Christmas Eve! And her shopping not done!
So there had been one more bad day for Rainy Keating, out of a long series of bad days. As late as Arecibo she had been right on top of the world, and now she was under all 6595 X 1018 tons of it. She had never felt less Christmasy.
It had been her intention to get rid of the Feds, work out for an hour at the apartment health club, do her hair, go to bed early. That was all out now. She went Christmas shopping instead. It was not arduous; she had only three gifts to buy. A pipe and a bottle of perfume to take to San Diego for her parents, and one other; and as soon as she had found a nice-looking wallet and glove set and had it gift-wrapped, she got in her Volkswagen and drove to deliver it, in the home that had once been her own and now belonged to her ex-, or anyway almost ex-, husband.
Why the hell am I doing this? she asked herself, reaching out to perform the unfamiliar act of ringing her own front doorbell. She knew the answer. It was better to do this than to do the alternative. She could not forget Tinker for Christmas, because he wouldn't let her forget; if she didn't come here, he would go to her apartment. She had gone to a lot of trouble to prevent that—including bribing the doorman to keep him out, or, more accurately, rebribing the doorman after Tinker's own bribe to let him in. And if she went to him she had the option to leave. "Rainy, love!" he cried at the door, throwing his arms around her and kissing her on the lips. "Merry Christmas! It's marvelous to see you! I wasn't sure you'd come."
She shrugged herself free. "I promised," she said.
"Yes, you did." He closed the door behind her and had the coat off her back before she could say she couldn't stay. "I know I can trust your promise. Money in the bank. You'd never break a—"
"Tinker, God damn it!"
He paused at the hall closet, her trench coat in his hand. His expression went down through the spectrum, from the welcoming joy through apology to self-loathing. "Oh, Rainy," he said humbly. "I'm sorry, but I can't help feeling physically jealous."
"Oh, God, Tinker." But she wasn't really upset. Not any more; the nerve had worn out. "I'm keeping my promise about other men. Just as agreed. " Then, quickly, "Listen, I can only stay a moment. I've got to get home and pack—"
"You're going to see your parents? Wonderful. They're such great people, and I've got something for you to take them for me, if you wouldn't mind." He was fluttering around the room as he talked, winding up at the sideboard. "Of course, you'll have some eggnog," he said, setting out the crystal cups. "It won't take a minute, I've just got to get it out of the fridge."
She sat down, looking around the room to see what had been changed. Very little had. This exact corner of the couch was exactly where she had sat, night after night, to watch PBS television with Tinker by her side, with the same pillow that fit just properly into the curve of her back and the same remote control for the TV just at her left hand. From the kitchen he called, "I was talking about you in group today. Were your ears burning?"
Oh, God. "How's it going?" she asked out loud.
"Oh," he said, carrying in the crystal punch bowl, "you know. Slow. But there's real progress." He was still a good-looking man, she thought—balding a little, a little too plump, but with a face that had to be called "nice". That was a good word for all of Will Keating. It was strange that she hadn't been able to stand such, a nice man. The mannerisms that were objectively most attractive were the ones that got under her skin. That soft, gentle voice—how marvelously, paternally reassuring it had seemed when they were dating. The soft, caring way he looked at her and touched her, how much more adult and suave than the clutching of her age-mates in Griffith Park.
And the things that she had found strange and repellent no longer seemed serious. Tinker Keating was a psychotherapy junkie. Encounter group, bioenergetics, Primal Scream, Rolfing, Transcendental Meditation, orgone energy—all of them; first she had been startled, then it had seemed funny, finally pathetic. He was telling her now about the afternoon's session with his new group. She had turned her ears off, but the reproach in his voice seeped in: the pain he was trying to get rid of was pain that only she could heal. She stood up. "That's marvelous, Tink, but I really have to fly."
He dropped the story in mid-sentence. "But surely you're going to open your present?"
"Not until Christmas, Tink.' Santa Claus would be mad."
"At least another cup of eggnog? It's early. ..."
She couldn't avoid the second cup of eggnog, but she left as soon as she possibly could, his lovingly wrapped gift in her purse. She could feel that it was jewelry, and was glad she had avoided having his eyes on her when she discovered what tenderly thoughtful, madly extravagant bribe he had selected for her this time.
He had selected the furniture for their home, too. Oh, not as a matter of seniority. He had consistently asked her opinions at every step, and listened to what she said. But they both knew his opinions were better. She parked in the lot at her apartment, entered her home and looked it over appraisingly.
After an hour surrounded by Tinker's good taste the furniture she had bought with such pleasure for herself now looked tacky. It was not as good as the pieces she and Tinker had so carefully collected—not counting that it wasn't paid for.
At least there were messages on the answering machine. Three, of course, were from Tinker, all received while she was shopping for his Christmas present. One was from her instrument technician, Margie Bewdren; but when she called back Margie's number didn't answer. That was disturbing, because Margie had never called her at home before. What a drag! Plus the other drags, which was to say the fact that three times the answering machine had given her beeps but no message, which meant that, three times, someone had called but had hung up without speaking. She hated that. She tried to imagine who, or what three whos, it might have been while, every few minutes, while trying to catch up on all the other things she should be doing, she kept trying Margie's number.
Finally the technician answered. Her voice sounded remote and a little vague. "Oh, Rainy. Hi. Listen."
"I'm listening." What was wrong with the woman?
"I hate to bother you, but—well, have you been getting a lot of pressure from the F.B.I.?"
"Have I! You mean they're after you, too?"
"You bet your ass, hon. More all the time. I thought after the first time they'd just file their reports and go away but, jeez, Rainy, they just won't believe I'm giving them all the data. You think they suspect me of something?"
"I guess they suspect both of us, hon. Or maybe what they suspect is the Russians did it and we're too dumb to know it."
"Well, whatever it is, they've been bothering me at work. And I was supposed to go to the Cape for a Skylab payload job and that's been called off—I think they asked my boss to keep me here."
"Tell me all about it," Rainy ordered. "Let's see if they're asking us both the same questions."
It took forty-five minutes of comparing notes to be sure that the pattern was identical. Half the agencies of the federal government had taken an interest in the fate of Newton-8, but after the first few days it had settled down to the pair from the F.B.I. And they were not satisfied. Every interview with Rainy had provided questions to ask Marge; every answer from Marge had sparked a new question for Rainy. By the time Rainy said good-bye to her technician she was no longer scared. She was furious. And the phone rang again almost immediately and it was Tib Sonderman, looking for company at this irregular hour of the night. Rainy told him to come on over before she realized what she was saying; it wasn't so much that she wanted to see him as that she wanted to get him off the line so she could think about this harassment. But by then it was too late. Resentfully she went back to her thoughts and her chores; and then the phone rang again and, of course, it was Tinker. "Did I wake you up, dear?"