“I was watching Steve Allen the other night. You ought to be good in a program like that . . . where you could say what you wanted.”
“He doesn’t say what he wants,” Jim said.
She dropped the subject.
“Can I say one thing about Pat?” he said.
“Why?” Then she was apologetic. It was impossible for her, evidently, to be mean. She could not act out such a petty role. “If you want to say something, go ahead. But—”
“I just want to say this,” he said. “I don’t think she’ll do it again. She was drunk; she saw Art, and there was this tangle with me—”
Rachael said, “I don’t really care. What do I care why she did it or whether she’s going to do it again? I’ve been walking around wondering what I should do. About her, I mean. I don’t care about Art—”
“Have you decided?” he said. “Because as much as I think of you, I think more of her, and if you have anything planned, I wish you’d drop it and forget about it.”
“How far did they go?” Rachael said.
“Don’t talk like a child. I’m ashamed of both of you, both you and Art?”
“I just wanted to know.”
“How the hell far do you think they went?” he said. “If that’s the kind of language you have to put it in. How far do you think a very unhappy woman with too much to drink would go with a good-looking eighteen-year-old kid after they had parked up on Twin Peaks at twelve o’clock at night? Can’t you tell when your own husband has had intercourse with another woman?”
Curiously, she remained unmoved. “I don’t know what to call it. When we were in school we had a lot of words, but they weren’t words you can use. It’s hard, not knowing the words.”
“Go learn them,” he said.
“You’re mad at me,” she said, “because I can’t discuss this with you the way you like to discuss it.” Her chin lifted, and all at once her enormous eyes were fixed on him; she brought the full weight of her contempt onto him. “Did you say once you wanted to help us? We don’t know anything. Nobody ever taught us anything we can use. I’m not going to go over and—cut her head off or something. I’d just like to know people who don’t do things like this to other people.”
“She was drunk,” he said.
“So what? I’d like to ask her how she feels now. I’d like to go up to her and see if she’s sorry or what.”
“She’s sorry.”
“Is she?”
“She called me up last night,” he said. “She was wailing and sobbing; she knew she did something wrong.”
They, had walked almost back to the house. Ahead of them was the fence and gate. Now Rachael stopped.
“What if I didn’t go back?” she said.
“That would be a mistake.”
“I’m not going back.”
“What then?” he said. “Are you going to your family’s and stay there awhile? Get a divorce? Never forgive him?”
“I saw that in a movie,” Rachael said.
“And you know what you think of movies.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll go back.” She took her package from him. “Would you come inside with me?”
“Sure,” he said.
They walked up the path and down the steps to the basement door. The apartment was empty and on the table was a note from Art. Holding her package, Rachael read the note.
“He went out,” she said. “He says Grimmelman called and they’re over at the loft. I guess you don’t know Grimmelman.”
“Do you believe him?” he said. “You suppose it’s true?”
She tossed her package onto the couch. “No. I’m going to fix dinner. You can stay if you want.” She went into the kitchen, and soon he heard the sounds of water running in the sink, the clatter of pans.
“Can I help?” he said.
On her face was a hopeless look. “I didn’t get any meat.”
“Let me get it.” He led her to a chair and sat her down. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He left the apartment and went up the street to a meat market. The market was about to close and nobody was waiting at the counter; he bought a New York−cut steak, fidgeted while the butcher wrapped it, and then carried it back to the apartment.
“How’s this?” he said, unwrapping the steak before her.
She accepted it gingerly. “I never saw this cut before. It isn’t sirloin, is it?”
“No,” he said. “I thought it might cheer you up. You ought to eat more.”
Going into the kitchen with the steak, she started to take down the frying pan. “Should I fry it?”
“Broil it,” he said. “It’s too tender to fry—”
“Will you stay with me?” she said.
“I’d like to,” he said.
“What about afterwards?” she said. “After dinner?”
“He ought to be back.”
“Suppose he isn’t. Would you stay until he comes back?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t see how I can.”
Rachael said, “I lived with my family until we—Art and Iran off to Santa Rosa. Last night when you left here, I felt very bad. I’m not used to being alone.”
“You always struck me as being independent.”
“Maybe we could go to a show.”
“No,” he said, “I can’t take you to a show, Rachael. I’ll eat dinner with you and then I have to leave.”
“What’ll I do?” she said.
He said, “I’ve been in this spot for years. When Pat and I separated, I thought I’d go crazy. For a couple of weeks I didn’t know what I was doing. It’s something you have to live through. And you probably won’t have to; I think he’ll be back. But if he doesn’t come back, you’ll have to stand it alone. Isn’t that right? You’re about the only person I’d say this to outright.”
“It’s the idea of him over there,” she said.
“I know it is. But for a year now she’s been going around with Bob Posin, and I’ve gone to bed every night with that on my mind.”
“Is this the way it turns out?”
“Not always.”
Putting on the burners in the oven, she set the steak under them.
“Rachael,” he said, “if he is there, and I went over and got him, that wouldn’t solve it. And you were the one last night who saw that. You were the first one to see that.”
She said, “I want to go to the show. If you won’t take me, I’ll go alone. Or I’ll go up to Dodo’s, and when I see one of the kids or even somebody I don’t know I’ll get him to take me.” With her back to him she said, “So please take me.”
“Would you do that?” he said. He knew she would.
“Take me to that movie about the whale. We have a jar full of nickels and dimes; we’re saving up. What’s it called?”
“Moby Dick”
“It’s from some book. I read it in an English class. We read a lot of old books. It’s supposed to be a pretty good movie, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And then maybe we could go somewhere else.” She put on water for the vegetables. “I want you to stay with me,” she said. “In January I’m going to have my baby, and I have to be able to count on something. You brought her here and you know you’re in this. I’ve been thinking it over and I’m not kidding. If he’s gone, you have to take care of me. Have you ever heard of a thing like that? But it doesn’t make any difference; you have to. I have a lot of respect for you. I don’t even feel bad about this. There isn’t anything else I can do. What would you do if you were me?”
“I don’t know,” he said . . ..
“This will be very practical,” she said. “You came here originally and said you wanted to help me.”
“I meant both of you,” he said.
“All right.” Her voice was reasonable, measured. “You helped Art. Now you can help me. You gave him what he wanted; now see to it that I have enough money and a place to live and something to do. Maybe this sounds—wrong.”