“Which idiotic game?”
Pursing her lips, Susie mimicked his voice. “‘I really do wish the moon were made of green cheese. There was never enough cheese at home; we used it for prizes in our Monopoly games, which my father always won. He used loaded dice, which is why I hate my father.’”
“That game.”
“You underestimate Harriet,” said Susie. “She knows exactly what you’re up to, and considers you a lunatic anyway.”
“Harriet is very discerning.”
“I think you just hate psychologists.”
“Just psychologists named Harriet.”
The waitress brought Susie a cup of coffee. Mervyn watched while Susie poured in cream. Then he leaned forward. “Speaking of secrets, tell me one of yours.”
Susie, stirring the coffee, smiled. “I have so few.”
“Why did your sister Mary leave for Los Angeles?”
Susie reflected. “I might tell you,” she said presently, “if I really knew, which I don’t. Not really.”
Mervyn looked politely incredulous. “Your own sister?”
“Or I might guess,” said Susie with a shrug, “if I knew why you were interested. Of course, you were — you are — in love with her. I suppose that’s reason enough.” There was a suggestion of hostility in Susie’s voice. “You do love Mary, don’t you?”
Mervyn smiled the crooked smile. “What do you mean by love? It occurs on so many levels. Worshipful love. Puppy love. Carnal love. The love of a cowboy for his horse. Mother love.”
“Mary is not a church, or a puppy, or carnal. She’s neither a cowboy nor a horse. Or a mother.”
“In all likelihood I love you. Do you love me? Honestly, now.”
“You’re evading the question. Please answer me. It’s important.”
Mervyn considered. “Let’s put it this way,” he said at last. “If I were shipwrecked on a desert island and Mary arrived on a life raft, I wouldn’t order her back to sea.”
“Are you or are you not in love with her?”
“You’re a persistent little cuss.”
“Are you going to answer?”
“It’s a silly question. Everybody loves Mary. She’s a local institution.”
Susie made an extravagant gesture. “Don’t think I’m offended. Why should I be? Everybody’s nice to me. I’m Mary’s mousy kid sister, happy for even a blind date. Sick with joy when a Mervyn Gray asks me to go out.”
Mervyn laughed uneasily. “Mousy. This is how you think of yourself?”
“How do you think of yourself?”
“Oh, a modern-day Quixote. Or the fellow A. E. Housman wrote about, the one who left his necktie God knows where.”
“Literary, as usual.”
Mervyn raised an eyebrow at the unexpected attack. “I teach English literature. I read books.”
“Don’t apologize; it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Mervyn sighed. “You’re completely perverse.” He thought of his chart and the ratings. “A clear score of ten.”
“Is that good? Or bad?”
“It’s as perverse as you can get. How about telling me whom Mary went off with?”
Susie sat back, surveying Mervyn through narrowed eyes. “Are you jealous?”
“Of course not.”
“Why the fever, then?”
“Someday I’ll explain.”
“Very well,” said Susie. “I’ll tell you everything I know for sure. On Friday, June the fourteenth, Mary finished her finals.”
“This I know. I wound up mine the same day.”
“Whereupon she arranged to meet John.”
“This I know, too. But which John?”
“Harriet, the source of the information, claims to have no clue. Neither do I.”
“It’s the first time Harriet hasn’t known everything about everything.”
The waitress stood by the table. “Twelve o’clock. We’re closing.”
Susie insisted on paying for her own coffee. At the cashier’s desk Mervyn, reaching for his wallet, drew out the chart. He started to crumple it, changed his mind, stuffed it back in his pocket. A conceit crossed his mind. He pulled the chart out once more and glanced down the headings. Interesting. Highly. Enlightenment... If he dared take it seriously?
He accepted his change and joined Susie in the street. She looked at him curiously. Mervyn drew a breath. “So much for that.”
“So much for what?”
“For June twenty-fourth. It’s now June twenty-fifth.” The day he had been promised death.
“For me it’s the twenty-fourth,” said Susie. “Till I go to bed.”
Mervyn looked up at the sky. “What a beautiful night. Notice the moon. And all those feathery clouds.”
“Is that what they call a mackerel sky?”
“Imagine a night like this at sea.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“Some people call me a brutal realist. To Harriet I’m a madman. I wonder why.”
“Perhaps because you’re half romantic and half brute realist.”
They walked down Telegraph Avenue and presently came to Mervyn’s dark-blue Volkswagen. He opened the door; Susie hesitated an instant, then got in. Mervyn slid into the driver’s seat, looked sidewise toward Susie. “I think I’ve learned something. It just came to me.”
“What?”
Before answering, Mervyn started the car, pulled out into traffic. “It’s a complicated business. Do you have to get home right away?”
“No.”
Mervyn looked at her with his twisted grin. “Let’s drive to Reno and get married.”
“Not on June twenty-fourth. That’s bad luck.”
“But it’s June twenty-fifth.”
“For me it’s still June twenty-fourth, I told you.”
“So you refuse me.” He reached in his pocket and brought out the chart. He switched on the map light, handed the chart to Susie. She studied it with care. “What do you think of it?”
“It seems, on the whole, haphazard. Some of these headings are sinister.”
“Something sinister has taken place. You’ve had no word from Mary?”
Susie’s face became impassive. “No.”
“It’s been a week.”
“And a half.”
“Has it occurred to you that she might have had an accident?”
Susie made no response.
“That she might even be dead?”
Susie sat like a statue. They were driving through a long tunnel; the overhead lights lit her face in quick, recurrent flashes.
“Well?” asked Mervyn. “Has the thought occurred to you?”
“Naturally.”
They came out of the tunnel, coasted down the road between dark-firred mountains. Mervyn chose his words carefully. “I’ve been thinking about this situation.” He paused. “I really think Mary is dead.”
Susie was silent. Then she said, “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
Mervyn looked pained. “I’m a member of the faculty. That means I’m like Caesar’s wife — I can’t just avoid evil, I shouldn’t even know what the word means.”
Susie blew a skeptical sound through her teeth.
“You think I’m overcautious?” he asked.
“Some such idea had occurred to me, among others.”
“The perquisites of the teaching assistant are few. If I keep my nose clean I get an instructorship in the fall semester. And that’s only half the story. My thesis is a translation of a Provençal geste, cum commentary. It happens to be old Burton’s specialty, and he’s as good as promised me an assistant professorship as soon as my Ph.D. comes through. This is absolutely meteoric promotion, the break of a lifetime. Now consider the headlines: ‘Instructor at Cal Questioned in Sex Slaying.’ I might as well learn a new trade.”
“So it was a sex slaying.” Susie’s voice was brittle.
“That’s what the newspapers will call it.”