"I've got to get some sleep," Sidney said.
"Are you afraid I won't let you sleep?" Chickie asked, and smiled.
"No, but…"
"I'm very tired myself, darling," she said. "Unzip me, will you?" She walked to where he was sitting, and then turned her back to him. He lowered the zipper. "Thank you," she said, and walked away from him into the bedroom. "It's very smoky in here," she said. "Were you smoking in here, Sidney?"
"What?"
"In the bedroom here."
"Yes, I had a cigar when I got home."
"What time did you get home?"
"About eight," he said. He paused. "I got a lift." He paused again. "In a Cadillac." He could hear her rustling around in the bedroom.
"I'm just exhausted," she said.
"Those Cadillacs are very nice."
"They're the only kind to have, Sidney," she said.
"What time is it?"
"It's a little past twelve. Come to bed, Sidney."
He rose and went into the bedroom. She had put on one of his robes, and was standing by the mirror brushing out her long red hair. "Have you ever been in a Cadillac?" he asked.
"Of course."
"Recently?"
"Sidney," she said, without turning from the mirror, "what is this?"
"What is what?"
"What is all this business about Cadillacs? Are you thinking of buying one, is that it?"
"Well, if I w-w-win this case…"
"Yes, you'll be very wealthy."
"I c-c-could…"
"You could buy three or four Cadillacs, Sidney, all in different colors."
"You don't believe me, d-do you?" Sidney said.
"Believe you about what, dear? That you're going to win your case?"
"I am going to win," he said.
"Well, don't get so fierce about it, Sidney. I believe you."
"I am," he said.
"Mmmm-huh."
"If you were to m-m-marry me…"
"Sidney, let's not go into that right now."
"I'm only saying."
"Yes, but not now." She put the brush down on the dresser top, and then turned and leaned against the dresser and folded her arms across her breasts and smiled thinly and said, "Would you like to do Eddie Cantor?"
"No," he said.
"I thought you might like to."
"No."
"The way you did at Harvard."
"No."
"What was it called, the group? Hasty Pudding?"
"No, it was just the Dramatic Club."
"Anyway, I thought you might like to."
"No."
"Well," she said, and shrugged. "I can't force you, I guess." She shrugged again and then took off the robe. Naked, she walked to the bed, pulled back the blanket, and propped herself against the pillows.
"Chickie," he said, "there's something we've got to talk about."
"It's a shame, though," she said, "because you know how much I love it."
"I get the feeling that something's going on and I don't know what."
"The way you roll your eyes, and wave your hands around, I just love that, Sidney."
"What's going on, Chickie?"
"What's going on where, baby?"
"With… with you and Ruth."
Chickie looked down at her breast, took it in one hand and idly examined the skin around the nipple. Without looking at him, she said, "Did you see us get into the Cadillac tonight, Sidney? Is that it?"
"Well… yes."
"Were you following us, Sidney?"
"Yes."
"What, Sidney?"
"Yes. I was."
"Following us?"
"Yes."
"To see where we were going, Sidney?"
"Yes."
"Because something's bothering you?"
"Yes."
"If I were to marry you, Sidney, would you still follow me around?"
"I… I don't know. I get the feeling…"
"Would you, Sidney?"
"… that you're lying to me all the time, that something. " He shook his head. "I don't know wh-what, I j-j-just don't know."
"Don't stammer, Sidney," she said, and looked up at him.
"I j-j-just…"
"The man in the Cadillac was a man named Jerome Courtlandt…"
"I didn't ask you."
"Shut up, Sidney, and listen. He's the man we're arranging the European trip for, and he was heading for the office when he happened to spot us, and he asked Ruth if he could drop us off someplace, because it was so bitter cold, and she said, Yes certainly, and he drove us to the restaurant. Now that's what happened with Mr. Jerome Courtlandt."
"I didn't ask."
"No, you just sneaked around and followed me from work."
"Because…"
"Because you don't trust me."
"I t-trust you, Chickie. It's just…"
"Oh my," Chickie said, "how could I possibly marry a man who doesn't trust me?"
"I trust you, I do."
"Who doesn't care about me at all…"
"I care about you."
"Who follows me around…"
"I'm sorry, Chickie."
"Do Eddie Cantor," she said.
"No, I…"
"Do it."
"It's… undignified," he mumbled.
"Do it."
"… and silly."
"Do it."
He hesitated. "If…" he started, and then stopped.
"That's it," she said.
"If you knew…"
"Go on, honey."
"If you knew Susie. M
"Go on, baby, go on."
"I can't. I fell…"
"Do it, Sidney."
"If you knew Susie," he sang, "like I know Susie… oh, oh, oh, what a girl…"
"Roll your eyes. You're not rolling your eyes."
"There's none so classy," he sang, and then raised his hands, the elbows bent, and began hopping from one foot to the other in a sliding sideward motion, rolling his eyes, his voice suddenly going higher in imitation of Cantor, "as this fair lassie," rolling his eyes and hopping back and forth, mouth pouting, eyes rolling, "oh, oh, holy Moses, what a chassis…"
"That's it, baby," Chickie said, and began giggling.
"If you knew Susie," he sang, his voice stronger now, "like I…"
"Yes, yes," she said, giggling louder.
"… know Susie…"
"You're marvelous," she said, "wonderful!"
"… oh, oh, oh, what a girl!" he sang, and then abruptly turned toward the bed, and dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist and fiercely pressed his face to her naked belly.
"Yes," Chickie whispered. "Yes, baby, that's it."
Thursday
12
Every Thursday, Driscoll's mother would fuss and fret in the bedroom before coming out to breakfast. When she finally appeared, shawl draped over her shoulders even on the hottest summer days, she would complain bitterly about the simple fact of Thursday, letting everyone in the house know that she felt it was a mistake to get out of bed on Thursday, that the safest place to be on that hoodoo jinx of a day was under the covers with the blinds drawn and the windows closed and the doors locked. He wondered if she still complained about Thursdays to her new husband the Danish furniture man Mr. Gerald Furst. He could remember his mother making a joke only once in his life. His father had been playing the piano, and his mother was listening with her head cocked to one side, a slightly pained expression on her face. "In the old days," she said at last, "when your father played piano, the ladies used to stay home in droves." Uncle Benny immediately topped her by looking up from his drink and saying, "Even worse, Irene, the ladies often drove home in stays." He never learned why his mother so detested Thursdays. His father died on a Wednesday.
Now, as he stepped into the courtroom, he knew something of his mother's superstitious fear, and wished he were being called to testify on any day but this. He had hoped for sunshine, had listened to the forecast the night before with rising anticipation: warmer temperatures, they had said, the possibility of clear skies. The temperature had indeed climbed into the low forties during the night, and the thermometer reading had been forty-eight when he and Ebie left the Astor that morning. But the sky was heavily overcast, and he was afraid now that it would begin raining sometime during the day, turning the snow underfoot to slush, casting a pall over the city — Thursday, a hoodoo jinx of a day.