“Did Rufus stay at your place last night?”
“Rufus?” He looked frightened. “No. Why?”
“His sister called up to find out where he was.”
They stared at each other and his face made her frightened all over again.
“Where did he go?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I figured he’d gone to Harlem. He just disappeared.”
“Vivaldo, she’s coming here this afternoon.”
“Who is?”
“His sister, Ida. I told her that I left him with you and that you would be here this afternoon.”
“But I don’t know where he is. I was in the back, talking to Jane — and he said he was going to the head or something — and he never came back.” He stared at her, then at the window. “I wonder where he went.”
“Maybe,” she said, “he met a friend.”
He did not trouble to respond to this. “He should have known I wasn’t just going to dump him. He could have stayed at my place, I ended up at Jane’s place, anyway.”
Cass watched him as he banged his cigarette out in the ashtray.
“I have never,” she said, mildly, “understood what Jane wanted from you. Or, for that matter, what you wanted from her.”
He examined his fingernails, they were jagged and in mourning. “I don’t know. I just wanted a girl, I guess, someone to share those long winter evenings.”
“But she’s so much older than you are.” She picked up his empty glass. “She’s older than I am.”
“That hasn’t got anything to do with it,” he said, sullenly. “Anyway, I wanted a girl who — sort of knows the score.”
She considered him. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh, “that girl certainly knows how to keep score.”
“I needed a woman,” Vivaldo said, “she needed a man. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said. “If that’s really what both of you needed.”
“What do you think I was doing?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. Only, I’ve told you, you always seem to get involved with impossible women — whores, nymphomaniacs, drunks — and I think you do it in order to protect yourself — from anything serious. Permanent.”
He sighed, smiled. “Hell, I just want to be friends.”
She laughed. “Oh, Vivaldo.”
“You and I are friends,” he said.
“Well — yes. But I’ve always been the wife of a friend of yours. So you never thought of me—”
“Sexually,” he said. Then he grinned. “Don’t be so sure.”
She flushed, at once annoyed and pleased. “I’m not talking about your fantasies.”
“I’ve always admired you,” he said soberly, “and envied Richard.”
“Well,” she said, “you’d better get over that.”
He said nothing. She rattled the ice around in his empty glass.
“Well,” he said, “what am I going to do with it? I’m not a monk, I’m tired of running uptown and paying for it—’’
“For it’s uptown that you run,” she said, with a smile. “What a good American you are.”
This angered him. “I haven’t said they were any better than white chicks.” Then he laughed. “Maybe I better cut the damn thing off.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Really. You should hear yourself.”
“You’re telling me someone’s going to come along who needs it? Needs me?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” she said, shortly, “that you don’t already know.” They heard Richard’s study door open. “I’ll fix you another drink; you might as well get good and drunk.” She bumped into Richard in the hall. He was carrying the manuscript. “Do you want a drink now?”
“Love one,” he said, and walked into the living room. From the kitchen she heard their voices, a little too loud, a little too friendly. When she came back into the living room, Vivaldo was leafing through the manuscript. Richard stood by the window.
“Just read it,” he was saying, “don’t go thinking about Dostoievski and all that. It’s just a book — a pretty good book.”
She handed Richard his drink. “It’s a very good book,” she said. She put Vivaldo’s drink on the table beside him. She was surprised and yet not surprised to realize that she was worried about the effect on Richard of Vivaldo’s opinion.
“The next book, though, will be better,” Richard said. “And very different.”
Vivaldo put the manuscript down and sipped his drink. “Well,” he said, with a grin, “I’ll read it just as soon as I sober up. Whenever,” he added, grimly, “that may be.”
“And tell me the truth, you hear? You bastard.”
Vivaldo looked at him. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
Years ago, Vivaldo had brought his manuscripts to Richard with almost exactly the same words. She moved away from them both and lit a cigarette. Then she heard the elevator door open and close and she looked at the clock. It was four. She looked at Vivaldo. The bell rang.
“There she is,” said Cass.
She and Vivaldo stared at each other.
“Take it easy,” Richard said. “What’re you looking so tragic about?”
“Richard,” she said, “that must be Rufus’s sister.”
“Well, go let her in. Don’t leave her waiting in the hall.” As he spoke, the bell rang again.
“Oh my God,” said Vivaldo, and he stood up, looking very tall and helpless. She put down her drink and went to the door.
The girl who faced her was fairly tall, sturdy, very carefully dressed, and somewhat darker than Rufus. She wore a raincoat, with a hood, and carried an umbrella; and beneath the hood, in the shadows of the hall, the dark eyes in the dark face considered Cass intently. There was a hint of Rufus in the eyes — large, intelligent, wary — and in her smile.
“Cass Silenski?”
Cass put out her hand. “Come in. I do remember you.” She closed the door behind them. “I thought you were one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.”
The girl looked at her and Cass realized, for the first time, that a Negro girl could blush. “Oh, come on, now, Mrs. Silenski—”
“Give me your things. And please call me Cass.”
“Then you call me Ida.”
She put the things away. “Shall I make you a drink?”
“Yes, I think I need one,” Ida said. “I been scouring this city, I don’t know how long, looking for that no-good brother of mine—”
“Vivaldo’s inside,” Cass said, quickly, wishing to say something to prepare the girl but not knowing what to say. “Will you have bourbon or Scotch or rye? and I think we’ve got a little vodka—”
“I’ll have bourbon.” She sounded a little breathless; she followed Cass into the kitchen and stood watching her while she made the drink. Cass handed her the glass and looked into Ida’s eyes. “Vivaldo hasn’t seen him since last night,” she said. Ida’s eyes widened, and she thrust out her lower lip, which trembled slightly. Cass touched her elbow. “Come on in. Try not to worry.” They walked into the living room.
Vivaldo was standing exactly as she had left him, as though he had not moved at all. Richard rose from the hassock; he had been clipping his nails. “This is my husband, Richard,” Cass said, “and you know Vivaldo.”
They shook hands and murmured salutations in a silence that began to stiffen like the beaten white of an egg. They sat down.
“Well!” Ida said, shakily, “it’s been a long time.”
“Over two years,” Richard said. “Rufus let us see you a couple of times and then he hustled you out of sight somewhere. Very wise of him, too.”
Vivaldo said nothing. His eyes, his eyebrows, and his hair looked like so many streaks of charcoal on a dead white surface.