Therefore, she too, was marking time, waiting — for the blow to fall, for the bill to come in. Only after she had paid this bill would she really know what her resources were. And she dreaded this moment, dreaded it — her terror of this moment sometimes made her catch her breath. The terror was not merely that she did not know how she would rebuild her life, or that she feared, as she grew older, coming to despise herself: the terror was that her children would despise her. The rebuilding of her own life might have reduced itself, simply, to moving out of Richard’s house—Richard’s house! how long had she thought of it as Richard’s house? — and getting a job. But holding the love of her children, and helping them to grow from boys into men — this was a different matter.
The cab driver was singing to himself, in Spanish.
“You have a nice voice,” she heard herself say.
He turned his head, briefly, smiling, and she watched his young profile, the faint gleam of his teeth, and his sparkling eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “We are all singers where I come from.” His accent was heavy, and he lisped slightly.
“In Puerto Rico? there can’t be very much to sing about.”
He laughed. “Oh, but we sing, anyway.” He turned to her again. “There is nothing to sing about here, either, you know — nobody sings here.”
She smiled. “That’s true. I think singing — for pleasure, anyway — may have become one of the great American crimes.”
He did not follow this, except in spirit. “You are all too serious here. Cold and ugly.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two years.” He smiled at her again. “I was lucky, I work hard, I get along.” He paused. “Only, sometimes, it’s lonely. So I sing.” They both laughed. “It makes the time go,” he said.
“Don’t you have any friends?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Friends cost money. And I have no money and no time. I must send money home to my family.”
“Oh, are you married?”
He shrugged again, turning his profile to her again, not smiling. “No, I am not married.” Then he grinned. “That also costs money.”
There was a silence. They turned into her block.
“Yes,” she said, idly, “you’re right about that.” She pointed to the house. “Here we are.” The cab stopped. She fumbled in her handbag. He watched her.
“You are married?” he asked at last.
“Yes.” She smiled. “With two children.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Two boys.”
“That is very good,” he said.
She paid him. “Good-bye. I wish you well.”
He smiled. It was a really friendly smile. “I also wish you well. You are very nice. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She opened the door and the light shone full on their faces for a moment. His face was very young and direct and hopeful, and caused her to blush a little. She slammed the cab door behind her, and walked into her house without looking back. She heard the cab drive away.
The light was on in the living room, and Richard, fully dressed except for his shoes, lay on the sofa, asleep. He was usually in bed, or at work, when she came home. She stared at him for a moment. There was a half-glass of vodka on the table next to him, and a dead cigarette in the ashtray. He slept very silently and his face looked tormented and very young.
She started to wake him, but left him there, and tiptoed into the room where Paul and Michael slept. Paul lay on his belly, the sheet tangled at his feet, and his arms thrown up. With a shock, she saw how heavy he was, and how talclass="underline" he was already at the outer edge of his boyhood. It had happened so fast, it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. She looked at the sleeping head and wondered what thoughts it contained, what judgments, watched one twitching leg and wondered what his dreams were now. Gently, she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. She looked at the secretive Michael, curled on his side like a worm or an embryo, hands hidden between his legs, and the hair damp on his forehead. But she did not dare to touch his brow: he woke too easily. As quietly as possible, she retrieved his sheet from the floor and lay it over him. She left their room and walked into the bathroom. Then she heard, in the living room, Richard’s feet hit the floor.
She washed her face, combed her hair, staring at her weary face in the mirror. Then she walked into the living room. Richard sat on the sofa, the glass of vodka in his hands, staring at the floor.
“Hello,” she said, “What made you fall asleep in here?” She had left her handbag in the bathroom. She walked to the bar and picked up a package of cigarettes and lit one. She asked, mockingly, “You weren’t, were you, waiting up for me?”
He looked at her, drained his glass, and held it out. “Pour me a drink. Pour yourself a drink, too.”
She took his glass. Now, his face which in sleep had looked so young, looked old. A certain pain and terror passed through her. She thought, insanely, as she turned her back on him, of Cleopatra’s lament for Antony: His face was as the heavens. Was that right? She could not remember the rest of it. She poured two drinks, vodka for him, whiskey for her. The ice bucket was empty. “Do you want ice?”
“No.”
She handed him his drink. She poured a little water into her whiskey. She looked, covertly, at him again — her guilt began. His face was as the heavens, Wherein were set the stars and moon.
“Sit down, Cass.”
She left the bar and sat down in the easy chair facing him. She had left the cigarettes on the bar. Which kept their course and lighted, This little O, the earth.
He asked, in a friendly tone, “Where are you just coming from, Cass?” He looked at his watch. “It’s past two o’clock.”
“I often get in past two o’clock,” she said. “Is this the first time you’ve noticed it?” She was astounded at the hostility in her voice. She sipped her drink. Her mind began to play strange tricks on her: her mind was filled, abruptly, with the memory of a field, long ago, in New England, a field with blue flowers in patches here and there. The field was absolutely silent and empty, it sloped gently toward a forest; they were hidden by tall grass. The sun was hot. Richard’s face was above her, his arms and his hands held and inflamed her, his weight pressed her down into the flowers. A little way from them lay his army cap and jacket; his shirt was open to the navel, and the rough, glinting hairs of his chest tortured her breasts. But she was resisting, she was frightened, and his face was full of pain and anger. Helplessly, she reached up and stroked his hair. Oh. I can’t.