“Are you all right?” Teddy said.
He looked at her. The lean nose. Loose, hanging hair. Moist strands of black, glued together, dripping with perspiration. Her eyes gleamed, close to his.
Verne pulled away. He was laid open, unconcealed. He turned to one side, away from her. The couch lifted; she had risen up, onto the arm.
“I’m all right.” His head ached. His glasses had fallen out of his pocket, onto the floor. He picked them up and put them on. After a while he sat up.
On the arm of the couch Teddy quietly fastened her clothes, pulling her dress together. She said nothing.
“What time is it?” Verne murmured.
“About three.” She was watching him. “Are you all right? Do you feel all right?”
Could she tell how far she had been pushed away? He felt cold; everything in the room had receded from him. His stomach growled. His mouth tasted sour. He found the tray and ate a cracker smeared with Liederkranz. Presently he tried some of the drink she had fixed for him, but it choked, charring his wind pipe. He put the glass down.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be all right.”
He got out his pipe and began to light it. Teddy moved back beside him, drawing toward the end of the couch. He stared at her indifferently. Her face was thin; her body was underdeveloped and plain, like a boy’s. He looked down at her feet. They were long and flat, like a bird’s. A crane’s. Teddy twisted her bony shoulders together, turning her head suddenly away.
“It’s cold in here,” Verne said.
She did not answer. Verne gazed around the room. He crossed his legs. A measure of vitality was beginning to come slowly back into him. It made the objects of the room seem less dead, remote. They were regaining their life, their color. What had happened a few minutes before had emptied them, sucked the meaning out of them, out of everything around him, all things in the room, wherever he looked. But now the meaning, the usual glow, was seeping back in, draining slowly back into place.
The room was becoming warm again. Verne smoked, his legs crossed, feeling a little better.
He turned to Teddy. “Maybe I should go home.”
She turned quickly. Her eyes were shining. “Do you want to go? Is that what you want?”
He removed his pipe slowly. “It’s late. I have the early shift tomorrow.” He glanced away; it was not so.
“I’m sorry. You—you wouldn’t want to stay here? It’s not very far from the station.”
“I have to shave.” He plucked at his sleeve. “I need a change.”
Teddy was silent. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“I don’t know. I do know!” She gazed at him appealingly. “You’re disappointed. I wasn’t— I wasn’t enough.” She bit her lip, her eyes blind with pain.
Verne shifted. “No. It certainly isn’t that.”
She continued to look at him.
“No, don’t think it was that.” He got to his feet. “It’s late. I’m tired. You know.”
“I’ll walk downstairs with you.”
“Good.”
Teddy went to get her coat. She came back at once, gaunt and forlorn, her coat around her shoulders.
Verne took her arm awkwardly. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“Let’s go.” They went outside, into the empty hall. They walked down the steps slowly, neither of them speaking. The air outside was thin and crisp.
Verne stood for a moment on the porch, talking a deep breath. The streets were dark and silent. Far off, blocks away, a city street sweeper nosed along, gathering up papers and debris.
“Well, good night, Teddy,” Verne said.
“Good night.”
He walked down and across the sidewalk to his car. Teddy stood on the porch, watching him unlock the door. He slid in behind the wheel.
“I’ll call you tomorrow on the phone.”
She nodded.
He drove off.
The telephone was ringing. He opened his eyes. Everything in the room was running back and forth.
“Christ!”
He dragged himself out of bed, onto his feet, catching hold of the wall. He scooped up the phone, sitting down in the chair beside it.
“Hello?” He pushed his hair back out of his face with his fingers. His hands were shaky.
“This is Teddy.” Her voice was emotionless. It said nothing, only words. He looked at the clock across the room, but he could not read it without his glasses. Bright sunlight was falling in, streaming through the window.
“What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“I was asleep.” After a moment he said: “I was going to call you later on.”
“Yes.”
He felt around for his glasses. They were in his coat, over the back of the chair by the bed. The sun blinded him; he squinted, rubbing his eyes. He yawned.
Teddy’s voice came again, thin and expressionless. “Don wants me to go out this evening. I didn’t know what to do. Should I go with him?”
“Don? Where? To where?”
“The Walker Club.”
“Oh.” He said nothing for a while. He could feel her holding tightly to the phone at the other end. He tried to think what to say. He was beginning to get adjusted to the sunlight. He closed his eyes and settled against the back of the chair, propping the receiver between his neck and shoulder. Time passed.
“Do you want to go?” he said finally.
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you now? At home?”
“In a drug store. I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been walking around.”
“What drug store?”
She did not answer.
“What drug store? Is it far from here?”
“No.”
He considered. “I could drive over and pick you up.”
“Could you?” She gave him the address.
“Do you want to wait there?”
“I’ll wait.”
“All right?”
“Yes, I’ll wait here.”
He hung up. After a while he went in the bathroom and took a shower. He shaved and dressed and listened to the news on the radio. Finally he put his coat on and went outside to the car. He had to be at work at noon. There was about two hours to go.
He found her standing in front of the drug store, leaning against the side of the building. He pushed the car door open and she made her way out to him.
“Greetings,” he said, starting up the car. “Hello.”
“How are you today?”
“I’m fine.” She turned toward him. “Sorry to wake you up so early.” He could not read her expression. He grunted. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What time do you have to go to work?”
“About noon.”
“Then we have some time, then.”
“I guess so.” He edged into the traffic. “Verne— What’s wrong?”
“I’m worried about my program. I haven’t got it ready for next Thursday. I was thinking about it.”
“We can drive for a while, can’t we?”
“Sure.” He looked at his watch. “But I have to stop and eat someplace. I haven’t had breakfast.” They drove in silence.
Teddy stirred. “Verne— You’re not upset about last night, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem so—so aloof, all of a sudden. So pulled back. Withdrawn and silent.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d like to know why. Can’t you tell me?”
“I told you. My damn program.”
“Is that really it?” He could feel her watching him intently, looking at his face. “It isn’t because of last night?”
“Why last night?”
“I think last night you were—disgusted.”
Verne snorted. “For God’s sake.” He stopped for a red light. “No, it’s not that. Having a deadline every week grinds me down. The constant pressure. Sometimes I go into a whing-ding of some kind. It has nothing to do with you. It’s been going on for years.”