“Do you want to eat here or somewhere else? Perhaps we should ask about the good places.”
“I’d just as soon eat here. It’s very nice here.”
“It is, isn’t it? It was recommended to me by a fellow in Midland City who was down a year ago. I should have come myself much sooner. Long ago.”
He sounded reflective and wistful, as if he were reviewing the lost chances of his life. He was thinking, probably, that he had had very little fun out of living. And he looked as if he hadn’t, his face appearing older than it was, even in the soft and flattering light of the bar, thin skin gray and dry and loose on its bone structure. He had never at home, Lisa remembered, reacted to anything at all with excitement or sign of genuine pleasure, and she felt now that she had somehow contributed to this inadequacy, this effect of flatness, and she was suddenly oppressed by her recurrent conviction of guilt. For a moment she was absolutely certain that she should never have come here with him, that it would never work for good but only for disaster; and that she was not only peculiarly vulnerable herself to corruption and misery but was also a kind of carrier of these things, a source of contagion for everyone who had anything to do with her. She thought that it would be a kindness to him if she were to get up without a word and walk away and never again see him or speak to him or have any contact with him of any kind, and the compulsion was very strong to act upon the thought, but she merely lifted her glass instead and looked at him over the edge.
His attention had been diverted, and he was staring intently at someone who had come in and got onto a stool at the bar. Following the direction of his gaze, she saw a slim back in a white jacket and, beyond in the glass, a blur of features in a narrow frame.
“That fellow there,” he said. “I’d swear that I know him.”
“Maybe he’s someone from Midland City.”
“No. I don’t think so. If he were from home, I’d remember. I have quite a good memory for names and faces. Well, never mind. Probably he only resembles someone I know. Are you ready for another daiquiri?”
“Yes, please.”
He signaled a waiter. The waiter came and picked up their glasses and carried them away. The muted, canned music went on and on. King Cole singing something. Later there would be a live entertainer, a young woman who played the piano and sang unusual songs that you couldn’t hear just anywhere, but now it was King Cole canned. The waiter brought the fresh drinks and Lisa drank some. She was losing her feeling of guilt again, her compulsion to run. Here was the world with her in it, and things were this way or that way, and there was no need to torture yourself about them.
“Avery Lawes,” Carl said.
“What?”
“His name is Avery Lawes.”
“The man at the bar?”
“Yes. I knew him in college. Classmates. I suppose it’s been eight, nine years since I’ve seen him.”
“Really? It’s remarkable that you should recognize him so quickly.”
“Well, I have a good memory for names and faces. But I said that, didn’t I? He lives in Corinth. Used to, anyhow. Corinth is a town across state from home. Not a large place. About thirty thousand, I think.”
“I know.”
“It’s a nice town. Prosperous. Lots of money in Corinth. Some good families there too. I guess the Lawes family was about the most prominent of them all. Still is, I suppose. Money and background. There was a Lawes served a term as governor about twenty years ago. Avery’s grandfather, I think.”
“To hounds, to hunt, and away.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I was just making a joke.”
“Oh.”
He stared at her blankly, obviously trying to see the humor of it, in what way it was a joke, and she was ashamed of the impulse that had made her say it, her irritation; and she reminded herself again of his enormous kindness and generosity and, above all, of his sincere efforts to understand her and reclaim her. She did not deserve such consideration and was not at all sure that she could respond to it, or at least sustain her response indefinitely to it, or even for any considerable length of time.
“It wasn’t funny,” she said.
“Well, perhaps I’m a little dull. Never was able to appreciate irony and things like that.” He lifted his glass and took a small swallow and set the glass down again. “I’d rather like to speak to Lawes. Do you mind if I do?”
“Not at all. Do as you like about it.”
“Excuse me, then?”
“Of course.”
He got up and walked toward the bar, and she picked up her daiquiri and drank it quickly and signaled the waiter to bring her another. She would have to be careful about her drinking, she thought. She had quite a capacity for it and did not get drunk easily — not sloppy, out-of-control drunk, anyhow — but there was the very important matter of mood to consider. If she drank too little, the alcohol acted only as a kind of irritant, and she was likely to become nasty and say things she would afterward be sorry for; and if she drank too much she became terribly depressed and started thinking about everything that had happened to her and that it would be much better for her and everyone else if she were dead. And so drinking became in the first place the delicate operation of taking just enough to get the proper lift, the rather lilting feeling of compatibility with herself, and in the second place the even more delicate operation of taking just enough thereafter to sustain the feeling, which was a very difficult thing to do and required lots of practice.
The third drink arrived, and she tasted it, approaching now the delicate point of sustenance. With a pleasant sense of detachment, she watched the action at the bar, the pattern of diffident action and reaction occurring when one person undertakes to renew with another an acquaintance that had been interrupted long ago and had been no more than casual in the beginning. She could not hear what was said, of course, but she could have supplied almost literally the words to go with the observable expressions and gestures and hesitations. “Excuse me, old man. Aren’t you Avery Lawes?”
“Yes,” lifting his head and twisting on the stool, “yes, I am.”
“Sheridan. Carl Sheridan. I’m afraid you don’t remember me.”
“No. No. Sorry.”
“The University. Old what’s-his-name’s class in Investments. Remember? We graduated together.”
“Oh, yes. My God, yes. Sheridan. Carl Sheridan. Inexcusable of me not to have remembered immediately. Well, it’s been a long time.”
“Certainly has. How have you been, old man?”
“Fine, fine. Working and getting older.”
“Still living in Corinth?”
“Yes. No place on earth to live but Corinth, you know. Family’s been there for eons.”
“I’ve been right in Midland City myself. Hardly ever get away. Just down here now to recuperate from a spot of pneumonia. Doctor said I ought to come. Takes something like that, I guess, to jar a man loose.”
“Yes. Seems like it. Will you have a drink?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to, but I have one waiting for me at the table over there. Have my sister with me.”
“Sister? Not married yet, then, I take it.”
“No. Never had the time for it. That’s my story, anyhow. Truth is, women don’t like me.”
Laughter. Polite laughter for the little joke.
“Glad to hear it. It’s a relief to learn that I’m not the only bachelor left of the old crowd.”
“Really? Not married yourself? I should have bet you’d take the plunge long ago.”
“Not I. Hopelessly inveterate, I’m afraid.”
“Are you expecting someone?”
“To meet me here? No. I’m strictly on my own.”