She was asleep when he got back to the room, snoring very lightly, his charming wife. He undressed quietly in the dark, and then got under the covers and lay there silently with the green neon Sardi sign illuminating the black windowpane across the room, and Ebie snoring lightly beside him, her body warm, his hand lying close to the curving flank of her naked flesh. She never slept with a stitch on, his sweet Southern flower, never when he first met her and not now either. He wondered if she had slept naked with Peter Malcom, wondered, lightly snoring, and wondered why he did not leave her. Face it. The bed was strange, he did not like hotel rooms. In Vermont, you could hear the mice rattling away the night in the attic. They slept in separate beds in Vermont, twin beds are for Englishmen and other people with severe cramps Uncle Benny had said one night disgostingly drunk. Face it. He listened to her even breathing, the snoring had stopped now, felt the warmth of her close to him and wondered again why he James Driscoll the Cat did not leave her, sleeping side by side in the Vermont twin beds with the mice racing in the attic, face it, tickytackyticky tack their little feet on the ceiling, face it, and then wondered why she did not leave him, why Ebie did not leave him.
He touched her shoulder.
She did not stir. He touched her again, more insistently this time. She murmured something in her sleep, and then turned toward him. She sat up. He could not see her face in the darkness.
"Ebie," he whispered.
"What is it?" she said. "What's the matter?"
"Ebie," he said, "do you love me?"
"Yes," she said.
"I'll never understand," he said. "Ebie," he said, "I love you."
"I know."
"I love you very much, Ebie."
"I know."
"But, Ebie, I'll never understand. As long as I live, I will never understand."
"Do you have to?" she asked.
He closed his eyes. "Never understand," he said, "never understand," and was suddenly exhausted. He sighed heavily. As he drifted off into folds of unconsciousness, he thought Ebie, let's try, and then was not certain whether he had thought it or said it, and said aloud, certain that he was saying it this time, "Ebie, let's try, Ebie," and sighed again, and said, "I love you, Ebie," and fell into a deep sleep.
He could not seem to get drunk.
He had begun drinking shortly after dinner, sitting in his apartment alone, refusing to answer the telephone because he knew each time it rang that Stuart Selig or Oscar Stern would be on the other end, and he did not know what he wanted to tell them. The bottle of scotch was half empty now, and he still did not know what to do, except sit here alone in his apartment, the way he had been sitting alone in his life from the time he was eighteen and went into the Army, the result of which was Catchpole. He could not believe that Driscoll's wife hadn't been coached, could not believe her testimony had not been carefully prepared beforehand, and then sprung by Willow at precisely the right moment, the courtroom magician pulling a rabbit from his tophat, a cuddly Southern bunny with large wet eyes, he could not believe his play had not been stolen.
Well, he thought, it's because I let them do it to me in the first place, I let Freddie and Fielder talk me into making all those changes, I wrecked my own play, and Driscoll stepped in and made a success of it, it's all my own fault when you get right down to it. Which is why I should tell Selig and Stern to go screw, along with Hester Miers and Mitzi Starke, and Walter Kerr thrown in for good measure. Tell them all to go screw, I will not make the changes in my play, I'm going to win this damn case and produce the play myself, maybe buy the Helen Hayes, no, not the Helen Hayes, not that jinx Fulton of a theater, I'll buy something nice and cozy and lucky, and maybe I'll buy the New York Times as well, how much do you want for your little paper, Mr. Sulzberger?
He was tempted to call Julie in Minnesota, because what they were asking him to do, really, was obliterate his past by obliterating his family, his sister, and by rights she should have something to say about her own demise. He wondered what time it was in Minnesota, and he lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle and when the operator came onto the line, he said, "Operator, I'm thinking of making a long-distance call to Minnesota, can you please tell me what time it is there?"
"Well," the operator said, and hesitated. "Just a moment, sir."
He waited. He owed it to Julie to consult her on her own eradication. Too many things in life got eradicated without consent, 'what had ever happened to the Sunday feasts at his grandfather's house, who had ever decided that issue without a vote?
"Sir?" the operator said.
"Yes?"
"Sir, Minnesota is on Central Standard."
"What does that mean?"
"They're an hour behind us, sir."
"Well, what time is it there?"
"It's almost midnight here, sir, so I would imagine it's almost eleven there."
"I see. Thank you."
"Did you wish to place your call, sir?"
"Well, I don't know yet," he said. "Thank you."
He hung up. Eleven o'clock, he thought. That wasn't really so late, but Julie probably went to bed early, houseful of kids to get off to school, besides everybody probably went to bed early in Minnesota. I really should call her, though, he thought, how can I change her without first getting her permission? They want me to make you a social worker, Julie, he thought, I know you'll get a laugh out of that, it's really pretty comical when you think of it. A social worker who practices the flute in her bedroom next door with the pink curtains on the window and the beware vicious dog sign tacked crookedly on the white-painted wood, I don't know, Julie.
They told me nothing, Julie.
I thought they'd tell me something in that courtroom.
They told me nothing.
Julie, do you remember once, do you remember when we were walking to the library together one night? and you asked me not to walk quite so fast, my legs aren't as long as yours, do you remember that? and I said I'm in a hurry, do you remember? I was in a hurry to get there, Julie, to get where the words were, all the words.
Julie, honey, I never got there.
Julie, they told me nothing, I was hoping they'd tell me something.
Look, we've got to discuss this. Look, what's the sense, we've just got to discuss this.
He reached for the telephone.
What's the sense? he thought.
He waited, his head bent, his hand resting on the telephone. He sighed and lifted the receiver. Rapidly, he dialed. He heard the ringing on the other end, once, twice, and quickly he hung up. He stared at the phone a moment longer, his heart beating wildly, and then he reached for the bottle of scotch and poured himself another drink.
He placed his call at one-thirty a.m. He was very drunk by that time. "Hello!" he shouted into the mouthpiece.
"What? Who's this?"
"Well, I've been sleeping on it," he said.
"What? Who's this?"
"This is Edward Albee. Don't you recognize my voice?"
"Listen, who is this?"
"Every writer has a voice, didn't you know that?"
"Arthur?"
"Yes, very good, this is Arthur Miller."
"What is it, Arthur? Are you drunk, Arthur?"
"Why, Stuart, what a thing to say to a man of my talents and respect, what a thing to say. Would you say such a thing to Tenafly New Jersey?"