"Has Wallace shown up? He was supposed to land at Newark."
"He didn't. I've got to tell you about Brother. When did you see him? I heard from Margotte about the pipes."
"In the flesh? I saw him last night. And this morning in the sky."
"Oh, so you watched him looping around, that idiot."
"Has he had an accident?"
"Oh, don't worry, he isn't hurt. I wish he had given himself a good bang, but he's like a Hollywood stunt man."
"He hasn't crashed, has he?"
"What do you think! It's already an item on the radio. He scraped his wheels off on a house."
"Dear Lord! Did he have to parachute? Was it your house?"
"He made a crash landing. It was some big place in Westchester. God alone knows why that creep should be out buzzing houses when we're in this predicament. It's enough to drive me mad."
"You don't mean that Elya heard this on the radio!"
"No, he didn't hear. He was already going down in the elevator."
"You say Wallace isn't hurt?"
"Wallace is in seventh heaven. Overjoyed. He had to have stitches in his cheek."
"I see. He'll have a scar. All this is terrible!"
"You have too much sympathy for him."
"I do admit that all this feeling sorry for people can be wearing. I also am provoked by him."
"You should be. They really ought to put my kid brother away. Lock him up in an asylum. You should have heard him babbling."
"Then you've spoken to him?"
"He had some guy to describe the beautiful landing. Then he took the phone in person. Something terrific. As if he had reached the North Pole by bicycle. You know we'll be sued for damages to the house. The plane is wrecked. Civil Aeronautics will take away his license. I wish they'd take him away, too. But he was very high. He said, 'Shouldn't we tell Dad?'"
"No!"
"Yes," said Angela. She was furious. With Dr. Cosbie, with Wallace, with Widick, Horricker. And she was bitter with Sammler, too. And he himself was far from normal. Far! The injured black man. The blood. And now, confronted by all that superfeminity, sensuality, he saw everything with heightened clarity. As he had seen Riverside Drive, wickedly illuminated, after watching the purse being picked on, the bus. That was how he was seeing now. To see was delicious. Oh, of course! An extreme pleasure! The sun may shine, and be a blessing, but sometimes shows the fury of the world. Brightness like this, the vividness of everything, also dismayed him. The soft clearness of Angela's face, the effort of her brows--the full mixture of fineness and rankness he saw there. And the sun was squarely at the window. The streaked glass ran with light like honey. A barrage of sweetness and intolerable brightness was laid down. Sammler did not really want to experience this. It all rose against him, too dizzy, too turbulent.
"I can see that you and Elya went on talking about that event."
"He won't let it alone. It's cruel. Both to himself and to me. I can't stop him."
"What is there for you to do but give in? He's the one with the thing to do. There should be no arguments. Perhaps young Mr. Horricker should come up. Why doesn't he come? Show that he doesn't take it too much to heart. Does he, by the way?"
"He says so."
"Maybe he loves you."
"Him? Who knows. But I wouldn't ask him to come. That would be using Daddy's illness."
"You don't want him back?"
"Want him? Maybe. I'm not sure."
Was there a successor in view? Human attachments being so light, there were probably lists of alternates, preconscious reserves--men met in the park while walking the dog; people one had chatted with at the Museum of Modern Art; this fellow with the sideburns; that one with dark sexy eyes; the person with the child in a sanitarium, the wife with multiple sclerosis. To go with quantities of ideas and purposes there were quantities of people. And all this came from Angela's conversation. He heard and remembered everything, every drab fact, every crimson touch. He didn't want to listen, but she told him things. He had no wish to remember, but he remembered it all. And Angela really was a beauty. She was big, but a beauty, a healthy young woman. Healthy young women have their needs. Her legs were--her thighs nearly all shown down from the green ribbon of skirt--she was, beautiful. Horricker would suffer, knowing he had lost her. Sammler was still thinking things through. Tired, dizzy, despairing, he still thought. Still in touch. With reality, that is.
"Wharton is no kid. He knew what he was getting into, down in Mexico," said Angela.
"Ah, I don't understand any of that. I assume he's read some of those books you lent me--Bataille and other theorists--about transgression and pain and sex; lust, crime, and desire; murder and erotic pleasure. It didn't mean much to me, any of that stuff."
"I know it's not your kind of thing. But Wharton got his kicks out of that little broad. He liked her. Better than I liked the other man. I'd never see him again. But then on the plane Wharton perversely became jealous. Wouldn't let it alone."
"My only thought is that Elya might feel more at peace with you if he saw Horricker."
"I'm furious that Wharton should blab to Widick, and Widick to Father."
"I'm not prepared to believe that Mr. Widick would speak to Elya of this. He's decent enough in most ways. I don't know him well, of course. My main impression is of a stout lawyer. Not a villain. A big soft face."
"That fat sonofabitch. I'll curse him when I see him. I'll tear his hair out."
"Don't be so sure that it was some evil-doer. You may be wrong. Elya's extremely intelligent and quick to pick up hints."
"Who could it be, then? Wallace? Emil? But whoever dropped the hint, it began with Wharton, too weak to keep his mouth shut. Well, if he wants to visit Father that's all right. But I'm offended. I'm furious."
"You do have a feverish look, Angela. I don't want to agitate you. But in view of your father's preoccupation with all this, with Mexico, do you think you should arrive in such a costume?"
"This skirt, you mean?"
"It's very short. My opinion may be worthless, but it seems bad judgment to wear that kind of sexual kindergarten dress."
"Now it's my clothes! Are you speaking for him, or for yourself?"
The sunlight was yellow, sweet. It was horrible.
"Oh yes, I know I may be out of order, with bad puritanical attitudes from the sick past which have damaged civilization so much. I did read your books. We've discussed all this. But really, how do you expect your father not to be excited, to feel bitter, when he sees this provoking Baby Doll costume?"
"Really? My skirt? It never occurred to me. I dressed quickly and ran out. This is a strange thing to take up with me now. Everybody wears these skirts. I don't think I care for the way you put it."
"Undoubtedly I could have put it better. I don't want to be disagreeable. There are other things to think about."
"That's right. And I'm under a terrible burden. It is terrible."
"I'm sure of it."
"I'm in despair, Uncle."