A wave of nausea rose through her body, and Esther gripped the corner of the night table behind her, swaying a little, swallowing again. — If we had had a child. . she murmured. — Yes, if we…
— And you understand it, his voice came on at her, — this moral action, it isn't just talk and — . . words, morality isn't just theory and ideas, that the only way to reality is this moral sense. .
— Stop it! she cried out. — Stop it!… She caught herself, and took up the handkerchief again quickly for saliva was running from the corner of her mouth beyond the apprehension of her swallowing. — Moral sense! she repeated loudly at him. — Do you think women have a moral sense? Do you think women have. . any morals? that. . that women can afford them?
— Esther. . He started toward her round the end of the bed.
— Oh no! she said. — No! Do you know how much she has to protect? and every minute more? And you make these things up, and force them on her, men take their own guilt, and call it moral sense and oppress her with it in the name of… She shrank back as he came close to her. — In the name of Christ why didn't you go on and. . stay where you came from, and be a minister where you came from, instead of… coming here where I… she shuddered as he took her arm, — have so much to protect.
— Esther, he said to her, that close.
— But now you. . are here, she said to him in a whisper. The nausea had fallen away, abruptly as it had come,' leaving her in his grip with her teeth chattering as she spoke, and her tears did not fall but spread evenly into the wetness of her cheeks. Two of her fingers sought his wrist, and tried to close on it. — You. . she articulated from a wild breath in his face, — now you are here to. . stay and protect…
They stood there with three senses locked in echo of the fourth, and she licked her lip.
— Sorry. .
The door banged against the wall.
— They're still there only talking …
The door banged closed.
— Esther. . you don't understand? His hand opened.
— You're not. . going to…
— Not yet, because tonight, when I've done what I have to do…
— Not yet! She stepped away as though she had broken from him. The clothes bundle fell to the floor. He put a hand out, and then withdrew it slowly, and stooped to recover the clothes.
Esther stared at the wrinkled black of his bent unsteady figure only for a moment. Then she opened the handkerchief, wadded all this time in her hand, and blew her nose as she crossed the room to the mirror, and he backed toward the door.
— I'd better go, he said, from there.
She did not answer. She had picked up a lipstick, and stood contorting her mouth, drawing generous lips. Then a rush of sound broke over her, and she looked up quick as the door came open behind him, and he stood there in the course of the waves pouring in around him, his back to it, not straight but still as a rock secure against the flood, safe until the turn of the tide.
— Because this. . one thing I have to do is… crucial, Esther.
— Crucial? she repeated calmly, and still she did not turn from the mirror. — And you think it will work, well it won't. Whatever it is, it won't. She watched her lips as she spoke, paused to draw them in, purse them, separate them so that her large teeth showed, and smudge the handkerchief between them.
And she stopped, dry and silent, as the door came closed where he stood against it. — What are you going to do? she asked him. — I don't mean this. . thing you're up to now, this crucial thing, whatever it is, I don't care what it is, but after all this what are you going to do? What are you going to do?
— I don't know but I think… he started precipitously, and as he went on his voice was strained but for the first time there was no doubt in it, and no effort to control excitement, — if we go on… if we go on we're finally forced to do the right thing, but. . and how can I say, now, where, or with whom… or what it will be.
Then he lost his balance and almost went over as the door came open behind him in someone else's hand.
— Rose!
— I saw you here.
— My razor, I forgot that, he said, between them, turning. — A straight razor with black handles, is it in the bathroom?
Rose followed him there. Looking for the thing, he paused half turned to her, seeming slightly confused at the scent of lavender she brought with her.
— Rose…
— I heard a poem, Rose said, — "A magnet hung in a hardware shop…"
— It's not here.
— Rose, Esther said, — that music is too loud, Rose.
Around them the sounds of voices reached separate crests, broke in spray, and lay in foam awash on the surface of the swells as the music rose and receded, and the faces themselves seemed to lift into a moment's prominence, immediately lost in the trough that followed. So Benny's face was raised, and stood out inflated with effort, and dropped from sight again.
— To find out what sex it is you just spread it out and blow.
Esther looked down to see the kitten, unfurled upside down between large thumbs. — Here, give it to me, give it to me, she said, rescuing it. The nausea startled up in her for a moment.
— It's the worst feeling in the world, said the tall woman beside her.
— What? Esther asked, drawing the kitten in to her.
— To know you've laid a cigarette down somewhere.
The little girl tugged at her skirt. — Mummy sent me up again. . The tall woman laid a hand on her wrist. — You didn't tell me that he was coming tonight. Esther turned quickly, startled. — Do you know him?
— No, my dear, and I didn't know that you did.
— But. . Oh, Esther said. Looking round to where he had been standing beside her she realized that the tall woman was talking about someone else.
— Did you like his book?
— What book? Esther asked, looking where the tall woman was looking, at a man in a tan suit who had just fallen over one end of the couch.
— Now don't tell me you don't know about The Trees of Home? Or are you snobbish about best sellers too?
— No, I…
— My husband says he stole the plot from the Flying Dutchman, whoever that is. My husband meets all sorts of people.
The man in the tan suit, back on his feet, was saying, — Why should I bother to write the crap for those speeches? I'm lucky I can stand up before the Rotary Club and deliver them. Some faggot writes them for me.
Near him, someone obligingly derived fnggot from the Greek phagein. —Phag-, phago-, -phagous, — phagy, — phagia. . the voice whined. — It means to eat.
Arny Munk, propped against a wall with Sonny Byron's arm around him, said, — Really ought to tell Maude, ought to tell her. . huhhh. . the University of Rochester has discovered huhhhh how to make synthetic morphine huhhhhp from coal tar dyes. .
— I think you're sweet, said Sonny Byron, soberly.
Mr. Feddle was standing on a chair, reaching for a book on a high shelf. The swinging alarm clock hit a girl on the back of the head, and she stopped singing I Can't Give You Anything But Love.
Esther, listening intently beyond the tall woman's voice to escape it, heard only a whine, — the decay of meaning, and you can't speak a sentence that doesn't reflect it. You're enthusiastic over sealed-beam headlights. Enthousiazein, even two hundred years ago it still meant being filled with the spirit of God. .
She would have gone direct to the couch and sat down, had not Benny caught her by both hands and turned her to face him. — Where did he go? Where is he? Who was that?
— Why. . my husband. Do you know him?
— Where is he? What was he doing here?
— He just came to get. . some things. . Two or three people turned, curious at the tone in their voices, Benny's excitedly high, while Esther spoke with faltering intensity, as though forced to affirm, and repeat affirmation to this impersonal, circumstantial demand which was Benny. — You're hurting my wrists, she said.