something different, nothing can happen.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “No, I’m not waiting, exactly. Put it this way: I know how to be content with what I am and what I’m doing. Either Tony will knock down that barrier he’s built, or he won’t. Either way I know what’s going to happen, and it’s good.”
“That wall—why don’t you take a pickax and beat it down?”
She flashed the older woman a smile, “He’d defend it. Men get very fond of the things they defend, especially when they find themselves defending something stupid.”
Bitty shook out the second sheet. “And don’t you have any of his kind of trouble—wondering
why
you love him?”
Sue Martin laughed. “Wouldn’t we live in a funny world if we had to understand everything that was real, or it wouldn’t exist? It’s always good to know
why
. It isn’t always necessary. Tony’ll find that out one day.” She sobered. “Or he won’t. Hand me a pillowslip.”
They finished their task in silence. Bitty bundled up the old linen and trudged out. Sue Martin stood looking after her. “I hope she wasn’t disappointed,” she murmured, and, “I don’t think so … and what did I mean by that?”
VI
One morning Mary Haunt opened her eyes and refused to believe them. For a moment she lay still looking at the window numbly; there was something wrong with it, and a wrong feeling about the whole room. Then she identified it: there was sunlight streaming in and down through the venetian blind where no sunlight should be at her rising time. She snatched her watch off the night table and squinted at it, and moaned. She reared up in bed and peered at the alarm clock, then turned and punched furiously at the pillow. She bounded out of bed, struggled into her yellow robe, and flew out of the room with her bare feet slapping angrily down the long corridor. Sam Bittelman was sitting at the kitchen table peering at the morning paper over the tops of his black rimmed reading-glasses. Bitty was at the sink. “What ’m I, the forgotten man or something?” Mary Haunt demanded harshly.
Sam put down his paper and only then began to remove his gaze from it. “M-m-m? Oh, good morning, gal.” Bitty went on with her business.
“Good
nothing!
Don’t you know what time it is?”
“Sure do.”
“What’s the big fat idea leaving me to sleep like this? You know I got to get to work in the morning.”
“Who called you four times?” said Bitty without turning around or raising her voice. “Who went in and shook you, and got told
get out of my room
for it?”
Mary Haunt poised between pace and pace, between syllables. Now that Bitty mentioned it, she
did
half-remember a vague hammering somewhere, a hand on her shoulder … but that was a dream, or the middle of the night or—or had she really chased the old lady out?
“Arrgh,”
she growled disgustedly. She stamped out into the foyer and snatched up the phone. She dialed. “Get me Muller,” she snapped at the voice that answered.
“Muller,” said the phone.
“Mary Haunt here. I’m sick today. I’m not coming in.”
“So with this phone call,” said the telephone, “I’ll notice.”
“Why you lousy Heine, without me you couldn’t run a yo-yo, let alone a radio station!” she shouted, but she had hung up before she started to shout.
She padded back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Got coffee?”
Bitty, still with her back turned, nodded in the appropriate direction and said, “On the stove,” but Sam folded his paper and got up. He went to the stove, touched the pot briefly with the back of his hand, picking up a cup and saucer on the way. “You’ll want milk.”
“You know better than that,” she said, arching her lean body. While she poured herself a cup, Sam sat down at the other end of the table. He leaned his weight on his elbows, his forearms and worn hands flat on the table. Something like the almost-silent whisper from a high-speed fan made
“That wall—why don’t you take a pickax and beat it down?”
She flashed the older woman a smile, “He’d defend it. Men get very fond of the things they defend, especially when they find themselves defending something stupid.”
Bitty shook out the second sheet. “And don’t you have any of his kind of trouble—wondering
why
you love him?”
Sue Martin laughed. “Wouldn’t we live in a funny world if we had to understand everything that was real, or it wouldn’t exist? It’s always good to know
why
. It isn’t always necessary. Tony’ll find that out one day.” She sobered. “Or he won’t. Hand me a pillowslip.”
They finished their task in silence. Bitty bundled up the old linen and trudged out. Sue Martin stood looking after her. “I hope she wasn’t disappointed,” she murmured, and, “I don’t think so … and what did I mean by that?”
VI
One morning Mary Haunt opened her eyes and refused to believe them. For a moment she lay still looking at the window numbly; there was something wrong with it, and a wrong feeling about the whole room. Then she identified it: there was sunlight streaming in and down through the venetian blind where no sunlight should be at her rising time. She snatched her watch off the night table and squinted at it, and moaned. She reared up in bed and peered at the alarm clock, then turned and punched furiously at the pillow. She bounded out of bed, struggled into her yellow robe, and flew out of the room with her bare feet slapping angrily down the long corridor. Sam Bittelman was sitting at the kitchen table peering at the morning paper over the tops of his black rimmed reading-glasses. Bitty was at the sink. “What ’m I, the forgotten man or something?” Mary Haunt demanded harshly.
Sam put down his paper and only then began to remove his gaze from it. “M-m-m? Oh, good morning, gal.” Bitty went on with her business.
“Good
nothing!
Don’t you know what time it is?”
“Sure do.”
“What’s the big fat idea leaving me to sleep like this? You know I got to get to work in the morning.”
“Who called you four times?” said Bitty without turning around or raising her voice. “Who went in and shook you, and got told
get out of my room
for it?”
Mary Haunt poised between pace and pace, between syllables. Now that Bitty mentioned it, she
did
half-remember a vague hammering somewhere, a hand on her shoulder … but that was a dream, or the middle of the night or—or had she really chased the old lady out?
“Arrgh,”
she growled disgustedly. She stamped out into the foyer and snatched up the phone. She dialed. “Get me Muller,” she snapped at the voice that answered.
“Muller,” said the phone.
“Mary Haunt here. I’m sick today. I’m not coming in.”
“So with this phone call,” said the telephone, “I’ll notice.”
“Why you lousy Heine, without me you couldn’t run a yo-yo, let alone a radio station!” she shouted, but she had hung up before she started to shout.
She padded back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Got coffee?”
Bitty, still with her back turned, nodded in the appropriate direction and said, “On the stove,” but Sam folded his paper and got up. He went to the stove, touched the pot briefly with the back of his hand, picking up a cup and saucer on the way. “You’ll want milk.”
“You know better than that,” she said, arching her lean body. While she poured herself a cup, Sam sat down at the other end of the table. He leaned his weight on his elbows, his forearms and worn hands flat on the table. Something like the almost-silent whisper from a high-speed fan made
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