I walked into my study — I don’t know where from. Where had I just come from? What had I been doing? My step, at least, was sprightly — maybe I’d just come from a book launch, or an award ceremony, or a meeting with an effusive film executive. I searched my pockets for clues, but my pockets were empty. Well. Wherever I had been, Mary Foxe had been there, too. Was I certain about that, or was I guessing? I whipped open the study door and regarded the hallway with a measure of suspicion. Everything was in order. I turned back to my study and registered the condition it was in — books and crumpled paper and broken records were scattered around me as if they had rained from the sky. The windows stood wide open, and a cold wind flowed in and made the torn pages of my books whisper. One of my shelves had fallen, or been pushed, down, and I had to walk across the back of it to get to my desk, which was soaked in ink. Thorough. The rampage had been thorough. I whistled, and then I closed the windows. The sound must have alerted Daphne, because she came and knocked on the door. Which wasn’t closed, so why knock. .
“Come in,” I said. I picked up half of a coffee mug and half of a phonograph record and idly held them together. A domestic chimera. Daphne came in with her arms full of books, and her eyes blazing like two poisoned moons. “How’d you like the mess, St. John?” It would’ve been better if she’d screamed. The question was in monotone, and was accompanied by a hardback German edition of my first book, Stinging the Bees. More followed — books and flat statements, all aimed at my head. I was stunned and defended myself as best I could with my arms, but there was nowhere to hide. Daphne said she hadn’t finished yet. She said she ought to burn the house down, and she just might do it, while I was sleeping. She said I was a dead man walking. She said she was going to Reno. She said she should never, never have married a tarnished individual like me. Finally, at the top of her voice, she said, WHO IS SHE? THIS WOMAN YOU’RE HUMILIATING ME WITH.
She ran out of books and stood there, crying, her hands fluttering over her face. I’d fallen into a crouch to weather the storm, and I waited a second before I straightened up. My ear was bleeding a little, and when she saw that, she sobbed even harder. We looked at the crack she’d made in one of the windows — the Japanese edition of The Butcher’s Boots is no slim tome.
“Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
Daphne turned on her heel and made for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To Reno. You’d better not contest the papers, either.”
I crossed the room and caught her hand, which seemed like the coldest and most fragile little thing in the world just then. I held her hand, patted it. She looked away and just let me hold it, as if it was of no use to her anymore. My wife was pretty, I noticed. Sort of elfin but vulnerable-looking with it. All these wispy curls surrounding a heart-shaped face.
“Don’t go to Reno,” I said. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye.
“That’s it? That’s your best shot at making me stay? ‘Don’t go to Reno’?”
“I hadn’t finished, D. I also wanted to tell you that you’re paranoid. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. All I’ve been doing is trying to win us some bread.” I raised her hand and kissed her wrist — she likes that. “Give me a week or two and then we’ll go someplace nice, just you and me.”
She was melting; she made a face. “Of course just you and me. . Who else would go with us, dummy?”
Quite clearly she had no solid evidence. It was interesting to know that I’d married someone who could cause this much destruction on a hunch. It made me like her more.
“D. .” I pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my sweater and reached up with her handkerchief, pressing it against my ear. “Greta says I shouldn’t listen to a word you say. You’re a liar.”
I took custody of the handkerchief; it was awkward, her holding it, and she was applying more pressure than was necessary. “Greta lies more than me.”
“How would you know that?”
“I don’t, but I’ve got to defend myself.”
“You’re the liar. If you hadn’t been up to anything you’d be furious that I wrecked your study. You’d have thrown a hot iron at my head or something.”
“Is there a hot iron to hand?”
She sniffled. “Yes. I was pressing my divorce dress.”
Daphne had bought a divorce dress with my money. Even more interesting. I’d had her down as a starry-eyed idealist who didn’t notice my flaws. I’d have to keep an eye on her.
“Your heart is—jerking,” she mumbled.
“Oh, so you can hear that?” I said into her hair. “It’s saying: Da — phne, Da — phne. How embarrassing. Don’t tell anyone you heard.”
“She keeps calling,” Daphne said. “And hanging up. While you’ve been God knows where—”
“Who keeps calling and hanging up?”
“That girl you’ve got on the side. Don’t deny it, St. John, I just know.”
“You just know.”
“Yes.” She looked up at me, so piercingly that my first instinct was to look away — but that would have been a mistake. “But I don’t want to leave you. Not really. So just drop her, and we’ll forget about it.”
“Daphne. There is no girl on the side.”
“Say whatever you want, just drop her. Please.”
“I can’t,” I said. “She’s in my head.”
I saw her expression and I talked fast. “What I mean is, she’s not real, honey. She’s only an idea. I made her up.”
“What?”
“I know this sounds unlikely, but you’ve got to believe me. If you don’t, I’ve got nothing else to tell you.”
“Keep talking, St. John.”
“Not a lot to tell. Her name’s Mary. You’d like her, I think. She’s kind of direct. No-nonsense. I made her up during the war. She started off as nothing but a stern British accent saying things like ‘Chin up, Fox,’ and ‘Where’s your pluck?’ Just a precaution for the times I came dangerously close to feeling sorry for myself. Don’t look like that, D., I don’t need a doctor. Anyhow — you see now, don’t you, that she couldn’t possibly call the house? That’s just people getting wrong numbers, or one of your brothers phoning you up to ask for money and then losing his nerve.”
“Less of the stuff about my brothers. Back to Miss A Hundred Percent Imaginary, Miss Only an Idea. Do you take her out to the movies?”
I couldn’t tell if she was kidding. “Absolutely not,” I said vehemently.
“Do you tell her secrets?”
“It isn’t like that.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Uh. .”
Daphne gave me a knowing look.
“Prettier than me?”
“D. .”
“You say ‘It isn’t like that,’ so tell me what it’s like. I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re crazy or not.”
“I’m not crazy. At all times I remain fully aware of her status as an idea.”
“So she’s kind of like a character in one of your stories?”
“Kind of.” I resisted the urge to pat her on the head and tell her not to worry about it.
“So nothing I should worry about?”
“No, ma’am. Absolutely not.”
Daphne kissed my cheek and backed away. “Okay, honey. Sorry about the mess.”
I nodded and waved a hand, as if it was nothing. I was proud of myself. In the old days I would have lost my cool. But other things were happening now; I needed to focus on those, and I didn’t seem to have anything left over for rage. There’s also the fact that all the men in her family, and a few of the women, are basically thugs.
“I think I’ll go see a movie with Greta now.”