The cat walked over to the chair, bent his battered head to the chocolate, and consumed every morsel as if he were doing her a favor.
Dallie got back from the course after seven that evening. By that time she had repaired her fingernails, counted the cinder blocks on the walls of the room, and read Genesis. When he came through the door, she was so desperate for human company that she jumped up from her chair, only restraining herself at the last moment from running over to him.
"There's the ugliest cat I've ever seen in my life out there," he said, throwing his keys down on the dresser.
"Damn, I hate cats. Only animal in the world that I can't stand is a cat." Since at that particular moment, Francesca wasn't too fond of the species herself, she didn't offer any argument. "Here," he said, tossing
a sack at her. "I brought you some dinner."
She let out a small cry as she grabbed the sack and tore it open. "A hamburger! Oh, God… chips,
lovely chips! I adore you." She pulled out the french fries and immediately shoved two into her mouth.
"Jeez, Francie, you don't have to act as if you're starving to death. I left you money for lunch."
He pulled a change of clothes from his suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. By the time he returned in his customary uniform of jeans and T-shirt, she had appeased her hunger but not her desire for company. However, she saw with alarm that he was getting ready to go out again.
"Are you leaving already?"
He sat down on the end of the bed and pulled on his boots. "Skeet and me have an appointment with a man named Pearl."
"At this time of night?"
He chuckled. "Mr. Pearl keeps real flexible hours."
She had the feeling that she had missed something, but she couldn't imagine what. Pushing aside the food rubble, she jumped to her feet. "Could I go with you, Dallie? I can sit in the car while you have your appointment."
"I don't think so, Francie. This kind of meeting can sometimes go on till the wee hours."
"I don't mind. Really I don't." She hated herself for pressing on, but she didn't think she could stand
being shut up in the room much longer without anyone to talk to.
"Sorry, Fancy Pants." He shoved his wallet into his back pocket.
"Don't call me that! I hate it!" He lifted one eyebrow in her direction, and she quickly changed the subject. "Tell me about the golf tournament. How did you do?"
"Today was just a practice round. The Pro-Am's on Wednesday, but the actual tournament doesn't get going until Thursday. Did you make any progress getting hold of Nicky?"
She shook her head, not anxious to pursue that particular topic. "How much could you earn if you win this tournament?"
He picked up his cap and set it on his head, where the American flag over the bill stared back at her. "Only about ten thousand. This isn't much of a tournament, but the club pro's a friend of mine, so I play every year."
An amount she would have considered paltry a year before suddenly seemed like a fortune. "But that's wonderful. Ten thousand dollars! You simply have to win, Dallie."
He looked at her with a curiously blank face. "Why's that?"
"Why, so you can have the money, of course."
He shrugged. "As long as the Riviera's running smooth, I don't care too much about money, Francie."
"That's ridiculous. Everybody cares about money."
"I don't." He went out the door and then almost immediately reappeared. "Why's there a hamburger wrapper out here, Francie? You haven't been feeding that ugly cat, have you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I detest cats."
"Now, that's the first sensible thing you've said since I met you." He gave her a small, approving nod and shut the door. She kicked the desk chair with the toe of her sandal and once again began counting the cinder blocks.
"Pearl is a beer!" she screamed five nights later when Dallie returned near dusk from playing in the semifinal round of the tournament. She waved the shiny magazine advertisement in his face. "All these nights when you've left me alone in this godforsaken room with nothing but television to keep me company, you've been out drinking beer in some sleazy bar."
Skeet set Dallie's clubs in the corner. "You've got to get up pretty early in the morning to put one over on Miss Fran-chess-ka. You shouldn't have left your old magazines lying around, Dallie."
Dallie shrugged and rubbed a sore muscle in his left arm. "Who figured she could read?"
Skeet chuckled and left the room. A stab of hurt shot through her at Dallie's comment. Uncomfortable memories of some of the unkind remarks she'd made returned to nag at her, remarks that had seemed clever at the time, but now seemed merely cruel. "You think I'm awfully funny, don't you?" she said quietly. "You enjoy telling jokes I don't understand and making references that go right past me. You don't even have the courtesy to mock me behind my back; you make fun of me right to my face."
Dallie unbuttoned his shirt. "Jeez, Francie, don't make such a big deal out of it."
She slumped down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't looked at her-not once since he'd walked into the room had he looked at her, not even when he was talking to her. She'd become invisible to him-sexless and invisible. Her fears that he would expect her to sleep with him in return for sharing the room now seemed ridiculous. He wasn't attracted to her at all. He didn't even like her. As he stripped off his shirt, she stared at his chest, lightly covered with hair and well muscled. The cloud of depression that had been following her for days settled lower.
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. "Listen, Francie, you wouldn't like the kind of place Skeet and I patronize. There aren't any tablecloths, and all the food is deep-fried."
She thought of the Blue Choctaw and knew he was probably right. Then she looked toward the lighted television screen where something called "I Dream of Jeannie" was coming on for the second time that day. "I don't care, Dallie. I love fried food, and tablecloths are passe anyway. Just last year Mother gave a party for Nureyev and she used placemats."
"I'll bet they didn't have a map of Louisiana printed on them."
"I don't think Porthault does maps."
He sighed and scratched his chest. Why wouldn't he look at her? She stood. "That was a joke, Dallie. I can make jokes, too."
"No offense, Francie, but your jokes aren't too funny."
"They are to me. They are to my friends."
"Yeah? Well, that's another thing. We have different taste in friends, and I know you wouldn't like my drinking buddies. A few of them are golfers, some of them are locals, most of them say things like
'I seen' a lot. They're not your kind of people."
"To be totally honest," she said, glancing toward the television screen, "anyone who doesn't sleep in a bottle is my kind of person."
Dallie smiled at that and disappeared into the bathroom to take his shower. Ten minutes later, the door flew open and he exploded into the bedroom with a towel knotted around his hips and his face red beneath his tan. "Why is my toothbrush wet?" he roared, shaking the offending object in her face.
Her wish had come true. He was looking at her now, staring right through her-and she didn't like it one bit. She took a step back and tucked her bottom lip between her teeth in an expression she hoped looked charmingly guilty. "I'm afraid I had to borrow it."
"Borrow it! That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."
"Yes, well you see I seemed to have lost mine, and I-"
"Borrow it!" She backed farther away as she saw that he was building up steam. "We're not talking about a cup of sugar here, sister! We're talking about a frigging toothbrush, the most personal possession a person can own!"
"I've been sanitizing it," she explained.