get right again?” Pete asks.
“I don’t know. What do the doctors say?”
“I can’t understand them. There’s something wrong with me, but I can’t make any sense out of the things they say. Some young doctor—the one who lifted her wrist and said, ‘What have we got here?’ to her—talked to me all the time we were together about placem, placento, placenta research.”
“You’ve got to be nuts to want to help nuts,” Charles says.
“I think she senses that we all feel that way, so she has no incentive to recover,” Pete says.
“Pete, before you even knew her she’d dance in the kitchen naked with the broom at night.”
“She danced?” Pete says. “Yeah?”
“She seemed to be dancing. I don’t know. I was so spooked that I got out of there fast.”
“She senses that. She senses that we avoid her, and has no incentive to get well.”
“Pete, you ought to try to forget all this for a while if you can and go back to the house and get some sleep.”
“I’m in the house. It’s a mess. I’ve got to clean it up, but I don’t know where to start. She threw stuff all over.”
“Go to sleep and forget it.”
“I’m too loaded to go to sleep. Listen, I want you to know that I didn’t mean what I said before. I’m sorry to have said it.”
“That’s okay,” Charles says.
“I wish I had a boy of my own. I think we’d be more alike than you and me. What you were saying.”
“Yeah,” Charles says.
“But it’s too late now,” Pete says.
“Yeah,” Charles says. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
He hangs up and feels very guilty that he didn’t offer to go over and help him clean up the mess. In the living room, he looks at Laura’s picture. He is afraid the sun will fade it, so he puts it back in the drawer. He has looked at the picture for so long that when he sees Laura he’s always surprised. Laura, for him, is always wearing a checked shirt, her hair always looks a particular way, she always has a deadpan expression. Not that he sees her much any more to be surprised. He looks down at an open magazine on the rug. “How Seriously Do You Take Yourself?” is printed in big black letters. Susan has taken the quiz, checking off the answers with small, neat checks. Susan doesn’t have fits of depression; she doesn’t buy expensive camera equipment only to discover she prefers skiing. He looks away. At the vase, where the picture was.
“That was Mark on the phone earlier,” Susan says. “He’s probably going to drive down and get me.”
“Mark,” Charles says. “Mark the doctor.”
Her hair is wrapped in a turban. She is wearing slacks and a white shirt. She looks very clean and fresh. She will finish college, marry Mark, have children. Maybe even have an A-frame to vacation in. In Vermont. Or upstate New York. There might even be a maid to cook lamb chops.
“Go, go, go you bastard!” Sam hollers in the bedroom.
“Doesn’t he know if he’s coming or not?” Charles asks.
“He’s coming if he thinks the car will hold out.”
“What’s wrong with his car?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Then how is he going to decide if it’ll hold out?”
She shrugs. “It’s an old Cadillac,” she says. “It eats gas, but it usually holds out. Except that there’s one hose that always breaks.”
“Wooooooo!” Sam shouts.
“I guess he’s not dying,” Charles says.
Susan unwraps the towel from her head, throws her hair forward and begins brushing it.
“Should we call the hospital later? To see how she is when the tranquilizers wear off?”
“She’ll be nuts. That’s how she’ll be.”
“If Mark makes it, he’ll be here tomorrow. We can all go then.”
“No,” Charles says. “Anyway—I’ve got to go back to work.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about work.”
“It was sure a swell vacation,” Charles says. “I can’t complain.”
“Do you get another vacation in the summer?”
“I just have two days left. Except for sick
“I don’t know. What do the doctors say?”
“I can’t understand them. There’s something wrong with me, but I can’t make any sense out of the things they say. Some young doctor—the one who lifted her wrist and said, ‘What have we got here?’ to her—talked to me all the time we were together about placem, placento, placenta research.”
“You’ve got to be nuts to want to help nuts,” Charles says.
“I think she senses that we all feel that way, so she has no incentive to recover,” Pete says.
“Pete, before you even knew her she’d dance in the kitchen naked with the broom at night.”
“She danced?” Pete says. “Yeah?”
“She seemed to be dancing. I don’t know. I was so spooked that I got out of there fast.”
“She senses that. She senses that we avoid her, and has no incentive to get well.”
“Pete, you ought to try to forget all this for a while if you can and go back to the house and get some sleep.”
“I’m in the house. It’s a mess. I’ve got to clean it up, but I don’t know where to start. She threw stuff all over.”
“Go to sleep and forget it.”
“I’m too loaded to go to sleep. Listen, I want you to know that I didn’t mean what I said before. I’m sorry to have said it.”
“That’s okay,” Charles says.
“I wish I had a boy of my own. I think we’d be more alike than you and me. What you were saying.”
“Yeah,” Charles says.
“But it’s too late now,” Pete says.
“Yeah,” Charles says. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
He hangs up and feels very guilty that he didn’t offer to go over and help him clean up the mess. In the living room, he looks at Laura’s picture. He is afraid the sun will fade it, so he puts it back in the drawer. He has looked at the picture for so long that when he sees Laura he’s always surprised. Laura, for him, is always wearing a checked shirt, her hair always looks a particular way, she always has a deadpan expression. Not that he sees her much any more to be surprised. He looks down at an open magazine on the rug. “How Seriously Do You Take Yourself?” is printed in big black letters. Susan has taken the quiz, checking off the answers with small, neat checks. Susan doesn’t have fits of depression; she doesn’t buy expensive camera equipment only to discover she prefers skiing. He looks away. At the vase, where the picture was.
“That was Mark on the phone earlier,” Susan says. “He’s probably going to drive down and get me.”
“Mark,” Charles says. “Mark the doctor.”
Her hair is wrapped in a turban. She is wearing slacks and a white shirt. She looks very clean and fresh. She will finish college, marry Mark, have children. Maybe even have an A-frame to vacation in. In Vermont. Or upstate New York. There might even be a maid to cook lamb chops.
“Go, go, go you bastard!” Sam hollers in the bedroom.
“Doesn’t he know if he’s coming or not?” Charles asks.
“He’s coming if he thinks the car will hold out.”
“What’s wrong with his car?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Then how is he going to decide if it’ll hold out?”
She shrugs. “It’s an old Cadillac,” she says. “It eats gas, but it usually holds out. Except that there’s one hose that always breaks.”
“Wooooooo!” Sam shouts.
“I guess he’s not dying,” Charles says.
Susan unwraps the towel from her head, throws her hair forward and begins brushing it.
“Should we call the hospital later? To see how she is when the tranquilizers wear off?”
“She’ll be nuts. That’s how she’ll be.”
“If Mark makes it, he’ll be here tomorrow. We can all go then.”
“No,” Charles says. “Anyway—I’ve got to go back to work.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about work.”
“It was sure a swell vacation,” Charles says. “I can’t complain.”
“Do you get another vacation in the summer?”
“I just have two days left. Except for sick
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