They gave her a last squeeze and ran for the kitchen.
“Hello, Thanos.”
“Come in and sit down.” He gestured toward the den.
She selected her easy chair, the antique one she had had recovered — when was it? — a year ago? He sat in his looking at her. She had aged ten years. Bags under her eyes, lines along her cheeks, sagging pouches under her jaw.
“Why’d you come back?”
Elizabeth gestured vaguely and looked at the wall.
“You didn’t stay at the clinic. They called and said you walked away.”
She took a deep breath and let her eyes rest on him.
“Still on the dope, I see.”
“I thought you’d be glad to see me. The girls are.”
“You can stay for dinner if you want. Then you leave.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Don’t give me that shit! You’re doing this to yourself. Look at yourself, for Christ’s sake. You look like hell.”
She looked down at her clothes, as if seeing them for the first time.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, take a shower, wash your hair, and put on clean clothes. Dinner will be in about forty-five minutes.”
She gathered herself and stood. She nodded several times without looking at him, then opened the door and walked out. Liarakos followed her to the foot of the stairs and stood there for three or four minutes, then he slowly climbed the staircase. He stood in the bedroom until he heard the shower running, then left.
He had said she would stay for dinner on impulse; now he regretted it. Could he manage his emotions for two hours? He loved her and he hated her, both at the same time. The irresistible tidal currents tore at him.
Hatred. In her foolish weakness and selfishness she abandoned everything for that white powder. Abandoned the children, him—yes, him—was it hatred or rage?
Love. Yes. If there were no love there would be no hatred. Just sorrow.
And then he was outside himself, staring at this man from an angle above, watching him walk, seeing the meaningless gestures and the twitching of the facial muscles, knowing the pain and knowing too that somehow none of it really mattered.
It didn’t, you know. Didn’t matter. The kids would grow into adults and make their own lives and forget, and he would keep getting up every day and shaving and going to the office. Age would creep over him, then decrepitude, then, finally, the nursing home and the grave. None of it mattered. In the long run none of it mattered a damn.
Yet there he was, standing there imprisoned on this tired old earth, being ripped apart.
“Lisa, tell your mother what you’ve been doing in school.”
The child prattled about mice and gerbils and short stories. Elizabeth kept her eyes on her plate, on her food, concentrated on using the knife and fork at the proper time, on handling the utensils with the proper hands. She patted her lips with the napkin and carefully replaced it in her lap.
“Susanna, your turn.”
The child was deep into a convoluted tale of fish and frogs when Elizabeth scooted her chair back a moment and murmured, “Excuse me.” She bent down for her purse.
Liarakos snagged it. “I’ll watch it.”
His wife stared at him, her face registering no emotion. Then it came. A snarl which began with a twitching of her upper lip and spread across her face.
Liarakos flipped her the purse. She caught it and rose from her chair and went along the hall toward the downstairs half bath.
“You girls finish your dinner,” he said.
“Is Mommy going to stay?”
“No.”
They accepted that and ate in silence. They finished and he shooed them upstairs. Minutes later Elizabeth came back to the dining room, gliding carefully, her face composed.
He sat in silence watching her eat. She picked at the food, then finally placed the fork on the plate and didn’t pick it up again.
“Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”
“No.”
“Could you give me a ride or some money for taxi fare?”
“You can get wherever you’re going the same way you got here. Good-bye.”
“Thanos, I—”
“Good-bye, Elizabeth. Take your purse and go. Now! Don’t come back.”
“Thanks for—”
“If you don’t go right now, I’ll physically eject you.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then rose. After half a minute he heard the front door open, then click shut.
Harrison Ronald looked at his watch for the forty-fifth time. Two hours and three minutes until he had to be there.
He examined his face in the broken mirror over the cigarette-scarred dresser — would they read it in his face? He could see it written all over his kisser, plain as a newspaper headline. Guilt. That was what was there. Old-fashioned grade-A guilt, the kind your momma always gave you, shot through with cholesterol and saturated fats and plenty of salt and sugar. I did it! I’m the snitch! I’m the stoolie! Whitey sent this chocolate Tom to tattle on all you shit-shoveling niggers and pack your black asses off up the river.
If Freeman asked him the question his face would shatter like frozen glass.
Two hours and two minutes.
Coffee? He had had three cups this evening. That was more than enough caffeine. No booze. No beer. No alcohol, period.
God, he was going to get stinking drunk tomorrow night. He was going to go on a world-class bender and stay yellow-puke drunk for three whole days.
If he was still alive tomorrow night, that is.
Two hours and one minute. A hundred-and-twenty-one minutes.
He picked up the automatic and ran his fingers over it. He would take it with him tonight. In ten months he had never carried a gun, but tonight … Maybe it would give him an edge, since they wouldn’t expect it.
Two hours flat.
Captain Jake Grafton was feeling expansive. He had had a delightful day with his daughter, Amy, and had finished most of his Christmas shopping. Callie had gone by herself to buy Amy’s presents and presumably one for Jake. He had glimpsed her sorting through his clothes this morning, probably checking sizes. This evening the captain smiled genially and let his eyes rest happily on Amy Carol, then on Callie at the other end of the dinner table. Two beautiful women. He was a very lucky man.
The captain’s gaze moved down the table to Toad Tarkington, who was paying no attention to anyone except his wife, Rita Moravia, who sat beside him. Tomorrow Toad would probably have a crick in his neck. Rita was also the object of Amy’s undivided attention. Amy adored the navy test pilot, but this evening as she regarded Rita a curious expression played about her features.
When Callie’s gaze met Jake’s, he nodded toward Amy and knitted his brows into a question. His wife shook her head almost imperceptibly and looked away.
One of those female things, Jake Grafton concluded, that men are not expected to understand or concern themselves about. He sighed.
Across the table from the Tarkingtons sat Jack Yocke and his date, Tish Samuels. Tish was a lovely person, with a pleasant smile and kind word for everyone. In several ways she reminded Jake of his wife, like the way she held her head, the way she listened, her thoughtful comments…. Tish also listened intently to Rita as she finished telling a flying story. When Rita concluded, Tish smiled and glanced at Yocke.
Whether the reporter knew it or not, the woman was obviously in love with him. Yocke seemed mellow, more relaxed than he had been the first time he was at the Graftons’. Or perhaps it was just Jake’s mood that made him seem that way.
As usual when he was relaxed, Jake Grafton said little. He nibbled his food and took sparing sips of wine and let the conversation flow over him.