remember that I like Tommy.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Very much. I’m not in love with him, but I like him.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, of course you couldn’t be expected to.”
“No, that’s true. I guess this is the first time you and I’ve really talked together.”
“It is.” She had her arm across the back of the sofa. She put down her cigarette and crushed it in the tray and picked up her cocktail. She looked away from him as she raised the glass. “As a matter of fact, I never thought we ever would be like this, the two of us, sitting, talking, having a cocktail together.”
“Why?”
“Do you want the truth?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Well, all right. The truth is I never liked you.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” she said. “But I do now.”
Why? Why? Why? He wanted to ask. Why? Why do you like me now? I like you. How I like you! “But you do now,” he repeated.
“Yes. Aren’t you interested in knowing why I like you now after not liking you for such a long time?”
“Of course, but if you want to tell me you will and if you don’t there’s no use my asking.”
“Come here,” she said. He sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “I like the way you smell.”
“Is that why you like me now and didn’t before?”
“Damn before!” She put her hand on his cheek. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Don’t get up. I’ll do it.” She went to one of the two large windows and pulled down the shade. “People across the street.”
He had her with her clothes on. And from that moment on he never loved Emily again.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” she said. “If I’m going to be with child for this we might as well be together all night. If you want to stay?”
“I do, I do.”
“Grand. I’ll have to phone the maid and tell her not to come in early tomorrow. You’ll be out of here before ten, tomorrow I mean, won’t you?”
They had a wildly passionate affair that summer. They would have dinner in little French restaurants, drinking bad whiskey out of small coffee cups. She was sailing in September and the night before she sailed she said to him: “I don’t care if I die now, do you?”
“No. Except I want to live.” All summer he had been doing arithmetic on scratch paper—financial arrangements for getting a divorce from Emily. “Once again, marry me.”
“No, darling. We’d be no good married to each other. Me especially. But this I know, that for the rest of our lives, whenever we see each other, if I look into your eyes and you look into mine, and we see the thing that we see now—nothing can stop us, can it?”
“No. Nothing.”
The next time he saw her was two years later in Paris. In the meantime he had met and lain with ten other women, and Martha was in the White Russian taxi-driver phase. They didn’t even have to give each other up, for there was scarcely recognition, let alone love, when again their eyes met.
It got around that he was on the town, but if some kind friend ever told Emily she never let it make any difference. He was comparatively discreet in that he avoided schemers. Among the women he slept with was an Englishwoman, right out of Burke’s Peerage, who gave him gonorrhea, or stomach ulcers as it was then called. To Emily he confided that in addition to the ulcers he had a hernia, and she accepted that, not sure what a hernia was, but knowing that it was not a topic for dinner-table conversation. She was so incurious that he was able to keep at home the paraphernalia for the treatment of his disease.
Dr. Winchester, by the way, did not buy the marks. An honest broker dissuaded him.
• • •
Liggett addressed his wife: “Are you coming in town tonight or in the morning?”
“Not till Tuesday morning. The girls have a day off tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“One of the kids got diphtheria and they’re fumigating the school,” said Ruth. “Are you staying out?”
“I’d like to. I’d
“Oh, do you?”
“Very much. I’m not in love with him, but I like him.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, of course you couldn’t be expected to.”
“No, that’s true. I guess this is the first time you and I’ve really talked together.”
“It is.” She had her arm across the back of the sofa. She put down her cigarette and crushed it in the tray and picked up her cocktail. She looked away from him as she raised the glass. “As a matter of fact, I never thought we ever would be like this, the two of us, sitting, talking, having a cocktail together.”
“Why?”
“Do you want the truth?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Well, all right. The truth is I never liked you.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” she said. “But I do now.”
Why? Why? Why? He wanted to ask. Why? Why do you like me now? I like you. How I like you! “But you do now,” he repeated.
“Yes. Aren’t you interested in knowing why I like you now after not liking you for such a long time?”
“Of course, but if you want to tell me you will and if you don’t there’s no use my asking.”
“Come here,” she said. He sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand. “I like the way you smell.”
“Is that why you like me now and didn’t before?”
“Damn before!” She put her hand on his cheek. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Don’t get up. I’ll do it.” She went to one of the two large windows and pulled down the shade. “People across the street.”
He had her with her clothes on. And from that moment on he never loved Emily again.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?” she said. “If I’m going to be with child for this we might as well be together all night. If you want to stay?”
“I do, I do.”
“Grand. I’ll have to phone the maid and tell her not to come in early tomorrow. You’ll be out of here before ten, tomorrow I mean, won’t you?”
They had a wildly passionate affair that summer. They would have dinner in little French restaurants, drinking bad whiskey out of small coffee cups. She was sailing in September and the night before she sailed she said to him: “I don’t care if I die now, do you?”
“No. Except I want to live.” All summer he had been doing arithmetic on scratch paper—financial arrangements for getting a divorce from Emily. “Once again, marry me.”
“No, darling. We’d be no good married to each other. Me especially. But this I know, that for the rest of our lives, whenever we see each other, if I look into your eyes and you look into mine, and we see the thing that we see now—nothing can stop us, can it?”
“No. Nothing.”
The next time he saw her was two years later in Paris. In the meantime he had met and lain with ten other women, and Martha was in the White Russian taxi-driver phase. They didn’t even have to give each other up, for there was scarcely recognition, let alone love, when again their eyes met.
It got around that he was on the town, but if some kind friend ever told Emily she never let it make any difference. He was comparatively discreet in that he avoided schemers. Among the women he slept with was an Englishwoman, right out of Burke’s Peerage, who gave him gonorrhea, or stomach ulcers as it was then called. To Emily he confided that in addition to the ulcers he had a hernia, and she accepted that, not sure what a hernia was, but knowing that it was not a topic for dinner-table conversation. She was so incurious that he was able to keep at home the paraphernalia for the treatment of his disease.
Dr. Winchester, by the way, did not buy the marks. An honest broker dissuaded him.
• • •
Liggett addressed his wife: “Are you coming in town tonight or in the morning?”
“Not till Tuesday morning. The girls have a day off tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“One of the kids got diphtheria and they’re fumigating the school,” said Ruth. “Are you staying out?”
“I’d like to. I’d
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