"How ghastly, Martha."
"And then came the affair with Freddy. And that was the end."
"What do you mean, affair?"
"I mean I had an affair with Freddy."
"Didn't you say you couldn't stand him?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. But first I must tell you about Licky. Poor Licky. She was so cute."
"Who was Licky?"
"A little Dalmatian. The cutest dog you ever saw. Dermott's wedding present. Well, Licky was in heat. And we kept her locked up in my bedroom. She could open all the doors, if you didn't lock them with the key. She was so smart. And I would take her down, three, four times a day, on the leash, of course, and never letting go of her for a minute. When she was in her third week—which is, of course, the worst possible moment—I came home one evening and saw Licky, loose, racing around like crazy, panting, her tongue out, and Will, going his way as if there was nothing to it. I said, for Christ's sake, Will, are you out of your mind? He said—he was so drunk—now don't start fussing. The mutt got her too, I saw it, he said, but so what. To hell with it all. I'll fix her up, he said. Don't start fussing. Then he got a shot from the vet—Ergotinina —I guess he gave it the wrong way, or, at any rate, much too much of it—he should have given her 3 cc and he gave her about 10—and poor Licky, her heart was not strong ever since she had had distemper. What we went through with that dog, sitting up days and nights, and I won't tell you what we spent on medicines and vet bills —that distemper had left her with a weak heart. And, what with that wrong shot, she beastly died."
"That's terrible."
"I am telling you all that, because he did exactly the same thing to me. He practically arranged it. He always managed to get the two of us together."
"But why?"
"I guess it wasn't enough for him to have taken me away from Derrnott. He wanted to take away Freddy too."
"Sheer wickedness."
"And jealousy. Anyway. One evening Dermott and Freddy came over, and Will said, and he was all dressed up, even with a hat, he said, Dermott and he had to go to a PEN Club meeting which was terribly important. He said he was arranging for some sumptuous prize to be awarded to Dermott—but Freddy and I couldn't come along, he said, because we were not members, and we should wait at home, and there was a new bottle of Scotch, and we should play some records. After we were half through with the Scotch, I assure you I felt so bored and so drunk, and there was nothing we had to say to each other, and I guess so I started making love to Freddy. Freddy was puzzled; he'd never done it with a girl before. But before we knew it."
"Goodness gracious."
"When we found out that I was pregnant, Will got so disgusting it's hard to describe. You know, he didn't get angry or passionate about it, just cold and cynical. Quite disgusting. He said, either you pull out of here or 1'll see to it that you get fixed up all right. He said he didn't want a child of Freddy's in his house. As a matter of fact he didn't want any child at all. I felt so sick and nauseated I told him it was all the same to me, just so long as he took care of everything. And he did. But I kept having pains afterwards, and then he would get me dope but I felt just terrible, terrible. And that Sicilian woman who came in to clean up, she knew all about it. She was tiny and black and her eyes stung. I still hear the click of her clogs and she kept hissing at me ammazzalo, you should kill him."
"Sicilians are quick at that."
"Between Will's own obessions and that Sicilian's constant whispers I gradually got quite used to the idea." "Did you really want to kill him?"
"I guess I did not really want anything at all. One evening I said I wished I had died like Licky. And he said: But Licky was a good bitch. At that moment I picked up that pistol from his desk—I was sitting near his desk—and pointed it at him. I did not know whether it was loaded, and I don't know how to fire a gun anyway. I just kept pointing it at him. And he grabbed a hunting knife and leapt forward and spat like a cat: So you are going to kill me, no, you aren't. And he smiled. Now I don't understand whether it was because he wasn't as tough as he thought he was, or because he had the knife in his right hand—you know, he was left-handed—at any rate, I dropped the pistol and tried to wrestle the knife from him. He was so awkward and so weak, come to think of it, he practically slashed his cheek—the left one—with his own hand, and then the knife slipped and stuck in his left arm. He yelled and stepped back to pull it out and I picked up the pistol again and pointed it against him, just in case he attacked again. But, I don't know how, the pistol fired. And that was the end."
"Oh, Martha, poor poor girl. Don't cry now. It is all too terrible for words. It is even more terrible than you think it is. But now it's all over. Poor, poor Martha, it is not your fault, and it will be plain for every one to see. Look at the scar on my cheek . . . right check ... my right arm was badly mangled too. You asked me the first day what it was. Now I'll tell you. It's weird. Martha, my wife, she got pregnant too. But she did not want it at all. If you want to breast-feed him you can have him, she said to me. Her lips were pale, her cheeks drawn, her eyes shot venom."
"Maybe she was really ill."
"With the kind of service you've got to put up with here, she said, I'd lose years playing nursemaid. Farewell to social life. Farewell to lectures and studies. And as sick and delicate as I am, she said. The allergies. Just shut up at home. That's what you wanted, I know, she said. There was no way of stopping her."
"But if she was really sick ..."
"She said, and how do you know it is your child? She said it out of sheer meanness. There was absolutely no reason for supposing that it was not my child. I guess she was much too selfish to plunge into the sea of trouble, to go through all the fluster and gripes it takes to have a lover."
"Couldn't it be that she was too nice?"
"Why are you trying to defend her?"
"She's dead."
"I remember, I remember: She hustled in her dressing gown and kicked up the kind of smell nasty ladies have on them in the morning. You know. Mixed up perfumes and powders and greases and sleep and some coffee in it . . ."
"You too go in for smells?"
"Are you trying to be funny? It is strange. I never thought of that. Anyway, what would you have told her?"
"I'd let her go to hell. I mean, I suppose, you should have comforted her, encouraged her, told her it would be a fine baby."
"Oh, come on now."
"What did you tell her then?"
"I felt so disgusted by that time—hapless creature, I thought—so I merely said: You're your own boss, darling. It's your problem. You solve it."
"And she?"
"I never saw anybody turning so green. I suppose she expected me to fall on my knees and beg her not to do it. But I simply didn't feel like it."
"And so she got it fixed?"
"I didn't see her until after it was all over. She felt lousy and she hated me for it. I guess it was all my fault."
"What do you mean, your fault, if the same thing happened to Will just about at the same time?"
"Wasn't it his fault? Didn't he act simply beastly?"
"How could it have been his fault, if it happened to you too?"
"Whose fault is it then?"
"I guess fault isn't the right word here"
"Well. Now you are getting nearer to where I want you to get. Because surely it was not your fault—"
"Go on with your story."
"I am nearly at the end. We did not see much of each other after that. And we didn't see anybody else. Only once I accepted an invitation for lunch, at the Wilcoxes at Winnetka. Martha said she was glad to go to the Wilcoxes. It was a Sunday, and so foggy you couldn't see your own hand at an arm's length, and we took the Outer Drive."