Thinking, she lost contact with the city and her position in it, not even knowing when they came onto Park Avenue, and the next contact she established was when the taxi stopped in front of her apartment building. She got out of the taxi and paid her fare and went in through the lobby to the elevator. The operator said good afternoon with functional courtesy and did not show the least interest in her appearance, which was not right for the time of day. Riding up in the elevator, in the silent steel car with the world closed out, she again had briefly a deep sense of having achieved security and even peace, but it didn’t last, of course, as it never lasted, and she was faced on her floor with the necessity of walking all the way down to the entrance to her apartment and probably having to cope with Edith, the maid, whom she hated. She might be able to avoid Edith if she had brought or had not lost her key to the door, but there was no such luck. The key was not in her purse, and she was compelled to ring.
Edith opened the door and said, “Good afternoon, Madam,” and Charity answered civilly with an effort and went past Edith and through the foyer and into the living room. Edith always addressed her as Madam, and Charity didn’t like it. It made her feel like the manager of a whore house, and the way Edith said it, in that snotty voice, it was probably exactly what she was meant to feel, or at least like one of the whores.
“I spent the night with a friend,” she said.
She was immediately ashamed and angry that she had felt it necessary to explain anything to a bitch of a maid. It was not that she felt snobbish about servants, for she didn’t, but it was just that Edith was so Goddamned supercilious, an absolute bitch, and she was, besides, a dirty spy who carried stories to Oliver Alton Farnese. That was why Oliver wouldn’t get rid of her, or let Charity get rid of her, saying always when Charity brought up the matter that Edith was a perfectly good servant and would be kept as long as she remained one.
“Yes, Madam,” Edith said.
Charity stopped and turned and looked at her.
“What do you mean by saying that in that way?” she said.
“Nothing, Madam. I only meant that I understand that you spent the night with a friend.”
“The hell you did! You meant something else entirely. Perhaps you were thinking that a friend might include almost anyone of either sex. Is that it?”
“No, Madam.”
“Why are you staring at me that way?”
“I’m sorry, Madam. I didn’t intend to stare.”
“Of course you intended to stare. It’s ridiculous to say that you can stand there staring without intending to. I consider you a dirty, spying bitch, Edith, and I’d fire you instantly if only my husband would permit it. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“All right. Because you’re such a bitch and would like to think the worst possible things about me, I’ll tell you that I spent the night with my friend Bernardine DeWitt. Do you understand that, Edith? Do you understand that clearly?”
“Yes, Madam. With Mrs. DeWitt.”
Turning, Charity went on through the apartment to her own room. She took off all her clothes, and lay down on her back across the bed and closed her eyes and pressed the eyeballs with the tips of her fingers until the pain became intense. She felt shaken and sickened by the scene with Edith, and every time one occurred, which was frequently, she swore that one would never happen again, but one always did, and the worst of it was that the mistress always seemed to come out of it in the wrong position, Charity the bitch, instead of Edith. Well, this time she had made what might turn out to be a bad mistake, which was what came of losing your temper and saying things without thinking. She had said that she spent the night with Bernardine, had committed herself to the lie before it was secured, and now Bernardine would simply have to help her or she would be in more trouble than she could handle. She would have to call Bernardine without delay, this instant, and secure the lie.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she picked up her telephone, which was a private line, not an extension, and held it in her hands and tried to think of Bernardine’s private number, the one to the phone in her bedroom, not the one to the apartment that a servant would answer. After an effort, she remembered the number and dialed it, and fortunately Bernardine was there and answered.
“Hello, Bernie,” Charity said. “This is Charity.”
“Charity!” Bernardine’s voice, which had sounded sleepy when she answered the telephone, became suddenly lively. “My God, darling, whatever in the world became of you?”
“Well, that’s why I called. I want to talk to you about it. I seemed to remember that you were in the group last night that I went several places with, but I wasn’t absolutely sure.”
“I was there all right, darling, but where the hell were you? After a while, I mean. We looked and looked for you, but you had simply disappeared.”
“I met Milton Crawford in that place where we were, the last place, and he wanted me to go away with him to another place, and I did.”
She hesitated, wondering how much she ought to tell Bernardine, but she knew that she might as well tell it all, only leaving out names, for Bernardine was no fool, and a lie that she would know was a lie might just annoy her sufficiently to make her refuse to help. You could tell from the very quality of the silence on the wire that Bernardine was waiting for Charity to ask whatever favor she’d called to ask and was prepared to be contrary about it if there was the least bit of nonsense.
“Well,” Charity said, “I went on to this other place with Milton, and he got to be a bore by patting my leg constantly and urging me to go to his apartment with him, and finally I left by myself and blacked out and ended up in this place where there was a beautiful piano player who tried to help me find Milton, but we couldn’t. That’s about all there is to it, Bernie, except I didn’t come home, and Oliver will want to know where I was.”
“So do I, darling. Where were you?”
“I told you, Bernie. I was with this piano player.”
“Imagine! With a piano player! Darling, how was he?”
“Look, Bernie, I know it’s very amusing and all that, but I’m feeling pretty desperate about it, and what I need is help. You being divorced and all, not having a husband to say anything different to Oliver, I thought maybe you’d be willing to let me tell him I spent the night with you.”
“And to lie for you, of course, if he asks me about it.”
“Obviously it wouldn’t do any good for me to say I had if you said I hadn’t.”
“Obviously. Darling, I don’t want to make a big issue out of a little lie, but I remember doing this for you once before, and I wouldn’t want it to become a habit.”
“I’ll never ask you again, Bernie. Honestly, I won’t.”
“All right, darling. I’ll lie to Oliver for you if it becomes necessary. Sometime you must tell me how it is with a piano player.”
Bernardine laughed as if it were the greatest of jokes, and Charity said thanks and good-by. After replacing the telephone in its cradle, she lay back across the bed and pressed again on her closed eyes with the tips of her fingers. She was pretty sure she could trust Bernardine, so she could quit worrying about that part of it now. What she needed to do was take a hot shower and get into bed properly for a couple of hours, but she was suddenly too exhausted to move.
She wondered if Joe Doyle were still asleep in the room in the house not far from Washington Square, or if he had awakened by now and found her gone.