talking about convertible debentures. There was a machine at the graveside to lower the casket, untouched by human hands, and off in the distance a couple of old men stood leaning on their shovels. They reminded me of the vultures in cartoons about people lost in the desert.
Anyway, the same limousines drove everybody back from Long Island and deposited us in front of the mortuary, and I managed to walk over to Caitlin Vandiver and her husband. I introduced myself and asked if I could talk with her about Melanie.
I got a smile from her and a blank look from him, and I also got the impression that she smiled a lot and he looked blank a lot. “So you were a friend of Melanie’s,” she said. “Well, I don’t know that I can tell you very much about her. I don’t even know what you would want to hear. We were never terribly close, you know. I’m several years older than she was.”
She paused there, as if waiting for me to express doubt. She didn’t look old by any means. I’m a terrible judge of age, but I probably would have guessed her at thirty and I knew she was six years older than that.
“There are a couple of things,” I said. “I think it would be worthwhile for us to talk.”
Her smile froze up a little, and at the same time her eyes showed a little more than the polite interest they had held earlier. “I see,” she said.
I don’t know what she saw.
“Well,” she said, the smile in full force again, “actually I could use some company. I hate to eat alone and funerals always make me ravenous. Is that shameful, do you think?”
I mumbled some dumb thing or other. Caitlin turned to her husband and put her cheek out for a kiss. He picked up his cue and kissed her.
“Greg always plays squash on Fridays,” she said. “Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night, you understand.” The two of them said pleasant things to one another and Vandiver strode athletically down the street, arms swinging at his sides. I decided that he probably jogged every morning.
“He jogs every morning before breakfast,” Caitlin said. It unsettles me when people do this. I feel as though I must have a window in the middle of my forehead. “He’s keeping himself in marvelous physical condition.”
“That’s very good,” I said.
“Oh, it’s simply great. I wonder what he thinks he’s saving himself for. I haven’t had a really decent orgasm with him since the first time I saw him in his jogging suit. Romance tiptoed out the window. Shall we eat? I know a charming little French place near here. Never crowded, quite intimate, and they make a decent martini; and if I don’t have one soon—fellow me lad—I shall positively die.”
And, after we had walked about a block, she said, “I pick the wrong words sometimes, damn it. I shouldn’t have said that about positively dying. Too many people are doing it lately. Robin, Jessica, now Melanie. It’s scary, isn’t it?”
She took my hand as she said this and gave it a squeeze. I gave a squeeze back, and I think she smiled when I did.
We went to restaurant on 48th Street. It was empty, except for a couple of serious drinkers at the bar and a couple at a side table trying to stretch out lunch so that it reached all the way to quitting time. We walked through to the garden in the rear and took a table.
“Tanqueray martini, straight up, bone dry, twist,” she told the waiter. It sounded as though she’d had practice with the line. To me she said, “Do you drink? I know so many people your age don’t these days.”
I’d been trying to decide between a Coke and a beer, but that did it. “Double Irish whiskey,” I said. “With water back.”
Her eyebrows went up, but just a little. She told me I was to call her Caitlin. I was not certain that I was going to do this, and supposed I would sidestep the issue by not calling her anything at all. She seemed to think Harrison was my first name and wanted to know what my last name was, and I told her,
Anyway, the same limousines drove everybody back from Long Island and deposited us in front of the mortuary, and I managed to walk over to Caitlin Vandiver and her husband. I introduced myself and asked if I could talk with her about Melanie.
I got a smile from her and a blank look from him, and I also got the impression that she smiled a lot and he looked blank a lot. “So you were a friend of Melanie’s,” she said. “Well, I don’t know that I can tell you very much about her. I don’t even know what you would want to hear. We were never terribly close, you know. I’m several years older than she was.”
She paused there, as if waiting for me to express doubt. She didn’t look old by any means. I’m a terrible judge of age, but I probably would have guessed her at thirty and I knew she was six years older than that.
“There are a couple of things,” I said. “I think it would be worthwhile for us to talk.”
Her smile froze up a little, and at the same time her eyes showed a little more than the polite interest they had held earlier. “I see,” she said.
I don’t know what she saw.
“Well,” she said, the smile in full force again, “actually I could use some company. I hate to eat alone and funerals always make me ravenous. Is that shameful, do you think?”
I mumbled some dumb thing or other. Caitlin turned to her husband and put her cheek out for a kiss. He picked up his cue and kissed her.
“Greg always plays squash on Fridays,” she said. “Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom of night, you understand.” The two of them said pleasant things to one another and Vandiver strode athletically down the street, arms swinging at his sides. I decided that he probably jogged every morning.
“He jogs every morning before breakfast,” Caitlin said. It unsettles me when people do this. I feel as though I must have a window in the middle of my forehead. “He’s keeping himself in marvelous physical condition.”
“That’s very good,” I said.
“Oh, it’s simply great. I wonder what he thinks he’s saving himself for. I haven’t had a really decent orgasm with him since the first time I saw him in his jogging suit. Romance tiptoed out the window. Shall we eat? I know a charming little French place near here. Never crowded, quite intimate, and they make a decent martini; and if I don’t have one soon—fellow me lad—I shall positively die.”
And, after we had walked about a block, she said, “I pick the wrong words sometimes, damn it. I shouldn’t have said that about positively dying. Too many people are doing it lately. Robin, Jessica, now Melanie. It’s scary, isn’t it?”
She took my hand as she said this and gave it a squeeze. I gave a squeeze back, and I think she smiled when I did.
We went to restaurant on 48th Street. It was empty, except for a couple of serious drinkers at the bar and a couple at a side table trying to stretch out lunch so that it reached all the way to quitting time. We walked through to the garden in the rear and took a table.
“Tanqueray martini, straight up, bone dry, twist,” she told the waiter. It sounded as though she’d had practice with the line. To me she said, “Do you drink? I know so many people your age don’t these days.”
I’d been trying to decide between a Coke and a beer, but that did it. “Double Irish whiskey,” I said. “With water back.”
Her eyebrows went up, but just a little. She told me I was to call her Caitlin. I was not certain that I was going to do this, and supposed I would sidestep the issue by not calling her anything at all. She seemed to think Harrison was my first name and wanted to know what my last name was, and I told her,
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