Michael grinned, pleased that it was sunny, and that the redheaded woman had finally kissed him, and that there was a fat little woman with an absurd sweet behind mourning over faded geraniums on the other side of the sunny back gardens.
He washed, dousing himself with cold water, then walked barefoot, in his pyjamas, across the carpeted floor through the living-room, to the front door. He opened it and picked up the Times.
In the polite print of the Times, which always reminded Michael of the speeches of elderly and successful corporation lawyers, the Russians were dying but holding on the front page, there were new fires along the French coast from English bombs, Egypt was reeling, somebody had discovered a new way to make rubber in seven minutes, three ships had sunk quietly into the Atlantic Ocean, the Mayor had come out against meat, married men could be expected to be called up into the Army, the Japanese were in a slight lull.
Michael closed the door. He sank on to the couch and turned away from the blood on the Volga, the drowned men of the Atlantic, the sand-blinded troops of Egypt, from the rumours of rubber and the flames in France and the restrictions on roast beef, to the sporting page. The Dodgers, steadfast – though weary and full of error – had passed through another day of war and thousandedged death, and despite some nervousness down the middle of the diamond and an attack of wildness in the eighth, had won in Pittsburgh.
The phone rang and he went into the bedroom and picked it up.
"There's a glass of orange juice in the icebox." Peggy's voice came over the wire. "I thought you'd like to know."
"Thanks," Michael said. "I noticed some dust on the books on the right-hand shelves, though, Miss Freemantle…"
"Nuts," Peggy said.
"There's a lot in what you say," Michael said, delighted with Peggy's voice, familiar and full of pleasure over the phone.
"Are they working you hard?"
"The flesh off the bones. You were taking it mighty easy when I left. Flat on your back, with all the clothes thrown off. I kissed you goodbye."
"What a nice girl you are. What did I do?"
There was a little pause and then, for a moment, Peggy's voice was sober and a little troubled. "You put your hands over your face and you mumbled, 'I won't, I won't.'…"
The little half-smile that had been playing about Michael's face died. He rubbed his ear thoughtfully. "The sleeping man betrays us unashamed morning after morning."
"You sounded frightened," Peggy said. "It frightened me."
"'I won't, I won't,'" Michael said reflectively. "I don't know what it was I wouldn't… Anyway, I'm not frightened now. The morning's bright, the Dodgers won, my girl prepared orange juice'for me…"
"What're you going to do today?" Peggy asked.
"Nothing much. Wander around. Look at the sky. Look at the girls. Drink a little. Make my will…"
"Oh, shut up!" Peggy's voice was serious.
"Sorry," Michael said.
"Are you glad I called you?" Peggy's voice was consciously a little coquettish now.
"Well, I suppose there was no way of avoiding it," Michael said languidly.
"You know what you can do."
"Peggy!"
She laughed. "Do I get dinner tonight?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I get dinner. Wear your grey suit."
"It's practically worn through at the elbows."
"Wear your grey suit. I like it."
"O.K."
"What'll I wear?" For the first moment in the conversation Peggy's voice became uncertain, little-girlish, worried. Michael laughed softly.
"What're you laughing at?" Peggy asked harshly.
"Say it again. Say 'What'll I wear?' again for me."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me laugh and remember you and makes me sorry and tender for you and all women living to hear you say, 'What'll I wear?'"
"My," said Peggy, very pleased, "you got out of the right side of the bed this morning, didn't you?"
"I certainly did."
"What'll I wear? The blue print or the beige suit with the cream blouse or the…"
"The blue print."
"It's so old."
"The blue print."
"All right. Hair up or down?"
"Down."
"But…"
"Down!"
"God," Peggy said. "I'll look like something you dragged out of the Harlem River. Aren't you afraid some of your friends'll see us?"
"I'll take my chances," Michael said.
"And don't drink too much…"
"Now, Peggy…"
"You'll be going around saying goodbye to all your good friends…"
"Peggy, on my life…"
"They'll pour you into the Army from a bucket. Be careful."
"I'll be careful."
"Glad I called?" Peggy sounded again like a flirtatious girl languishing behind a fan at the high-school prom.
"I'm glad you called," Michael said.
"That's all I wanted to know. Drink your orange juice." And she hung up.
Michael put the receiver down slowly, smiling, remembering Peggy. He sat for a moment, thinking of her.
Then he got up and went out through the living-room to the kitchen. He put some water on to boil and measured out three heaped spoonsful of coffee, his nose grateful for the ever-beautiful smell of the coffee imprisoned in the tin. He drank his orange-juice in long cold gulps, between getting out the bacon and the eggs and cutting the bread for toast. He hummed wordlessly as he prepared his breakfast. He liked getting his own breakfasts, private in his single house, with his pyjamas flapping about him and the floor cool under his bare feet. He put five strips of bacon in a large pan and set a small flame going under it.
The telephone rang in the bedroom.
"Oh, hell," Michael said. He moved the bacon pan off the flame and walked through the living-room, noticing, almost unconsciously, as he did again and again, what a pleasant room it was, with its high ceilings and broad windows facing each other, and the books piled into the bookcases all over the room, with the faded spectrum of the publishers' linen covers making a subtle and lovely pattern, wavering along the walls. Michael picked up the phone and said, "Hello."
"Hollywood, California, calling Mr Whitacre."
"This is Mr Whitacre."
Then Laura's voice, across the continent, still deep and artful.
"Michael? Michael, darling…"
Michael sighed a little. "Hello, Laura."
"It's seven o'clock in the morning in California," Laura said, a little accusingly. "I got up at seven in the morning to speak to you."
"Thanks," Michael said.
"I heard about it," Laura said vehemently. "I think it's awful. Making you a private."
Michael grinned. "It's not so awful. There're a lot of people in the same boat."
"Almost everybody out here," Laura said, "is at least a major."
"I know," Michael said. "Maybe that's a good reason for being a private."
"Stop being so damned special!" Laura snapped. "You'll never be able to make it. I know what your stomach's like."
"My stomach," Michael said gravely, "will just have to join the Army with the rest of me."
"You'll be sorry the day after tomorrow."
"Probably." Michael nodded.
"You'll be in the guardhouse in two days," Laura said loudly.