“Luck,” Frank Frink said.
“Hey, look. There’s one of those Jap waka poems on the back of this cigarette package.” Ed read the poem aloud, over the traffic noises.
He handed the package of T’ien-lais back to Frink. “Keeriiist!” he said, then slapped Frink on the back, grinned, opened the truck door, picked up the wicker hamper and stepped from the truck. “I’ll let you put the dime in the meter,” he said, starting off down the sidewalk.
In an instant he had disappeared among the other pedestrians.
Juliana, Frink thought. Are you as alone as I am? He got out of the truck and put a dime in the parking meter.
Fear, he thought. This whole jewelry venture. What if it should fail? What if it should fail? That was how the oracle put it. Wailing, tears, beating the pot.
Man faces the darkening shadows of his life. His passage to the grave. If she were here it would not be so bad. Not bad at all.
I’m scared, he realized. Suppose Ed doesn’t sell a thing. Suppose they laugh at us.
What then?
On a sheet on the floor of the front room of her apartment, Juliana lay holding Joe Cinnadella against her. The room was warm and stuffy with midafternoon sunlight. Her body and the body of the man in her arms were damp with perspiration. A drop, rolling down Joe’s forehead, clung a moment to his cheekbone, then fell to her throat.
“You’re still dripping,” she murmured.
He said nothing. His breathing, long, slow, regular… like the ocean, she thought. We’re nothing but water inside.
“How was it?” she asked.
He mumbled that it had been okay.
I thought so, Juliana thought. I can tell. Now we both have to get up, pull ourselves together. Or is that bad? Sign of subconscious disapproval?
He stirred.
“Are you getting up?” She gripped him tight with both her arms. “Don’t. Not yet.”
“Don’t you have to get to the gym?”
I’m not going to the gym, Juliana said to herself. Don’t you know that? We will go somewhere; we won’t stay here too much longer. But it will be a place we haven’t been before. It’s time.
She felt him start to draw himself backward and up onto his knees, felt her hands slide along his damp, slippery back. Then she could hear him walking away, his bare feet against the floor. To the bathroom, no doubt. For his shower.
It’s over, she thought. Oh well. She sighed.
“I hear you,” Joe said from the bathroom. “Groaning. Always downcast, aren’t you? Worry, fear and suspicion, about me and everything else in the world.” He emerged, briefly, dripping with soapy water, face beaming. “How would you like to take a trip?”
Her pulse quickened. “Where?”
“To some big city. How about north, to Denver? I’ll take you out; buy you ticket to a show, good restaurant, taxi, get you evening dress or what you need. Okay?”
She could hardly believe him, but she wanted to; she tried to.
“Will that Stude of yours make it?” Joe called.
“Sure,” she said.
“We’ll both get some nice clothes,” he said. “Enjoy ourselves, maybe for the first time in our lives. Keep you from cracking up.”
“Where’ll we get the money?”
Joe said, “I have it. Look in my suitcase.” He shut the bathroom door; the racket of water shut out any further words.
Opening the dresser, she got out his dented, stained little grip. Sure enough, in one corner she found an envelope; it contained Reichsbank bills, high value and good anywhere. Then we can go, she realized. Maybe he’s not just stringing me along. I just wish I could get inside him and see what’s there, she thought as she counted the money.