dream, I’m afraid,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper, “but I’m perfectly all right, as you can see.” He managed a fragile smile for the frightened man.
“Nobody else in there?” he demanded. “You know if you sneak someone extra into your room without paying for him, you’re breaking the law. You’d be defrauding an innkeeper.” He raised himself up with more assurance, almost certain no one had been hurt or killed in the room. Straining to look taller than his five-foot five-inch frame would allow, he tried to look directly into Trina’s eyes.
“Would you take someone along on your honeymoon?” Jon demanded, stepping around his wife to openly confront the intruder.
The manager faced him, relaxing his exaggerated height when he realized he could never match Jon’s stature, even on his tiptoes. “I’ve been in this business twelve years and I’ve seen it all. Nothing would surprise me anymore.
I guess I’ll take your word for the fact nothing out of the ordinary has happened.” Glancing slyly at Trina, he suggested, “Try to hold it down, will you? People are trying to sleep, you know. Goodnight.”
While closing the door, Jon heard the man mutter under his breath, “Goddamn perverts with their weird fucking sex.”
Despite his aching head, Jon turned to face Trina who also heard the comment, and burst into laughter. “Would you like to rejoin me in bed, ya goddamn pervert ?” he had asked, imitating the manager’s voice.
“Sure, why not?” Trina had answered.
Slowing to a stop for a traffic light, she beamed when she finished reliving the episode. They laughed every time they thought of the incident. She looked at her watch. Three-sixteen. A few more blocks and she would be home.
Jon would be all right, she told herself. He had to be. “Dear God,” she whispered softly as she drove, “let everything be fine with Jon.”
A sudden gloom clouded her face. Neither she nor Jon went to church anymore. At best, she had been a lukewarm Catholic when they met. Jon had allowed his faith to be destroyed when his mother died. “How could a loving God allow my mother to die?” he had asked bitterly the night they discussed religion. As far as Trina was concerned, she would go to church if Jon wanted to but as long as he felt the way he did, she wouldn’t push the subject. After all, she enjoyed those lazy Sunday mornings in bed with coffee, the Tribune, and Jon.
She suddenly caught herself praying again. “Please let everything be fine with Jon and I’ll start going to church again.” A small tear formed, swelling in size until it dropped down her cheek. Was it all right to bargain with God?
Jon hurled his eraser across the room. “Sonofabitch,” he cried. “Who the hell said I could write, much less type? That has to be the millionth mistake today.”
He had lost track of time during several daydreaming episodes since Trina left that morning. The same sheet of paper he had inserted at seven forty-five remained in the typewriter, a dozen smudged lines gracing it. He looked at the clock on the mantel. Three-fifteen? It couldn’t be. In a few minutes Trina would be home and he had all of a half page finished. What the hell could be wrong with him? He couldn’t write! Why waste his time? Why waste Trina’s money? She had such faith in him. Could he disappoint her without at least trying?
Standing, he stormed around the room in a circle again—the same path he traversed whenever his mind got cramped, as he put it. After making two rounds, he sat down heavily to stare at the paper.
“By God, I’ll finish this page before Trina gets home—or else.” He began again, immediately making a mistake. “Aw, shit!” he screamed. Without looking, he groped for the eraser but couldn’t find it. Then he recalled throwing it across the room. Pivoting on the chair, he abruptly froze in position, his eyes open but blind to his surroundings, as the minute hand on the clock moved
“Nobody else in there?” he demanded. “You know if you sneak someone extra into your room without paying for him, you’re breaking the law. You’d be defrauding an innkeeper.” He raised himself up with more assurance, almost certain no one had been hurt or killed in the room. Straining to look taller than his five-foot five-inch frame would allow, he tried to look directly into Trina’s eyes.
“Would you take someone along on your honeymoon?” Jon demanded, stepping around his wife to openly confront the intruder.
The manager faced him, relaxing his exaggerated height when he realized he could never match Jon’s stature, even on his tiptoes. “I’ve been in this business twelve years and I’ve seen it all. Nothing would surprise me anymore.
I guess I’ll take your word for the fact nothing out of the ordinary has happened.” Glancing slyly at Trina, he suggested, “Try to hold it down, will you? People are trying to sleep, you know. Goodnight.”
While closing the door, Jon heard the man mutter under his breath, “Goddamn perverts with their weird fucking sex.”
Despite his aching head, Jon turned to face Trina who also heard the comment, and burst into laughter. “Would you like to rejoin me in bed, ya goddamn pervert ?” he had asked, imitating the manager’s voice.
“Sure, why not?” Trina had answered.
Slowing to a stop for a traffic light, she beamed when she finished reliving the episode. They laughed every time they thought of the incident. She looked at her watch. Three-sixteen. A few more blocks and she would be home.
Jon would be all right, she told herself. He had to be. “Dear God,” she whispered softly as she drove, “let everything be fine with Jon.”
A sudden gloom clouded her face. Neither she nor Jon went to church anymore. At best, she had been a lukewarm Catholic when they met. Jon had allowed his faith to be destroyed when his mother died. “How could a loving God allow my mother to die?” he had asked bitterly the night they discussed religion. As far as Trina was concerned, she would go to church if Jon wanted to but as long as he felt the way he did, she wouldn’t push the subject. After all, she enjoyed those lazy Sunday mornings in bed with coffee, the Tribune, and Jon.
She suddenly caught herself praying again. “Please let everything be fine with Jon and I’ll start going to church again.” A small tear formed, swelling in size until it dropped down her cheek. Was it all right to bargain with God?
Jon hurled his eraser across the room. “Sonofabitch,” he cried. “Who the hell said I could write, much less type? That has to be the millionth mistake today.”
He had lost track of time during several daydreaming episodes since Trina left that morning. The same sheet of paper he had inserted at seven forty-five remained in the typewriter, a dozen smudged lines gracing it. He looked at the clock on the mantel. Three-fifteen? It couldn’t be. In a few minutes Trina would be home and he had all of a half page finished. What the hell could be wrong with him? He couldn’t write! Why waste his time? Why waste Trina’s money? She had such faith in him. Could he disappoint her without at least trying?
Standing, he stormed around the room in a circle again—the same path he traversed whenever his mind got cramped, as he put it. After making two rounds, he sat down heavily to stare at the paper.
“By God, I’ll finish this page before Trina gets home—or else.” He began again, immediately making a mistake. “Aw, shit!” he screamed. Without looking, he groped for the eraser but couldn’t find it. Then he recalled throwing it across the room. Pivoting on the chair, he abruptly froze in position, his eyes open but blind to his surroundings, as the minute hand on the clock moved
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