“Celebrate what?”
“I don’t know, I felt so bad before and now everything’s fine again and I feel like celebrating.”
He went ahead to open the door. He was smiling and his step was jaunty.
“By Jove, it’s a glorious night,” Harry said. “Smell that air, will you?”
Turee had little choice. He smelled the air. It carried the scent of wind and water, delusion and betrayal.
Four
The ride back to the lodge began quietly enough. After a brief spurt of conversation Harry climbed over into the back seat, folded himself up and went to sleep.
Turee drove slowly, his mind oppressed by the problem of telling Harry the truth in a way that would cause him a minimum of shock. Pain was inevitable — there was no way of sparing him that — but it might be possible to break his fall and lessen the concussion.
Until tonight Turee had always considered Thelma as something of a birdbrain. He now began to realize how cleverly Thelma had maneuvered him into the role of custodian of the secret. It was like finding himself custodian of a fissionable mass of uranium; if he didn’t get rid of some of it, the whole thing might blow up in his face. The problem, then, was to unload it a little at a time, with due respect for its explosive powers.
“Tell him the truth or give him a story,” Thelma had said, but it was clear that she intended him to tell Harry the truth, not because she felt he could do it in a more kindly and tactful way, but because she wanted to save herself the trouble. Thelma could no longer be bothered with Harry, she had no compunctions about hurting him, no apologies to offer him, no explanation to give him, no intention of ever seeing him again. This final fact seemed somehow more incredible to Turee than any of the others. For three years the Breams had been regarded as a model couple. They did not argue or correct each other in public, take verbal potshots at parties or confide their mates’ failings to friends. Turee had always envied them a little, since he and his wife, Nancy, engaged in frequent and spirited arguments which usually culminated in a series of glib psychological terms: Your Uncle Charles has that same paranoid streak — you’re a cyclic depressive, that’s all — it’s no wonder the kids are going through a manic phase... Instead of throwing ash trays at each other, the Turees, in the modern manner, threw Oedipus complexes, father fixations and compulsive neuroses.
In the back seat Harry began to snore, rather gently and apologetically, as if he expected to be told to turn over and shut up. For some reason the sound exasperated Turee. It was like a sick puppy whimpering in its sleep.
“Harry,” he said sharply.
“Umph,” Harry said, as if he’d been prodded in the stomach by an elbow. “Aaaah. What? What?”
“Wake up.”
“Must have dozed off. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize all the time. It gets on my nerves.”
“Nearly everything does,” Harry said with a patient sigh. “I don’t intend that as a criticism, old boy. Far from it. You’re too high-strung, that’s all. You ought to learn to relax. Say, you remember those orange pills I told you about, the ones that cured the Pope of hiccoughs?”
“They’re quite difficult to forget.”
“I happen to have a few in my pocket. You could take one now and let me drive for a while.”
Turee had as little faith in Harry’s driving as he had in Harry’s ministrations. “Thank you, no. I prefer to remain tense.”
Harry climbed back into the front seat and then, out of a habit that was becoming almost a compulsion, he began to talk of Thelma again, of her rare and various virtues. Harry didn’t claim that all other women were clods, he merely let it be implied.
“... so Thelma took the old man in the house and made him a cup of tea. Thel’s like that, opens her heart to everyone...”
“Harry.”
“... even a total stranger. Then she got in touch with the old man’s daughter-in-law...”
“Harry, I have something to tell you.”
“All right, old boy, I’d practically finished anyway. Go ahead.”
“Don’t expect Ron to be at the lodge when we get there.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think he’s going to show up at all, either at the lodge or any other place he’s likely to run into you.”
“What have I got to do with it?”
“I believe Ron may be trying to avoid you.”
“Avoid me? Why?”
“Because he’s become quite fond of your wife.”
“Why, he’s always been fond of Thelma. They hit it off fine, right from the start.”
“Now they’re hitting it off finer.” Turee took his eyes from the road for an instant to glance at Harry’s face in the dim light from the dashboard. Harry was smiling. “Did you hear me, Harry? Ron’s in love with your wife.”
“That’s Thelma’s story, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let it worry you, there’s nothing to it,” Harry said firmly.
“You seem pretty confident.”
“Listen, Ralph, I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else in the world, but you’re my friend, I can trust you with a secret.”
Turee opened the car window. He had a sensation that he and Harry were stationary and the night was moving past them swiftly, turbulent with secrets. To the right the bay was visible in the reflection of a half moon. The waves nudged each other and winked slyly and whispered new secrets.
“The fact is,” Harry said, “Thelma daydreams. Nothing serious, of course, but once in a while she gets the notion that so-and-so is in love with her. There’s never anything to it. A week later she’s forgotten the whole thing.”
“I see.”
“This time it’s Ron. Once, it was you.”
“Me. Why, for God’s sake, I never even...”
“I know. Thelma imagines things. She can’t help it. She’s got a romantic streak in her nature. It gives her satisfaction to believe that someone is hopelessly in love with her, makes her feel glamorous, I guess.” Harry sighed. “So she thinks Ron is in love with her, that’s what she was upset about? That’s what she told you?”
“She told me that among...”
“Poor Thelma. This daydreaming — well, it’s like the séances she goes to. Thelma doesn’t really believe in them and she hasn’t anybody dead she’d like to communicate with. It’s just she wants to be different, exciting, ah, you know, don’t you, Ralph?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’ve never talked about my wife like this before,” Harry said solemnly. “I hope you won’t think I’m being disloyal.”
“Of course not.”
“The séances, they’re new, a neighbor of ours got her interested. But the daydreaming started when she was a girl and she’s never managed to get over it. It makes up for some of the things that are missing from her life, romance and excitement. I try to provide them but I’m afraid I’m not the type who — put it this way: I sell pills. That’s not very glamorous, I guess. Thelma makes up for it by daydreaming a little.”
Or a lot, Turee added silently. “You don’t think daydreaming can be dangerous?”
“Not to Thelma and me. How could it?”
“A prolonged dream can become mixed up with reality.”
“Now, look here, Ralph, you have this tendency to be critical. I know you mean well, but it’s not always wise. Thelma and I are perfectly happy as we are. If daydreams make up for certain inadequacies in her life...”
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
“All right,” Harry said, with the first sign of irritability he’d shown all evening. “That’s my business. I can contradict myself to hell and gone if I feel like it.”