“Alice?”
“No. You have the wrong number.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he hung up.
He called four more times that day, and each time he got the same woman who was not Maggie. The last time, he had run out of voice variations. When she said “Hello?” he simply hung up.
He did not want to go to Felix, but he could see no other choice open to him. He stopped off at the Anders’ house on the way home from the bakery. Felix was outside with June, his youngest child. At the Gault Cape Cod across the street, Larry could see no sign of life.
“Can you talk?” he asked Felix.
“What’s the matter? You look in a bad way.”
“We were spotted Tuesday,” Larry said, “and now I can’t get her on the phone. I’m going out of my mind.”
“Relax,” Felix said masterfully. To his daughter, he said, “Junie, don’t pull out the grass.” His daughter nodded, yanked up a clump of grass and stuck it into her mouth, clinging earth and all. Felix pulled it away from her and slapped her hand. “Damn kid sticks everything in her mouth,” he said to Larry. “She swallowed a whole package of phonograph needles last week. Would you believe it?”
“Felix, could you ask around? Ask Betty? Find out what’s happening?”
“Who saw you?”
“Mary Garandi.”
“She’s harmless. A dope.”
“Then why hasn’t Maggie answered the phone?”
“Maybe she’s in the shower.”
“Since Tuesday?”
“Maybe she went away for a while.”
“She didn’t say anything about it.”
“Women are funny. Maybe she went away to think. They like to think a lot. Or at least they like to think they’re thinking. Women don’t really know how to think. Most of their thought emanates from their—”
“Felix, would you find out, please?”
“I’ll try. I can’t ask too many questions or Betty’ll tip. You don’t want Betty to tip, do you?”
“No. But I want to know.” Again he looked across at the Gault house. It seemed empty and silent.
“I’ll try. Can I do more than that?” He smiled. “How’s Eve?”
“Fine.”
“Pretty woman,” Felix said pleasantly.
“Felix, will you find out?”
“Sure,” Felix said. “I’ll try.”
On Monday morning Felix went to work as usual in the Lexington Avenue butcher shop. He changed his clothes in the back room, and then went out to cut meat. At ten o’clock he was slicing cutlets. With his left hand pressed against the meat, he skillfully worked the sharp blade of the knife through the cutlet, stopping just before it was completely severed, and then flipped it open to form a thinner, larger cutlet. He swept some scraps of meat from the chopping block into the bloody bucket behind it, lifted the waxed paper with its meat, and put it onto the scale.
“A pound of veal cutlets, Italian style,” he said. “Anything else, dear?”
The young matron standing before the counter pointed into the glass display case. “How are the sweetbreads?”
“Sweeter than you, dear,” Felix answered, smiling.
“Stop it, Felix,” the woman said, returning the smile. “If they’re fresh, I’ll take half a pound.”
“Fresh and sweet,” he said, and he opened the case. At the back of the shop, the telephone rang. His partner lifted it from the hook and then yelled, “Felix! It’s for you!”
“Excuse me, dear,” Felix said to the woman. Wiping his hands on his blood-stained apron, he went to the phone. “Hello?” he said.
“Felix, this is Larry Cole.”
“Who?” He paused. “Oh, Larry, yes. How’s it going, Larry?”
“Did you find out?”
“Find out?” Felix frowned. “Oh! Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s right. I was supposed to call you, wasn’t I?”
“Well, what is it?”
“She’s sick.”
There was a silence on the line.
“What do you mean sick?” Larry asked. “Is it anything serious?”
“Just a virus. But she had a fever, and they won’t let her out of bed. The phone’s downstairs. That’s why she hasn’t been answering it.”
“Who’s the woman there?”
“Her mother.”
“Oh.”
There was another long pause.
“Why don’t you go see her?” Felix asked, grinning.
“Maybe I will,” Larry said.
“Don’t be stu—” Felix started, but Larry had already hung up.
The woman who answered the door could have been no one but Maggie’s mother. The same hair and eyes, the same figure, older, not as sharply defined, but the same figure.
“Yes?” she asked. Her voice, too, was very like Maggie’s. It held the slight tremolo of advanced years, but as a girl her voice must have been Maggie’s exactly.
“Hello,” Larry said pleasantly. “I’m one of the Gaults’ neighbors. We heard Margaret was ill. I thought I’d stop by.”
Mrs. Wagner appriased him silently. “How nice,” she said. “Come in.”
Larry stepped into the hall. It was the first time he’d been inside the Cape Cod, and he felt rather strange, more like the intruder than he’d ever felt.
“She’s uptairs,” Mrs. Wagner said. “I’ll see if she’s decent.”
“Mother?” Maggie called. “Who is it?”
“It’s just Larry Cole,” Larry answered. “Heard you were sick.” His heart was pounding. He was sure her mother could hear the pounding.
“Oh, come up, Larry,” she said, and there was so much warmth and longing in her voice that he almost ran for the steps. He restrained himself and allowed Mrs. Wagner to precede him. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m Margaret’s mother, Elizabeth Wagner.”
“How do you do?” Larry said.
“You live right in the development, do you?”
“Yes.”
“How nice,” Mrs. Wagner said. “No work today?”
“Hmh?”
“It’s Monday. Are you—”
“Oh, I work at home mostly.”
“That’s very convenient,” Mrs. Wagner said. “What do you do?”
“I’m an architect.”
“That’s a nice profession.”
“Yes.”
They walked into the bedroom.
She sat in the center of a large canopied bed. She was wearing a sheer bedjacket under which was a nylon gown, and he was ashamed of himself for the first thought which entered his mind. But he could not keep his eyes away from the sharp impact of her nipples against the sheer fabrics. She wore no lipstick, no makeup. For the first time since he’d known her, the tiny scar was distinct and clear, a miniature white cross on her cheek. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She looked very pale and very tired, and she smiled weakly when he came into the room with her mother.
“Hello, Larry,” she said.
“Hello, Margaret,” he answered. He smiled. He wanted to rush to the bed and take her into his arms. “How are you?”
“She’s feeling much better,” Mrs. Wagner said, standing at the foot of the bed, looking first at Margaret and then at Larry.
“Are you?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“What’ve you got?”
“A virus.”
“They’re murder.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have any fever?”
“Yes. But I’m all right now. How’s Eve?”
“Fine.”
“And the children?”
“Fine.”
“I got sick last week. Don called my mother. He has to work, you know. He couldn’t stay home to take care of an invalid.”
“I see,” Larry said. His eyes locked with hers. Her face looked pure and young and untouched and magnificently beautiful.
“How’d you know I was sick?”