Recoil by Jim Thompson Page B

to go to the bathroom? It’s right there.”
    “Thanks, no,” I said.
    “Now, you look here,” she said, shaking the brush of hair. “The door’s closed and we’ve got those other rooms between us and the hallway. And, anyway, no one ever comes up here during the day. Good gosh, if I’d known you were such a scaredy-cat—”
    “I thought you knew,” I said. “Or I wouldn’t have come today. It might make a difference in your wanting to know me.”
    “Know what? What am I supposed to know?”
    “I’ve just been released from Sandstone,” I said. “Doc got my parole for me.”
    “Oh,” she said, softly.
    “Fifteen years. Bank robbery.”
    “I’m awfully sorry, Pat. How old were you?”
    “Almost eighteen.”
    “Almost eighteen,” she said. “You didn’t hurt anyone, did you?”
    “I didn’t even get any money,” I said, and I told her a little about it, and, oddly enough, I found myself laughing.
    She giggled delightedly. She rocked forward on her knees, and burrowed her head against my shoulder.
    I put my coffee cup on the floor beside hers and slid my arm around her. She lifted her head and looked at me.
    “I’ve—I’ve never known anyone quite like you,” I said.
    “Of course not,” she said promptly. “You never will either.”
    “I’m in a rather peculiar position, Madeline. I can’t say and do things I’d like to, that a man normally would.”
    “Yes,” she said. “You are.”
    “Well—” I was somewhat taken back by her answer, “—we seem to be in agreement.”
    “I wonder if it had occurred to you that I might be in a pretty peculiar position myself?”
    “It had,” I said, “and it bothered me a great deal.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I like you. To use an understatement. To give you a fuller explanation, I’d have to go into the details of what I think are the peculiarities of your position.”
    “There will now be a brief pause,” she said, “while Madame Flournoy goes into a trance and interprets Professor Cosgrove’s message.”
    “I think you know what I mean,” I said.
    “Quiet,” she said. And, turning, she lay down and put her head in my lap.
    I bent my head and kissed her. She gave me two quick kisses in return before moving her mouth away. There was something about them, something so warm and confiding and innocent, that I wanted to thrust my hands into my pockets and keep them there; to sit on them, if necessary. And, of course, I didn’t.
    She opened her eyes and looked up at me. She raised one small finger and put it on my lip and moved it up and down. She lowered the hand and let it lie on mine.
    “What are you doing in—in all this anyway?” I said.
    “What are you?”
    “That’s hardly the same thing.”
    “Isn’t it?” she said. “You did an impulsive, seemingly easy thing—something that seemed to promise a lot—when you were too young to judge the consequences. So did I.”
    I lighted a cigarette, tossing the match into my saucer. She pursed her lips and crinkled her eyes at me, and I lowered the cigarette while she took a long deep puff.
    “Well?” she said, puffing the smoke out in rings.
    “It’s hard for me to imagine,” I said, “that you’d put up with anything over any very long period that you didn’t want to.”
    “You put up with Sandstone, didn’t you?”
    She took another puff from my cigarette, and bobbed her head emphatically. “When I first saw you on the capitol steps yesterday—oh, yes, I did see you—I thought, there, that’s it—”
    “I thought the same thing.”
    “I know you did, honey.” She patted my cheek. “And I made up my mind to bump into you on the way back, or—or drop something, or fall down in front of you. Anything to get to know you. And then I found you were with Doc and it made me kind of sick inside. But still…”
    “I know,” I said.
    “You must have had some pretty strong friends to set Doc in motion. If they could get him to swing the parole they can probably