it?" He found that he was speaking in a low, secretive tone.
"It's about Greg. Remember that . . . distasteful matter we discussed last week?"
"Distasteful matter? What are you talking about?" Then he remembered. "Oh, that. Yes, I remember." "Well, I'm afraid it's come up again."
"Marilyn, I thought we decided to forget it. The boy is nearly ten years old; things aren't the same as when you and I were that age."
"That's very progressive, Brett, but he's my son, too, and if you're unwilling to give me some constructive ideasâ"
"My idea is to let it alone, Marilyn. It's normal, it's natural, it's probably even healthy, for Christ's sake."
"You're swearing at me, Brett."
Brett sighed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. I've got one of those damned migraines." It was close to the truth.
Marilyn chuckled shortly, derisively. "Only women get migraines, Brett. What you've really got is a severe case of apathy. But that's all right. You want me to handle this situation, I'll handle it."
"Marilyn, can you at least wait until I get home?" "It's unwise to put off punishment, Brett."
"Marilyn, for God's sake!"
"Good-bye, Brett." She hung up.
Brett slowly replaced the receiver, swiveled his chair around.
Andrea Ferraro was gone.
"Miss Ferraro?" He stood, went to the office door, opened it. "Miss Ferraro?" Nothing. He turned, glanced about his office as if this were a game of hide-and-seek she was playing with him. He felt suddenly foolish.
He pushed the door closed, felt the ache beginning again at the back of his head. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
He went to his desk chair and sat very slowly. The migraine was fully upon him now.
Â
"H oney?" Tim called. He opened the door to his studio, stuck his head out. "Honey, I've got to go down to Hahn's. I didn't realize how low I was on developer." He waited There was no reply from below. "Honey?" Again nothing. He opened the door, stepped onto the landing, and leaned slightly forward over the wooden railing. He glanced around the living room. "Honey?" He saw that she was in the wheelchair, her back to him, in front of the window that faced the Courtney house. "Christine?" Still nothing.
He took the elevator to the first floor, hesitated a moment, and stepped out. "Christine?" he repeated. But she remained motionless, silent.
Was she asleep? he wondered. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he repeated, moving slowly toward her. "I'm nearly out of developer." He put his bands on her shoulders, leaned over. "Christine?"
Silence.
He moved to the side of the chair, put one knee to the floor, his hand on her hand on the armrest.
Placid , he thought. Her face was placid, at rest. She could be asleep, and yet her eyes were open. Not wide, but as if she were thinking something pleasant, as if remembering something that gave her pleasure.
He put gentle pressure on her hand. "Christine?" He stood, grasped her left shoulder, shook it. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he said again, almost desperately. "I'm nearly out of developer."
Silence.
He lowered his head. "Christine," he murmured.
He stood abruptly, crossed to the phone, picked up the address book. What was her doctor's name? After a moment it came to him: Tichell . He found the name and number, set the book down, picked up the receiver, started to dial.
"How's it going?" he heard.
He froze for a second. Then, being sure his body blocked Christine's view, he quietly replaced the receiver. He turned. She had craned her head around and was looking questioningly at him.
"Going?" he said.
"Up there." She raised her head to indicate his studio.
"I've got to go to Hahn's." It was a forced monotone. "I'm nearly out of developer."
She maneuvered her chair around to face him and smiled perplexedly. "What's wrong, Tim?"
"I hate to run out of materials right in the middle of a project, that's all. Especially when I'm on a deadline." He went into the foyer, got his coat, shrugged into it. "I won't be long, just a few minutes."
"Who were
"It's about Greg. Remember that . . . distasteful matter we discussed last week?"
"Distasteful matter? What are you talking about?" Then he remembered. "Oh, that. Yes, I remember." "Well, I'm afraid it's come up again."
"Marilyn, I thought we decided to forget it. The boy is nearly ten years old; things aren't the same as when you and I were that age."
"That's very progressive, Brett, but he's my son, too, and if you're unwilling to give me some constructive ideasâ"
"My idea is to let it alone, Marilyn. It's normal, it's natural, it's probably even healthy, for Christ's sake."
"You're swearing at me, Brett."
Brett sighed. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. I've got one of those damned migraines." It was close to the truth.
Marilyn chuckled shortly, derisively. "Only women get migraines, Brett. What you've really got is a severe case of apathy. But that's all right. You want me to handle this situation, I'll handle it."
"Marilyn, can you at least wait until I get home?" "It's unwise to put off punishment, Brett."
"Marilyn, for God's sake!"
"Good-bye, Brett." She hung up.
Brett slowly replaced the receiver, swiveled his chair around.
Andrea Ferraro was gone.
"Miss Ferraro?" He stood, went to the office door, opened it. "Miss Ferraro?" Nothing. He turned, glanced about his office as if this were a game of hide-and-seek she was playing with him. He felt suddenly foolish.
He pushed the door closed, felt the ache beginning again at the back of his head. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
He went to his desk chair and sat very slowly. The migraine was fully upon him now.
Â
"H oney?" Tim called. He opened the door to his studio, stuck his head out. "Honey, I've got to go down to Hahn's. I didn't realize how low I was on developer." He waited There was no reply from below. "Honey?" Again nothing. He opened the door, stepped onto the landing, and leaned slightly forward over the wooden railing. He glanced around the living room. "Honey?" He saw that she was in the wheelchair, her back to him, in front of the window that faced the Courtney house. "Christine?" Still nothing.
He took the elevator to the first floor, hesitated a moment, and stepped out. "Christine?" he repeated. But she remained motionless, silent.
Was she asleep? he wondered. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he repeated, moving slowly toward her. "I'm nearly out of developer." He put his bands on her shoulders, leaned over. "Christine?"
Silence.
He moved to the side of the chair, put one knee to the floor, his hand on her hand on the armrest.
Placid , he thought. Her face was placid, at rest. She could be asleep, and yet her eyes were open. Not wide, but as if she were thinking something pleasant, as if remembering something that gave her pleasure.
He put gentle pressure on her hand. "Christine?" He stood, grasped her left shoulder, shook it. "I've got to go to Hahn's," he said again, almost desperately. "I'm nearly out of developer."
Silence.
He lowered his head. "Christine," he murmured.
He stood abruptly, crossed to the phone, picked up the address book. What was her doctor's name? After a moment it came to him: Tichell . He found the name and number, set the book down, picked up the receiver, started to dial.
"How's it going?" he heard.
He froze for a second. Then, being sure his body blocked Christine's view, he quietly replaced the receiver. He turned. She had craned her head around and was looking questioningly at him.
"Going?" he said.
"Up there." She raised her head to indicate his studio.
"I've got to go to Hahn's." It was a forced monotone. "I'm nearly out of developer."
She maneuvered her chair around to face him and smiled perplexedly. "What's wrong, Tim?"
"I hate to run out of materials right in the middle of a project, that's all. Especially when I'm on a deadline." He went into the foyer, got his coat, shrugged into it. "I won't be long, just a few minutes."
"Who were
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