose into it. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m not used to stencils, that’s all …”
“Libby, we’re going to have a drink at the Quadrangle Club. Why don’t you save the stencil for tomorrow?”
“I have to finish.”
“You can finish tomorrow. You can’t sit in here with your coat on. Take off your earmuffs, Libby, and we’ll get the place in order and we’ll all go have—”
She was shaking her head. “The Dean needs it. Paul, please, just sit down.”
“Why do you have your coat on? Are you cold? It’s hot in here. Libby, come on now, please.”
“I’m fine — one more—”
“The Dean can wait,” he said. “You’re letting yourself get upset — it’s not important.”
But she was shifting herself around in her chair until she was in the posture prescribed for efficient typists.
“Please, Libby. It’s after six. You’re weak. You’ve been here since eight-thirty.”
“I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine!” She looked over at me, and she exclaimed, as though I doubted the fact too: “I am!”
“Yes,” I said, though not very forcefully.
“Now.” She centered the stencil in the carriage once again, turned to the manuscript she was copying, and struck the first key. “Ooohhh,” she moaned.
“What, honey? What is it?” Paul asked.
“Why do I keep hitting the half? I keep wanting the p and getting the half! Oh Paulie—” she bawled, ripping the stencil violently from the machine, “I can’t even type!”
He kneeled beside her and tried to quiet her the way a conductor quiets a symphony orchestra; raising and lowering his palms, he said, “Okay now, okay. You can type, you can type just as well as anybody. Come on now — try to hang on. You can hang on now.”
“I am hanging on.”
“I know. Just keep it up—”
“Paul, I’ve made about — honestly, about thirty-five stencils. I just can’t do it! What’s the trouble with me? Haven’t I got any coordination either? Can’t I do anything?”
“Did the Dean make you stay? Doesn’t he know you’ve been sick?”
“I want to stay.” Her voice now was without passion. “I wanted to stay and finish. But I can’t even do a paragraph. I can’t type one lousy sentence through to the end.”
“You can type,” he said. “You can type perfectly well.” Slowly he began to gather all the discarded papers and deposit them in the waste basket. “The machine sticks. It’s not your fault.”
“It just sticks a little.”
“All right, calm down now.” He rose and offered her his hands to help her from the chair. But Libby crossed her arms over the typewriter, lowered her head onto it, and wept.
Till then I had remained because I knew it would only doubly embarrass Herz if I were to disappear; I was sure that he was as determined as I that we should go ahead with our plans — he too, I thought, had felt that something was being settled. Now I stepped out of the doorway and around into the corridor. I did not even consider how late I was going to be for my engagement. I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes, and I remember saying to myself: I don’t understand.
“You don’t have to work in any office,” Paul was saying. “You just stay at home and rest.”
“I don’t want to rest. I’m only twenty-five. I don’t want to rest all the time.”
“Maybe you could take some classes during the day—”
“It’s one horrible mess after another, isn’t it?” Her hysteria was almost completely run down now; she had simply asked a question. “I think”—I heard her taking deep breaths—“I think I need a glass of water, Paul, and a pill.”
Without moving, I called into the room, “You stay, Paul. I’ll get it.” For when Libby had spoken, I had had the vision of Paul leaving the room, and Libby stepping to the window, and then Libby sailing, sweeping down through the air. I filled a cup at the water fountain and brought it back to the Dean’s office.
Libby was by the window, it turned out, but she was using it as a mirror in which to comb her hair. Paul was twirling her earmuffs slowly around his fingers; he signaled for me to put the cup down on the desk.
“Libby says she’d like to have that drink at the club,” he said.
“Fine,” I answered.
Libby turned from the window, her face no longer tinged scarlet, but a chalky white. She sighed and blinked ruefully. I was surprised to see that she had a reserve of strength in her, and grateful that the incident was over.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I’ve been so damn silly. I’d like to go to the club, if you still want me. I’ve never been there before.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Anybody who’s after the p and keeps getting the half …” I smiled.
She pointed at the machine. “It’s a ridiculous business, but I felt like one of those old movies — tied to the railroad tracks with the train coming.”
“I understand.”
“It sticks,” Paul explained, picking up his briefcase. “It could frustrate anybody.”
“Sure,” I put in. “You ought to have them fix it.”
“I will,” Libby said. She blew her nose again into the kerchief and took a last look around the office.
“Now,” Paul asked, “what are you going to put on your head?”
She pointed to the earmuffs.
“Your head,” he said. “Not your ears. Didn’t you have a handkerchief — did you have to use your kerchief?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“It’s snowing out, Libby. It’s freezing out.”
“Wait a minute,” Libby said, ignoring him, and turned back to the typewriter to put the plastic cover over it.
“Libby,” Herz said, practically begging, “don’t you have anything to put on your head?”
Standing over the typewriter she began to cry. “You’d think,” she sobbed, “a snowflake would kill me.”
Paul moved toward her, offering the handkerchief from his own pocket. “Here,” he whispered, “just till we get there. Just put this on your head, please. Look, Libby, if you don’t like office work, if it’s agony, do me a favor. Quit. We don’t need this job—”
“Oh, I like office work. I love office work,” she said, weeping. “The Dean is a very sweet man.” She raised Paul’s handkerchief to her nose.
“Please” he said, “blow it in the kerchief, will you, honey? Libby, don’t we have enough doctor bills? Please leave something to cover your head—”
“Well, don’t be exasperated with me!”
“Libby, maybe if you stayed home this winter you could shake—”