She often thought of him. He had become a successful newspaperman with a by-line for a New York paper. What had that done to him? She often speculated on this question. He must be different, she reasoned. He must now be experienced in every possible way, and sophisticated. He must have had many women. He was married and had a family. So she had heard. Was he happy? Did he ever think of her? What was he like?
One day, bored, frustrated by her own daydreams and reveries, glumly looking forward to spending the long evening with Harry, she dropped Arthur a note. She then pretended that he would not answer it. But she believed that he would. In the note, she said that she might be coming to New York, and that if she did, and for the sake of auld lang syne, she had thought she might look him up. In a few days, she received a brief but friendly answer, asking her by all means to look him up if she came to New York.
The first idea she had had of making such a trip had come to her as she had dashed off the note. But now, she decided that she would make the trip. She was certain that Harry would be agreeable. Yet she became diffident and fearful. She did not want him to suspect anything, though she knew’ that there was nothing to suspect, nothing but her intentions. She became fearful that she might give herself away, and she tried to seem more ardent than ever, and she was otherwise attentive to him. Especially when they were in public together, or when they had friends at their home, she put on the act of being a loving and happy wife. Still she delayed suggesting that she take the trip.
She couldn’t understand herself why she did. She woke up several mornings in succession, planning to broach the subject to Harry, but each time she failed, losing her nerve and just not doing it. Then, she began to tell him that she was getting bored and restless and becoming nervous. He suggested that she find tilings to do, join a club, read more, and she agreed to do this, but didn’t. She was maneuvering Harry into agreeing that she take a trip alone to New York. Her dreams, her fantasies, her desires, which she couldn’t fulfill, troubled her, perhaps even more than they might have if she had actually had any affairs.
Then, suddenly, one morning at breakfast, she told Harry that she thought a trip to New York and a chance to see the new shows and to buy a few things would be good for her. Harry agreed.
3
Annabelle took the Twentieth Century to New York to stay for one week. Passionately kissing Harry goodbye at the La Salle Street Station, she kept hoping that something would happen to her, that she would have the romantic experience which she believed that she needed. And, since she had written to Arthur, she looked forward to seeing him. On the train, she imagined, also, that she might meet someone, perhaps a movie actor. But then, she guessed that movie actors now took planes. She would have gone by plane had she not been afraid to.
The train ride was disappointing. She met no romantic males. She had brought along three contemporary novels which her friends were talking about, but she was too restless to read. She sat in the club car, hoping that someone would talk to her, but nothing happened. And then, she sat in her roomette, moodily looking out of the window at the night outside. She slept badly. She was glad to get off the train and, in great excitement, she took a cab to the hotel at which she was staying.
But, once in her hotel room, she became lost and lonely, and felt fatigued. She was now on her trip, the trip on which she had worked for some weeks. Now she was in a position to have the experiences she craved. She was afraid. She had a whole week in which to do only what she wanted. This, also, frightened her. And maybe, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror and imagining that she looked tired, maybe she would just seem like one more provincial in sophisticated New York. And if she did have the experiences she wanted, maybe it would break up her marriage with Harry, and Harry would be crushed. Maybe this would all end in tragedy.
She didn’t want to have a tragedy or a mess on her hands. She didn’t want to hurt Harry. But she was free for one week.
Annabelle decided to take a bath and a rest and, then, she would be in better shape and could plan what she would do.
4
Arthur was pleased when Annabelle phoned him. He remembered her rather warmly. He had always liked her and, on and off through the years, he had sometimes reflected on how he might have made love to her if he had tried. He had been shy in those days, and a girl like Anna-belle had seemed to him to be too sophisticated, too smart for him. He wouldn’t have dared to make a pass at her. He wouldn’t have known how. Since then, he had learned.
But he had no great regrets because of his past shyness. He was contented with his life, and more or less satisfied with what he was doing. If he and Annabelle had married, his life would have been different. His wife, Helene, was a quiet and easy-going woman, a good wife and mother. She didn’t ask him too many questions, didn’t suspect his occasional philanderings and affairs, affairs which he saw as practically inevitable in the kind of work he did. And she was the mother of his two girls. He was fond of the girls, and if he had married any one other than Helene, he would not have been the father of these two fine and beautiful kids.
He had worked hard, had gotten good breaks, and had had an interesting and comfortable life. At thirty-seven, he was confident of himself, and ambitious. He had a future. He was too old for the draft and, if worst came to worst, he would always be able to angle himself a war correspondent’s job. This would give him greater opportunity, and it might set him off to writing a book. He had always wanted to write a book, but had never gotten around to doing it. Someday, he would. He was-reasonably confident of that.
He was tallish, youthful-looking, dark-haired and clean-cut. He dressed neatly, walked with a brisk and confident air, was well-liked, got on easily with people, was respected by his colleagues and superiors, and took great pride in seeing his name as a by-line name, day after day in the newspapers. He considered himself to be a first-rate newspaperman, and was proud of himself and of his profession.
He had gotten that note from Annabelle, and it had pleased him. He recalled that he had dashed off an answer, and once or twice had imagined her coming to New York, and then it had dropped out of his mind. Her phone call had also pleased him.
Her voice on the phone sounded young and friendly. He was glad she had called. She got him at a time when he was free for lunch. He liked to lunch with someone, and this would be pleasant. Always in his college days, he had found her friendly. They would talk about the old days, he would impress her with the way that he had developed, and he would learn about what had happened to old friends. Also, he would learn about what had happened to Annabelle. And who knew, perhaps... He was not amiss to a little adventure. In fact, it would be charming, and novel, and he would like it. Such adventures were like renewals of life and youth to him. In odd moments, he would occupy himself in remembering them with pleasure. He drew confidence in himself from these memories. Adventures like this went with the idea he had of his personality, and they proved to him that he led an interesting life.
So, he and Annabelle met for lunch. He took her to a restaurant downtown, near the office. He was known there. It was old, and had an air of the early 1900’s about it. He thought that this would impress her.