versions from out of somewhere, and horse around with pauses and commas and expression on words, and that jazz. Give me the news.”
“All right, the gory facts then.” She stared at the long ash on his cheroot and lighted her own smoke.
“Seems Carrie and Joel had a mock wedding at her house,” she began.
“Well,” he was impatient again at her pauses.
“They claimed they didn’t want to go to the trouble and expense of a divorce this time, and in any case Joel’s present girl friend would not cooperate at any level, it seems, though later she may be agreeable to a settlement… Everybody who has ever half-known either Joel or Carrie was there. Mostly South Side folks, of course. And it was a costume affair.” Mrs. Bickle turned down the corners of her mouth to show what she thought of that. Bernie’s face was stony, but he managed to inquire:
“You don’t know who the bride came as, by chance?”
“Curt didn’t mention how any of them came,” Zoe replied. “But they were all pretty seedy costumes, and a good many only made a stab at dressing like anybody. There was a pillow fight early in the evening, and a good many of Carrie’s American antiques and objets d’art got busted, and Harold Winternitz’s Oriental carpet burned badly. The usual great jazz pianists, that U.S. Senator Carrie always keeps in tow, an old opera star or two, the university people, the young fry and children and finally the ceremony, with ring, ‘preacher,’wedding march, and the rest.After that it was just like it always is at your house on Saturday nights.” Zoe stopped. “Don’t look like that,” she couldn’t help saying to him.
“How?”
“All ashes and thorns,” she told him. “It had to end, Bernie,” she went on as consoler. “Be glad, really, that it ended here for you instead of there. It would have been terrible for you had it occurred while you were in Chicago, believe me. You really would have been hurt. It’s terrible here, too, I realize, but distance dissolves some of the nastiness, not the main part, granted, but some.”
“Jesus, you have philosophy,” Bernie said.
“Bernie,” Mrs.Bickle proposed, “supposing I invited you out to a nice big restaurant with carpets and chandeliers and tall drinks and food. Wouldn’t that make you feel more like living? I’ve got a message for you from Princeton Keith.”
“Don’t have the clothes or the appetite,” he replied.
“You will,” she said in a soft if sarcastic voice.
Looking at her studiously, Bernie brightened and went on: “Would you mind stepping over here and doing a little something for me in the line of a favor?”
She nodded.
“Bend down now,” he said when she had approached him, “bend down and cover my face with nice warm cool kisses. I know you won’t feel it when you give them to me, but fasten a few on just the same.”
“Well, poor little hard-up you,” Mrs. Bickle bent down and pecked him a couple of times. He took her hand in his.
“Did big old Keith tell you about him? ” he moved his head in the direction of Cabot Wright’s room, below.
She thought a moment before she said, “Is it really him, then?”
“No question about that,” Bernie mumbled. “The rapist is down there all alright… Go take a peek, why don’t you. It’s in the clothes closet, and you just lift up the loose board on the floor.”
“I take your word for it.”
“If I get to feeling better, I’ve got to show him to you,” Bernie spoke now almost too low to be heard. “You know you look good here, Zoe,” he still held her hand. “You look almost gorgeous.” He kissed her fingers.
“You are homesick as well as light-headed,” she sighed, but she bent down again to kiss him, and he held his mouth to hers.
Freeing herself, she heard him comment: “Just to think when I accomplished my mission at last and found my rapist, the lady who thought it up in the first place had just given the whole thing up for
“All right, the gory facts then.” She stared at the long ash on his cheroot and lighted her own smoke.
“Seems Carrie and Joel had a mock wedding at her house,” she began.
“Well,” he was impatient again at her pauses.
“They claimed they didn’t want to go to the trouble and expense of a divorce this time, and in any case Joel’s present girl friend would not cooperate at any level, it seems, though later she may be agreeable to a settlement… Everybody who has ever half-known either Joel or Carrie was there. Mostly South Side folks, of course. And it was a costume affair.” Mrs. Bickle turned down the corners of her mouth to show what she thought of that. Bernie’s face was stony, but he managed to inquire:
“You don’t know who the bride came as, by chance?”
“Curt didn’t mention how any of them came,” Zoe replied. “But they were all pretty seedy costumes, and a good many only made a stab at dressing like anybody. There was a pillow fight early in the evening, and a good many of Carrie’s American antiques and objets d’art got busted, and Harold Winternitz’s Oriental carpet burned badly. The usual great jazz pianists, that U.S. Senator Carrie always keeps in tow, an old opera star or two, the university people, the young fry and children and finally the ceremony, with ring, ‘preacher,’wedding march, and the rest.After that it was just like it always is at your house on Saturday nights.” Zoe stopped. “Don’t look like that,” she couldn’t help saying to him.
“How?”
“All ashes and thorns,” she told him. “It had to end, Bernie,” she went on as consoler. “Be glad, really, that it ended here for you instead of there. It would have been terrible for you had it occurred while you were in Chicago, believe me. You really would have been hurt. It’s terrible here, too, I realize, but distance dissolves some of the nastiness, not the main part, granted, but some.”
“Jesus, you have philosophy,” Bernie said.
“Bernie,” Mrs.Bickle proposed, “supposing I invited you out to a nice big restaurant with carpets and chandeliers and tall drinks and food. Wouldn’t that make you feel more like living? I’ve got a message for you from Princeton Keith.”
“Don’t have the clothes or the appetite,” he replied.
“You will,” she said in a soft if sarcastic voice.
Looking at her studiously, Bernie brightened and went on: “Would you mind stepping over here and doing a little something for me in the line of a favor?”
She nodded.
“Bend down now,” he said when she had approached him, “bend down and cover my face with nice warm cool kisses. I know you won’t feel it when you give them to me, but fasten a few on just the same.”
“Well, poor little hard-up you,” Mrs. Bickle bent down and pecked him a couple of times. He took her hand in his.
“Did big old Keith tell you about him? ” he moved his head in the direction of Cabot Wright’s room, below.
She thought a moment before she said, “Is it really him, then?”
“No question about that,” Bernie mumbled. “The rapist is down there all alright… Go take a peek, why don’t you. It’s in the clothes closet, and you just lift up the loose board on the floor.”
“I take your word for it.”
“If I get to feeling better, I’ve got to show him to you,” Bernie spoke now almost too low to be heard. “You know you look good here, Zoe,” he still held her hand. “You look almost gorgeous.” He kissed her fingers.
“You are homesick as well as light-headed,” she sighed, but she bent down again to kiss him, and he held his mouth to hers.
Freeing herself, she heard him comment: “Just to think when I accomplished my mission at last and found my rapist, the lady who thought it up in the first place had just given the whole thing up for
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