“And he pulled a knife on Bob Posin.”
Jim said, “Who cares?”
She shrank away. She found her handkerchief in her pocket and began to cry into it, her head turned away from him; she cried as quietly as possible.
“Don’t listen to me,” he said.
“No,” she said, “you’re right.”
He reached over and caressed her arm. “Why don’t you shut up? Nobody feels sorry for you. When we get into town, we’ll stop and buy something for your eye.”
“I don’t want anything,” she said. “You know what he called me? He called me a lot of terrible things—I haven’t heard words like that since I was a child. And he wanted me to borrow on my car; he wanted—” Again she was crying. She could not help it. She cried on and on, and Jim Briskin paid no attention.
The freeway joined with other freeways leading into San Francisco. In due time they were driving above houses. Most of the houses were dark their lights were off.
His apartment was cold and dark. Patricia remained by the door while he lit lamps and pulled down the window shades.
“Haven’t you been here?” she asked.
“Not for a while.” In the light he saw how really tired she was, how lined and unhappy her face had become. A careworn face, he thought. “Better sit down,” he said.
Pat said, “You know, at first he drove me wild; he was always after me.”
“You said that first night was terrific,” he said.
“Yes.” She nodded, sitting with her hands folded, her feet close together. “But the next night, after he hit me . . . it went on and on—my god, I thought I’d die. He kept coming back. I’d think he was asleep—maybe he was, for a little—and then there he’d be, wanting to start again.” She glanced up timidly. “So we kept at it. And in the morning when I woke up, I was sore all over. I could hardly get out of bed.”
“Get a good long rest,” he said.
“It’s awful to say,” she said. “To tell you.”
He gestured. “Why not?”
“Can I have a cup of coffee? I drank a bottle of wine. I feel sick.” She did look sick. But he had seen her a lot sicker. All in all she was lucky.
“Sweet wine?” he said.
“Port.”
“You kind of dropped your guard. Did you want it to break up?”
“Yes,” she said, “it had run its course.”
He knelt down so that he was facing her; taking hold of her hands, he said, “Is that the slogan?”
Her lips moved. “I don’t know. What do you mean, Jim?”
“What now?” he said.
“Now,” she echoed, “I realize my mistake.”
He left her and went into the kitchen to fix the coffee.
When he came back, she was still sitting with her feet tucked under her and her hands folded in her lap. How forlorn, he thought. How glad he was to get her back. The difference it made . . . the importance.
Giving her the coffee cup, he said, “You think I don’t love you as much as that kid loves you or said he loves you?”
“I know you do.”
“All right,” she said, holding her coffee cup. “I’ll marry you. Remarry you. Whatever they call it.”
The cup tilted; he took it away and set it on the floor. The giving-in, he thought. The surrendering on the part of the woman, the woman he completely loved. There was nothing like it on earth, nothing until the sky rolled up like a scroll and the graves opened and the dead walked. Until, he thought, the corruptible man put on incorruption.
“You won’t change your mind, will you?” he said.
“Do you want me to?”
“I don’t want you to change your mind.”
“All right,” she said, “I won’t.” Looking at him steadily, she said, “You don’t consider me used up, then?”
“Are you?”
The tears rose up in her eyes and spilled out. “I don’t know.”
“It’s unlikely.”
“You don’t want me,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks onto her collar.
“You mean I shouldn’t? Is that what you’re trying to say?” He lifted her up out of the chair. “Or you mean I should plead and beg? Which is it?”
She tried to speak. Helplessly clutching at him, she said, “I don’t feel well. Take me into the bathroom. Please.”
Half carrying her, he got her there. She refused to let go of him; holding on to her, he let her be sick. For a minute or so she passed out. But almost at once she recovered.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “God.” He lowered her until she was sitting on the rim of the tub. Wan and shivering, she rubbed his hand with her palm; she seemed feverish, and he wondered if she were really sick. “No,” she said, “I’m feeling better. It’s psychological.”
“Let’s hope so.”
She smiled brokenly. “My conscience. I told him we would have to pay. This is it, maybe.”
When she was stronger, he washed her face and led her back to the living room. Removing her shoes, he wrapped her in a blanket and propped her up on the couch.
“It was the coffee,” she said.
“You didn’t drink any.”
She wanted a cigarette.
As he lit it for her, he said, “You want me to go see if he brought your stuff up?”
“I’m not staying here,” she said. “I want to be in my own place. I don’t want to be anywhere but there.”
“Suppose he shows up?”
“He won’t,” she said.
“No,” he agreed, “I guess not.”
“I’ll stay with you,” she decided. “I can’t go back to that, the evasion, the way we were. I’ll stay here, and then when we’re married we can stay here or there, whichever you want. Or we can get a new place. That might be better.”
“I think so,” he said.
As he put his coat on, she said, “I’ll go with you. So l can see it and get what I need. We could go get the Dodge and bring it here . . . we could unload the stuff here.”
They sat around until she felt well enough, and then they drove to her apartment.
The Dodge was parked at the entrance. Inside the back her stuff was piled helter-skelter; Art had dumped it in and the hell with it. Bottles, clothes, shoes, even the carton of milk and the oranges and the loaf of Langendorf bread. And, on the floor, the empty wine bottle.
“Anyhow,” Pat said, “It’s probably all here.”
He parked his car, and then he drove the Dodge, with Pat beside him, back to his own place. To bed she wore a pair of red-and-white polka dot pajamas. “I feel new,” she said, “in these.”
In his shorts he brushed his teeth at the washbowl in the bathroom The time was three-thirty. Except for the bedroom and bathroom, the apartment was dark. The door was locked and the lights were off. In the bed Patricia lay smoking, an ashtray on the covers.
“You finished in there?” Jim said, coming out of the bathroom. “Yes,” she said, feeling content.
How lean he was, she thought, in his shorts. To her the sparse torso and arms and legs were a relief; for three days she had been held fast by a thick-limbed boy whose body dwindled from the loins down, a rubbery, boneless body, made up of muscles and fat, supported on legs too short. A boy’s body, she thought, not at all like this.
Switching off the light, Jim removed his shorts and got into the bed. In the darkness he put his arms around her.
“Isn’t it strange,” she said. “Now were back again. After two years. Nothing separating us, nothing holding us apart.” She was very happy. It was all for some purpose, she thought. It had ended in this. So it made sense. Not merely wasted motion . . . fatigue and injury for nothing.
Beside her Jim said, “You want to hear about Rachael?”
“Is there something?” She was almost asleep. But now, in her peace, she felt a coldness. Seeping into her, the coldness grew. “What do you mean?”