Of course, what filled the void, the emptiness, the space, was not exactly congruent with its earlier manifestation. Four years had changed Barbara Mahler. Before, she had been an almost-grown child, on the verge of adulthood, womanhood. He had come along and plucked her, just as she was ripe. Well, perhaps still a little green, but edible for all that. She had been like a fruit that was still a trifle hard and sour; not too soft and easy. Now she had grown up. Now she had become the adult. She had ripened. But the image was lost: she was harder and more sour now than she been before.
The allusion did not work; she was not a plant. She had, perhaps, been like some green fruit then, hard with the chill bitterness of an unripe apple, a little hard New England apple. But her hardness now was not a green hardness. It was the hardness of white stone.
She was turning to stone. It was the calcification of rock, the fossilization, the early bitter taste of death and age. The coldness of the tomb. The breath, the frightening breath of the dead. He could feel it, in the small room. Almost a clammy thing; perspiration that had frozen on her body. She had become rock from deep inside, working out toward the surface. It did not show yet; her skin was smooth and golden, with millions of tiny hairs lying close against, but the hardness was there, down deep inside, and coming nearer and nearer to the surface.
Only the little drops of cold sweat on her neck, on her lip, told. And the moist, clammy tinge in the air. And her voice. The way she talked. That told, too. It came from far inside, from the central vaults and dark places, the very core of her body.
“Want more?” Barbara said, tapping the cup.
“More? No. Not now.”
He could understand this, what he saw. The cold wetness of death. He had a little of it, himself. Yes, he had it, too. Perhaps she had even got it from him. Perhaps it had come from him in the first place; and he, in his order, had got it from someone before. From Teddy. Or from one of the others. The girl, the girl in his room. The blue-eyed girl with hair like cornsilk. Perhaps it had come to him from her. She had burned him, scorched him, dried him out.
But it was different, with him. He smiled as he realized this. With him it was a sort of surface coating, a cold, sharp outer coat, a kind of hard shell, that had adhered to his skin. It was on the outside, and it was working in. His heart would freeze last. Hers had been first, the very opposite. And he would keep warming it, his heart, his whole body. The freeze would be slowed down, not stopped, but at least slowed... by what he had just now taken in. He could feel it; it was warm and good.
That was what he meant by good.
“God damn,” Barbara said suddenly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m getting like you, Verne. I feel as if my skin were rubbing against me. What’ll we do?”
“The heat.”
“As they always say. But what can we do?”
Verne reached down and patted her on the arm. “It’ll be cold tonight. Then you’ll wish it was warm.”
“It’s not so cold at night. I’m not bothered.”
“Maybe you’ve been sleeping better than I have.”
“I’m prettier than you.”
Verne smiled. “You are. I admit it.”
“Thank you.”
“No. Don’t thank me. You always were attractive, you know. I told you that. Once.”
“Let’s forget it.”
“It’s a fact.”
“Let’s forget it anyhow.”
“All right.” They became silent.
Barbara stirred finally. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “when I first realized it was you who would be staying here I felt quite hostile to the idea.”
“Oh?”
“I had a very strong feeling when I came into the office and found it was you there. I almost tried to push back into one of the cars.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. A general feeling. But you must know what it is. Your past is even longer than mine.”
“I guess I know what you mean.”
“It should turn out all right, though. We’re both grown people. Adults. If we act like adults and not skulk around like children—”
“Whatever adults means.”
She swung around to face him. She was serious. “I mean, there’s no reason why we can’t be polite to each other. Not start trading deep and subtle knives.”
“Do we do that?” Verne said feebly.
“No. I think that part will be all right. But it goes deeper than—than that, than talk.”
“Carl would be offended.”
“Doubtless. Well, let’s drop it.”
“I think things are working out. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” She was silent for a time. Suddenly she leaped up. “God, this heat! It really makes you want to jump around.”
“How about some more stuff?”
“Another drink? Do you want another?”
“I guess I could get it down.”
“All right.” She took the cup and disappeared down the hall with it.
“Is it cold?” Verne said, when she returned.
“A little colder than before. It’s been running.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So? You are growing up.”
“I suppose.”
She poured the whiskey into the cup and stirred it. Verne drank first again, and then she drank, finishing what remained. He watched her. She was standing in front of him, very close. Her nose was a trifle large, her teeth somewhat crooked. But that was not noticeable unless she smiled. She had a good figure, although she had become a trifle heavy. All in all, she was in good physical condition. Suddenly she gave him the empty cup.
He handed the cup back. “Why give it to me? I looked in, and it’s empty.”
“Fill it.”
He got to his feet. “All right.” He went down the hall to the bathroom. The water was still running in the bowl. He filled the cup half way. Then he poured part of the water out. He returned with what he had left in it.
“Thanks.” She put the cup down on the dresser. She was pacing around the room, her hands in her pockets.
“What’s wrong?”
She stopped pacing. “Verne, you have to admit that in a way—” She broke off.
“In a way what?”
“I mean, there are some things the same, and some that are not the same.”
“What things?”
“Let’s face it Four years was a long time ago. We’ve both changed, especially me. There’s no chance in the world that we can have any kind of relationship again. I’m putting the cards on the table. That’s the way it should be. Let’s be honest. Nothing will work. Nothing at all. Like we had before or anything else.”
She glared a” him hostilely.
“Isn’t that right?”
Verne smiled blandly. “I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve thought about it. It seems to be your idea.”
“That’s a lot of bilge. You’ve thought about it steadily for the last twenty-four hours. But too much has changed. We might as well face it and then forget it.”
“Well, we don’t have to fight.”
“No.” She nodded. “No, we don’t have to fight.”
“It’s too hot to fight.”
“Yes. It’s hot” She sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry I shouted.” She looked steadily up at him. “You know, Verne, I was too young. You should have known it. You really grabbed it right off the tree.”
“Tree?”