"Good-bye," I said.
"So."
He nodded and seemed to fall asleep, and I left.
More information… which I didn't know how to use.
17
One of the worst things that prison does to a man is imbue him with the feeling that he is always in the wrong: that others may rightfully do what they will with him, while the things he does, through error or otherwise, are wholly inexcusable.
I felt that way about Doc, about the way he had seen Lila and me. I was certain by now that I was being forced to work against myself. I was sure that I owed him nothing, apologies included. Still, I did feel guilty. I did, and I couldn't help it.
I stayed away from the house until almost midnight that night, and got away early the next morning. By the evening of that day, some of my sense of guilt had worn off. I was still uneasy but I hoped, if he noticed the fact, he would attribute it to the business over the car.
I brought the subject up as soon as he stepped inside my room.
"Mmm," he nodded, thoughtfully. "I should have known that Myrtle would read the legal papers."
"I appreciate it just the same," I said.
"Don't mention it, Pat. We'll try to do better next year."
He left after a quick drink with me. I flopped down on the bed, relieved, and hating myself for being relieved.
Willie came in to remove my dinner dishes, and I tried to tell myself that it was he, and not Doc, who had looked in on Lila and me. He would have been in the house while Doc would have had no reason to be there.
But I knew better than that. It had been Doc. He'd expected me to come there, because of the car. Probably he'd followed me from the sales lot. And when he'd seen Lila and me…
Why hadn't he reacted as he should, as the insanely jealous Doc I knew would have? Did he intend to settle with me later, when I was least expecting it? Or had he held off for purely practical reasons-because a blow-up would spoil the plan in which I played a part?
It could be either way or both. And it could be-I sat up on the bed, suddenly-it could be that Doc actually didn't care about his wife; that the jealousy was all an act!
I got up and paced the floor, excited, almost seeing the answer to the riddle.
It had been an act! Looking back now I could see the falsity of it; how badly it had been overplayed. Doc showing up, always at the most embarrassing moment. Lila haughtily dramatic, taunting him. Throwing whiskey in his face.
It had been rotten acting, but I had been taken in by it. I had been so impressed that I was afraid Doc might drop my parole. I'd told Hardesty that, hinted that I might skip out, and immediately the funny business had stopped. They didn't want me to leave. They'd wanted only to build Doc up in my mind as a certain type of person.
It all added up. Hardesty had told Doc howl felt, and Doc had told Lila to leave me alone. He'd followed me to the house the day before to reassure me in case Lila fell down on the job. And when he saw Lila apparently was doing more than all right he'd gone quietly away again.
But what about Hardesty? Why, when he so obviously distrusted and detested Doc, had he told him of my visit? He wanted me to share his distrust and hatred. He meant to work me up to the point where I would. That was my answer: I was not yet, in his opinion, sufficiently worked up. I was not ready to be used. Until I was, he was chiefly interested in seeing that I did nothing which might cause me to be returned to Sandstone.
Myrtle Briscoe-I stopped in my pacing and sat down again. Myrtle. She was using me to get Doc. I was a rope she was giving him with which to hang himself.
And Doc… Doc had foreseen that she would know, and guessed that she would react as she had. He was tolling out rope of his own. He was certain he could tighten it before she could tighten hers.
And Mrs. Luther? Was she working with one of the three or did she, too, have a plan?
And Madeline…?
No, not Madeline. I'd never had the slightest doubt about her. My instinct told me just one thing about her: that she was good and that she loved me. If I was wrong about that, then I was wrong about everything. And maybe I was.
I didn't know anything. All I had was guesses. Guesses which, when you probed them and tried to follow them out, became ridiculous.
If Eggleston was wrong about the pardon, then most of my conjecturing collapsed. Doc might be my friend. It could be that he had become aware that we were being pressed toward a dangerous situation and that he intended to avoid it at all costs.
Oh, hell, though. That couldn't be right. It-
I gave up. I undressed and got in bed. Yes, and I went to sleep. You can only think so much and I was far ahead of my quota for the day.
The next day was the beginning of my second thirty-day period on parole. I called Myrtle Briscoe's office from a drug store, and asked what time I should report. She told me curtly that I needn't bother to come in-unless there was something I wanted to tell her.
I said there wasn't. She banged down the receiver.
It wasn't much after nine when I reached Madeline's apartment, and she was still in bed. Instead of coming to the living room door, she stuck her head out the other one, the one to her bedroom.
She closed it after me, gave me a fiercely affectionate hug and flung herself down on the bed again. She was wearing white sleeping shorts and a white sleeveless pullover.
She sprawled out on the pillows, raised her legs straight in the air, and grinned at me impishly.
"Guess I'll just stay here all day," she announced.
"All alone?" I said.
"Guess I won't either." She let her legs down, sat up and yawned. "So-oo tired. Make me some coffee, huh, honey?"
"All right," I said.
"I'll get into something while you're gone. So you won't be thinking evil thoughts."
I told her I never had such things, and went on back to the kitchen.
I put a pot of coffee on the stove, and slipped a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster. While they were getting ready, I put a napkin on a tray, laid out marmalade and butter, and sliced an orange. The whole business didn't take more than five minutes. I was pretty practiced in getting her breakfast.
I picked up the tray and started for the bedroom. And, then, I halted there in the kitchen door and stood staring. The bedroom door was still open, as I had left it, and I could see her almost as plainly as though I'd been in the room with her. And what I saw sent a cold chill of shock along my spine.
The sleeping trunks and pullover lay on the floor at her feet. She'd got into a pair of thin white panties, and her hands were behind her, working at the clasp of her brassiere. She was completely lost in thought. She wasn't thinking about dressing, but about something- someone-and those thoughts were anything but pleasant.
Always before, even when she was serious, she'd appeared gay, good humored, light hearted. I'd never seen her any other way. She'd never let me see her any other way. And now not a vestige of that gaiety and good humor remained. I could hardly believe it was the same girl, the same woman-this woman whose face was a hideous and sinister mask of hatred.