“It was so unexpected, for one thing. Ron hadn’t called me, hadn’t communicated with me in any way, for years. He had no reason to. At the time of the divorce I asked for nothing from him but Barbara, and of course I was given sole custody of her, in view of his behavior with that terrible woman — what was she, a stenographer or something? Common, anyway.”
“She was a copywriter for an advertising agency.”
Dorothy raised her brows. “That’s common enough, surely? At any rate, I was totally unprepared for any call from Ron. I’d almost forgotten he existed. He never had a very strong personality, he’s not the kind of person one remembers. My father, for instance, died when I was barely ten and yet I can recall him so much more distinctly than I can Ron.”
“What was the call about?”
“I’d like to know, really. His words were distorted, confused.”
“What was the matter with him?”
“Plain and simple intoxication, that’s what I’ve since decided. He was roaring drunk, maudlin drunk. You know Ron — he never could hold his liquor like a gentleman.”
It seemed to Harry that this was the dozenth time in the past twenty-four hours that someone had said to him, “You know Ron.” Yes, he knew Ron, better than anyone did, and one of the things he knew very well was that when Ron was drinking, before he reached the point of confusion he always got sick and sobered up. If he had a weak head he also had a weak stomach, and the latter canceled out the former.
“He seemed terribly contrite,” Dorothy went on. “He apologized for the harm he’d done to me and said he was going to straighten everything out, pay all his debts, I think that was the way he put it. He asked about Barbara. I told him he had no right even to ask. I told him Barbara was being brought up to believe that her father was dead.”
“That was pretty... cruel, wasn’t it, Dorothy?”
She smiled. “Wasn’t it, though? But I thought while he was paying his debts, I’d pay one of mine. I owed him a little cruelty. All those times when I was so ill I could scarcely move and he went off partying — that was the year I had my liver trouble. The doctors says I’m not over it to this day. Just last week I had to have a bromsulfalein — that’s the dye test for liver functioning. More needles. I tell you I’m getting heartily sick of needles. I’m little better than a pincushion. And what good does it all do anyway. I haven’t much longer. They all know it, they simply refuse to admit...”
“Dorothy.”
Her name, spoken sharply, almost contemptuously, shocked her into a brief silence. She looked at him with her mouth half open, as if he had ordered her to be quiet. But she could not be quiet for long; an order was what she gave, not took, and a minute later she was off again.
“I know you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, that I oughtn’t go on like this about my illness. But what else have I to talk about? What ever happens to me — shut up in this hideous house with an old woman and a pair of incompetent nurses who can’t even take a temperature properly? It’s always normal — that’s what they tell me — it’s normal, they say, when I know perfectly well that I’m running a fever, when my head feels as if it’s burning up. And they’re careful, oh, they’re very careful, not to leave the thermometer around so I can take my own temperature. They hide it.”
Harry was disturbed by what was to him this new development in Dorothy. In the past her egocentricity and her symptoms had been just as extreme, but now they were underlined by delusions of persecution. No longer did the princess dwell at ease in her ivory tower: she was imprisoned in a hideous house at the mercy of an old woman and bumbling nurses who lied and hid thermometers.
She continued to talk, her words coming faster and faster, and it seemed to Harry that she was incapable of stopping voluntarily and must be helped. He wondered how he could draw her attention away from herself without antagonizing her to the point where she would faint or go into hysterics or use any of the other tricks which by this time came as naturally to her as breathing.
He said, “Ron disappeared last night.”
She stopped in the middle of a sentence, and her right hand, on the point of making a gesture, dropped quietly into her lap. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I tried.”,
“Disappeared, that could mean anything.”
“In this case it means that he failed to keep an appointment, one that he was looking forward to, and that he hasn’t communicated with anyone since.”
“Not even his — that woman?”
“Her name is Esther,” Harry said with a trace of irritability.
“You needn’t bite my head off. I have quite enough trouble as it...”
“Esther has not heard from him.”
The words seemed to please her. “Well, well. That’s very interesting. Have you a cigarette, Harry?”
“I thought you didn’t...”
“I can smoke if I want to. I want to.”
He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. The smoke curled up from her mouth in a quiet smile.
“Very interesting,” she repeated. “Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?”
“No.”
“He told me on the telephone that he was going away on a long trip. Well, he did. Without taking her along.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s walked out on her, exactly the way he did on me.”
For the first time since he’d known her Dorothy looked contented. Her eyes were serene, her mouth had lost its bitter lines, and when she spoke again her voice was almost dreamy. “I wonder how she feels now. How funny life is sometimes, a mammoth hoax. I was the butt once, now it’s her turn.”
“Dorothy, it’s not...”
“Who is the other woman, this time?”
“There is no other woman,” Harry said brusquely.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m as sure of that as I am of anything. In this life nobody gets a written guarantee of anything, but you do get eyes and ears and the ability to form conclusions. I’ve formed mine.”
“Tell me just one thing, Harry.”
“I’ll try.”
“When Ron first became interested in this woman, this Esther, did he tell you? Did he confide in you?”
“No.” It was a lie, but Harry knew the truth would have destroyed whatever relationship he had with her.
The truth was that Harry had been the first to hear about Esther. To this day he remembered Ron’s initial reference to her: “I met a girl at the Temples’ last night. She’s very attractive, and smart as a whip. I know I sound like a heel but I’d like to see her again. What do you think I should do?” And Harry had said in reply all the things dictated by his conscience and common sense: Go easy, forget her, you’ve got a wife and child, and so on. Ron sincerely agreed with everything Harry said. Equally sincerely, he called Esther the next day, took her to lunch and fell in love.
“Well, you see?” Dorothy said with satisfaction. “If Ron didn’t tell you about Esther, why should he have told you about this new one?”
“There is no new one.”
“Wait and see.”
“There isn’t much else I can do.”
“I know what I’d do. Want to hear?”
“All right.”
“I’d get the police after him, and when they caught him, I’d make him pay and pay and pay.”
I’ll bet you would, Harry thought. He felt suddenly too weary to continue talking.
In contrast, Dorothy appeared more and more lively and cheerful, as if she drew some secret nourishment from the woes and afflictions of other people. This was a real banquet: Ron disappeared, Esther deserted, Harry grieving.
She eyed Harry greedily as if he were holding back some fancy tidbit she wanted for dessert. “Poor Esther. I suppose she’s taking it very badly. Well, that’s life. Ye shall reap what ye sow. You’ll stay for tea, of course, Harry?”