“Where are you?”
“In the bedroom …”
Oh, great
, Susan thought.
No way
, she decided.
“Well, I’m
here,
” she said sweetly. “Aren’t you going to come out and see me …?”
She stifled her shock as he came staggering into the living room clutching a fifth of vodka, looking and smelling like he’d
just crawled out of a sewer.
“My God, what’s happened to you?” Susan demanded.
He didn’t answer, but just stood swaying in his rumpled clothes, his hair dangling in greasy ringlets down his forehead. She
watched him stumble over to a wall, lean his back against it, and then slide down to the carpet. He stayed there, with his
head sagging, his knees drawn up, and the bottle on his lap, like some back alley derelict.
“Just how drunk are you?” Susan demanded.
He shrugged, looking up at her with bleary eyes. “Not very. I’ve been trying, but every time I get close I get nauseous and
have to stop …”
She couldn’t help laughing. “But you did drink all that vodka?”
His grin was horrendous. “Second bottle …” he said proudly. “First was gin …”
“Well, I wouldn’t brag about it.” Susan scolded, her smile fading. “From the looks of you it’s clear you can’t hold your liquor
…”
He looked away, shaking his head. “Can’t hold my booze,” he muttered thickly. “And can’t hold my woman …”
Oh, shit, here we go
, Susan thought.
He’s going to start blubbering about Linda Forrester
.
“Okay,” Susan began briskly, thinking to head him off, wrap this up, and get the hell out of his apartment and back to work.
“I guess it’s clear you had a little tiff with Linda. These things happen. No doubt she’s just as upset as you are…”
Fat chance of that
, she thought. It would be like expecting an alley cat—and she
did
mean
alley
cat—to be remorseful while it was licking the canary’s feathers off its claws…
“Don, I’m sure that if you just telephoned Linda you two could make up, and everything would be all right and…”
“We’re through—” Don cut her off. “I caught her with—”
“Yes?” she asked. He’d paused abruptly, and now he was looking at her so strangely. “What are you trying to tell me?” She
knelt beside him on the carpet.
“I—I caught her with another man!”
“I’m sorry.”
And I’m not in the least bit surprised
—
“I went to see her last night, and I caught her with him … I—don’t know who he was …”
“Oh, Don,” she sighed, taking his hand. “I’m really so sorry for you.”
“Yes,” he murmured, eyeing her. “I think you really are … and after I treated you so shabbily…” He looked wistful. “But then
you
know
what it feels like to lose someone …”
“You mean my husband, I suppose?” Susan asked quietly. When Don nodded she said, “Well, yes. I suppose I do …”
“How did you get over it?”
“Get over it?” she echoed. “It’s been ten years since I lost Blaize, but I still …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It
helps to know that he died doing what he wanted to do, for a good cause. He’d struggled for so long to be an RAF fighter pilot,
and God knows the war he fought was just and right … It also helps to know that he died a hero, and that my husband lives
on in my son … I think it was knowing that I had to carry on for the sake of Robbie that kept me from crumbling to pieces
… But you asked me how did I
get over
my loss, and so I have to tell you that if the loss is genuine, you never
do
gt over it—”
She could feel herself getting all unsettled inside, so she clamped the lid on her memories, shook herself, and then said
brusquely, “But drinking yourself sick isn’t going to help anything.” She reached over and took away the vodka. “I think you
should take a shower, eat something, and then just go to sleep. I know it sounds trite, but you really will feel much better
in the morning—” She began to
“In the bedroom …”
Oh, great
, Susan thought.
No way
, she decided.
“Well, I’m
here,
” she said sweetly. “Aren’t you going to come out and see me …?”
She stifled her shock as he came staggering into the living room clutching a fifth of vodka, looking and smelling like he’d
just crawled out of a sewer.
“My God, what’s happened to you?” Susan demanded.
He didn’t answer, but just stood swaying in his rumpled clothes, his hair dangling in greasy ringlets down his forehead. She
watched him stumble over to a wall, lean his back against it, and then slide down to the carpet. He stayed there, with his
head sagging, his knees drawn up, and the bottle on his lap, like some back alley derelict.
“Just how drunk are you?” Susan demanded.
He shrugged, looking up at her with bleary eyes. “Not very. I’ve been trying, but every time I get close I get nauseous and
have to stop …”
She couldn’t help laughing. “But you did drink all that vodka?”
His grin was horrendous. “Second bottle …” he said proudly. “First was gin …”
“Well, I wouldn’t brag about it.” Susan scolded, her smile fading. “From the looks of you it’s clear you can’t hold your liquor
…”
He looked away, shaking his head. “Can’t hold my booze,” he muttered thickly. “And can’t hold my woman …”
Oh, shit, here we go
, Susan thought.
He’s going to start blubbering about Linda Forrester
.
“Okay,” Susan began briskly, thinking to head him off, wrap this up, and get the hell out of his apartment and back to work.
“I guess it’s clear you had a little tiff with Linda. These things happen. No doubt she’s just as upset as you are…”
Fat chance of that
, she thought. It would be like expecting an alley cat—and she
did
mean
alley
cat—to be remorseful while it was licking the canary’s feathers off its claws…
“Don, I’m sure that if you just telephoned Linda you two could make up, and everything would be all right and…”
“We’re through—” Don cut her off. “I caught her with—”
“Yes?” she asked. He’d paused abruptly, and now he was looking at her so strangely. “What are you trying to tell me?” She
knelt beside him on the carpet.
“I—I caught her with another man!”
“I’m sorry.”
And I’m not in the least bit surprised
—
“I went to see her last night, and I caught her with him … I—don’t know who he was …”
“Oh, Don,” she sighed, taking his hand. “I’m really so sorry for you.”
“Yes,” he murmured, eyeing her. “I think you really are … and after I treated you so shabbily…” He looked wistful. “But then
you
know
what it feels like to lose someone …”
“You mean my husband, I suppose?” Susan asked quietly. When Don nodded she said, “Well, yes. I suppose I do …”
“How did you get over it?”
“Get over it?” she echoed. “It’s been ten years since I lost Blaize, but I still …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It
helps to know that he died doing what he wanted to do, for a good cause. He’d struggled for so long to be an RAF fighter pilot,
and God knows the war he fought was just and right … It also helps to know that he died a hero, and that my husband lives
on in my son … I think it was knowing that I had to carry on for the sake of Robbie that kept me from crumbling to pieces
… But you asked me how did I
get over
my loss, and so I have to tell you that if the loss is genuine, you never
do
gt over it—”
She could feel herself getting all unsettled inside, so she clamped the lid on her memories, shook herself, and then said
brusquely, “But drinking yourself sick isn’t going to help anything.” She reached over and took away the vodka. “I think you
should take a shower, eat something, and then just go to sleep. I know it sounds trite, but you really will feel much better
in the morning—” She began to
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