This, to his surprise, Anita chose to take seriously. "You don't mean that!"
"Mean what?"
"That I should be jealous of Katharine Finch. That dumpy little -"
"Wait a minute!" The conversation was really afield now. "I just meant there was about as much chance of there being something between Katharine and me as there was of there being something between you and Shepherd."
She was still on the defensive, and apparently hadn't grasped the negative sense of his parallel. She came back at him aggressively. "Well, Shepherd is certainly a more attractive man than Katharine is a woman."
"I'm not arguing that," said Paul desperately. "I don't want to argue that at all. There isn't anything between Katharine and me, and there isn't anything between you and Shepherd. I was simply pointing out how absurd it would be for either one of us to suspect the other."
"You don't think I'm attractive?"
"I think you're devastatingly attractive. You know that." His voice had gotten loud, and as he glanced out at the street scene he saw that he and Anita, the would-be observers, were being observed. A paper boat shot the rapids to the storm sewer unnoticed. "I didn't bring us here to accuse each other of adultery," he whispered hoarsely.
"Then why did you?"
"I told you: so we could both get the feel of the world as a whole, not just our side of the river. So we could see what our way of life has done to the lives of others."
Anita was on top of the situation now, having successfully attacked and confused Paul, and having found that she wasn't being baited or punished. "They all look perfectly well fed to me."
"But they've had the spiritual stuffing knocked out of them by people like my father, like Kroner and Baer and Shepherd, like us."
"They couldn't have been too well stuffed in the first place, or they wouldn't be here."
Paul was mad, and the delicate mechanism that kept him from hurting her stripped its gears. "Here, but for the grace of God, go you!"
"Paul!" She burst into tears. "That's not fair," she said brokenly. "Not at all fair. I don't know why you had to say that."
"It isn't fair for you to cry."
"You're cruel, that's what you are - just plain cruel. If you wanted to hurt me, congratulate yourself. You certainly did." She blew her nose. "I must have had something these people don't, or you wouldn't have married me."
"Oligomenorrhea," he said.
She blinked. "What's that?"
"Oligomenorrhea - that's what you had that these others don't. Means delayed menstrual period."
"How on earth did you ever learn a word like that?"
"I looked it up a month after we were married, and it etched itself on the inside of my skull."
"Oh." She turned crimson. "You've said enough, quite enough," she said bitterly. "If you won't drive me home, I'll walk."
Paul started the car, abused the gears with savage satisfaction, and drove back across the bridge, toward the north side of the river.
When they'd reached the mid-point of the bridge, he was still warmed and excited by the sudden fight with Anita. By the time they were under the guns of the Ilium Works, rationality and remorse were setting in.
The fight had been a complete surprise. Never had they gone at it so poisonously. More surprising, Paul had been the vicious one, and Anita had been little more than a victim. Confusedly he tried to remember the events that had led up to the fight. His memory was no help.
And how completely fruitless and destructive the fight had been! In the heat of a bad instant he had said what he knew would hurt her most, would, by extension, make her hate him most. And he hadn't wanted to do that. God knows he hadn't. And here he was with his cheery and careful plans for starting a new life with her shot to hell.
They were passing the golf course now. In minutes they'd be home.
"Anita -"
By way of an answer, she turned on the car radio and impatiently twiddled the dials, waiting for the volume to come up, presumably to drown him out. The radio hadn't worked for years.
"Anita - listen. I love you more than anybody on earth. Good God but I'm sorry about what we said to each other."
"I didn't say anything to you like what you said to me."
"I could cut my tongue out for having said those things."
"Don't use any of our good kitchen knives."
"It was a freak."
"So am I, apparently. You passed our driveway."
"I meant to. I have a surprise for you. Then you'll see how much I really love you - how insignificant that stupid fight was."
"I've had quite enough surprises tonight, thank you. Turn around, please. I'm worn out."
"This surprise cost eight thousand, Anita. Still want to turn around?"
"Think I can be bought, do you?" she said angrily, but her expression was softening, answering her own question. "What on earth could it be? Really? Eight thousand dollars?"
Paul relaxed, settling back in his seat to enjoy the ride. "You don't belong in Homestead, sweetheart."
"Oh, hell - maybe I do."
"No, no. You've got something the tests and machines will never be able to measure: you're artistic. That's one of the tragedies of our times, that no machine has ever been built that can recognize that quality, appreciate it, foster it, sympathize with it."
"It is," said Anita sadly. "It is, it is."
"I love you, Anita."
"I love you, Paul."
"Look! A deer!" Paul flicked on his bright lights to illuminate the animal, and recognized the captain of the Green Team, still jogging, but now in an advanced state of exhaustion. Shepherd's legs flailed about weakly and disjointedly, and his feet struck the pavement with loud, limp slaps. There was no recognition in his eyes this time, and he floundered on heedlessly.
"With every step he hammers another nail into my coffin," said Paul, lighting a fresh cigarette from the one he had just finished.
Ten minutes later he stopped the car, went around to Anita's side, and affectionately offered his arm. "The latchstring is out, darling, for a whole new and happier life for the two of us."
"What does that mean?"
"You'll see." He led her to the front door of the low little house through a dark, fragrant tunnel roofed and walled by lilacs. He took her hand and placed it on the latchstring. "Pull."
She tugged gingerly. The latch inside clattered free, and the door swung open. "Oh! Ohhhh -Paul!"
"Ours. This belongs to Paul and Anita."
She walked in slowly, her head back, her nostrils wide. "I feel like crying, it's so darling."
Hastily, Paul checked the preparations for the tricky hours ahead, and was delighted. Mr. Haycox, probably in an orgy of masochism, had scrubbed every surface. Gone were the soot and dust, leaving only the clean, soft, glowing patina of age over everything - the pewter on the mantel, the cherry case of the grandfather clock, the black ironware on the hearth, the walnut stock and silver inlays of the long rifle on the wall, the tin potbellies of the kerosene lamps, the warm, worn maple of the chairs. . . . And on a table in the center of the room, looking archaic, too, in the soft light, were two glasses, a pitcher, a bottle of gin, a bottle of vermouth, and a bucket of ice. And beside these were two glasses of whole, fresh milk from the farm, fresh hard-boiled eggs from the farm, fresh peas from the farm, and fresh fried chicken from the farm.
As Paul mixed the drinks, Anita went about the room sighing happily, touching everything lovingly. "Is it really ours?"
"As of yesterday. I signed the final papers. Do you really feel at home here?"