Sally closed the phonograph and came away from it, saying, “Now I’m ready for a swim, if you are.”
After a moment, he said, “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“No swim?”
“If you’re serious, no.”
She smiled. “It’s dark out there, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“No, if you rented bathing suits — gray cotton ones — I still wouldn’t go in, if you follow me.”
“No.”
“Too cold.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough. We’ve had too much to drink, I don’t have to tell you. You could get a cramp, in your condition, and drown.”
“Wouldn’t you save me?”
He caught the implication, thought it unworthy of her, ignored it. “I could get a cramp. You wouldn’t be strong enough to save me. We’d both drown. What a way to go. Think it over.”
Sally lit a cigarette, and did seem to be thinking it over — as well she might, for the potential for scandal was practically infinite. “I’m going in,” she said.
“Could I have one of those?” he said, reaching for her cigarettes. “Thanks.” He was in a bad spot, but to act like it would be the worst thing he could do. He recalled the gameness displayed by the keeper of the late Bushman at the Lincoln Park Zoo, man and beast out for their daily walk around the grounds, but out for hours before the gorilla — changed overnight from youngster to monster, knowing his strength and wanting his way — chanced to wander into his cage. Snap! And Bushman had had his last walk. How easy it would’ve been for the keeper to panic. He had not. He had held on. Father Urban handed Sally her cigarettes and got to his feet, saying in a yawning tone, “Come on, let’s go.”
“I’m going in.”
“Come on. Let’s not spoil it.”
“Spoil what?”
“Come on.”
“I’m going in.”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t try to stop me, would you?”
“No,” said Father Urban, but seeing that this made her smile, he said, “Yes, if need be. But come on. Let’s go. Let’s not spoil it.”
“Oh, all right.”
He got up.
And she got up, but then she changed her mind, and in a matter of moments, she was standing before him, before the fire, back to him, wearing nothing but her shoes. They were high-heeled shoes. Calf. Golden calf. Lovely woman. No doubt of it.
“All right,” she said, turning around. “Try and stop me.”
“You’ve got me covered,” he said, and took his eyes off her, and kept them off, commending himself. It was like tearing up telephone directories, the hardest part was getting started.
“Not going to stop me?”
“No, I’ll wait.” He moved over to the phonograph. He gazed into the lamplight. If he’d had a cigar, he would’ve lit it. That would’ve been something to do. When he heard her heels on the stairway, he moved back to his chair, sat down, and gazed into the fire. He was thinking ahead, wondering how he could make it easier for her later. “Don’t be too long,” he said. He was playing it down.
The first shoe hit him on the shoulder, a glancing blow, and landed in the dead ashes at the front of the fire, from which he quickly retrieved it, but the second one struck him on the head. “Hey!” he yelled, but did not turn around and look at her. The second shoe had hurt. It might have killed him. What a way to go.