“Then they wouldn’t be yours.”
“Okay,” said Allen. “Will you remember to bring home some Peeks? They’re full of iron and stuff.”
“I’ll try.”
“Can we go to the movies?”
Mary said, “I thought you were going to dye the Easter eggs. I’m boiling them now. You can take them out on the sun porch after dinner.”
“Can we go up in the attic and look at the books?”
“If you turn out the light after. Once it burned for a week. You left it on, Ethan.”
When the children had gone, Mary said, “Aren’t you glad they’re in the contest?”
“Sure, if they do it right.”
“I can’t wait to tell you—Margie read me in cards today, three times, because she said she never saw anything like it. Three times! I saw the cards come up myself.”
“Oh! Lord!”
“You won’t be so suspicious when you hear. You always poke fun about tall dark strangers. You can’t guess what it was about. Well—you want to guess?”
He said, “Mary, I want to warn you.”
“Warn me? Why, you don’t even know. My fortune is you.”
He spoke a harsh, bitter word under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Slim pickings.’ ”
“That’s what you think, but that’s not what the cards think. Three times, she threw them.”
“Cards think?”
“They know,” said Mary. “Here she read my cards and it was all about you. You’re going to be one of the most important men in this town—that’s what I said, most important. And it’s not going to be long either. It’s very soon. Every card she turned showed money and more money. You’re going to be a rich man.”
“Darling,” he said, “please let me warn you, please!”
“You’re going to make an investment.”
“With what?”
“Well, I was thinking about Brother’s money.”
“No,” he cried. “I wouldn’t touch it. That’s yours. And it’s going to stay yours. Did you think that up or did—”
“She never mentioned it. And the cards didn’t. You are going to invest in July, and from then on, it’s one thing after another—one right after another. But don’t it sound nice? That’s the way she said it—‘Your fortune is Ethan. He is going to be a very rich man, maybe the biggest man in this town.’ ”
“Goddam her! She’s got no right.”
“Ethan!”
“Do you know what she’s doing? Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I know I’m a good wife and she’s a good friend. And I don’t want to quarrel with the children hearing. Margie Young is the best friend I’ve got. I know you don’t like her. What I think is you’re jealous of my friends—that’s what I think. I had a happy afternoon and you want to spoil it. That’s not nice.” Mary’s face was mottled with angry disappointment, and vengeful toward this obstacle to her daydreaming.
“You just sit there, Mr. Smart, and tear people down. You think Margie made it all up. She didn’t, because I cut the cards three times—but even supposing she did, why would she do it except to be kind and friendly and offer a little help. You tell me that, Mr. Smart! You find some nasty reason.”
“I wish I knew,” he said. “It might be pure mischief. She hasn’t a man or a job. It might be mischief.”
Mary lowered her voice and spoke with scorn. “You talk about mischief—you wouldn’t know mischief if it slapped you in the face. You don’t know what Margie goes through. Why, there are men in this town after her all the time. Big men, married men, whispering and urging—nasty. Sometimes she don’t know where to turn. That’s why she needs me, a woman friend. Oh, she told me things—men you just wouldn’t believe. Why, some of them even pretend they don’t like her in public, and then they sneak to her house or call her up and try to get her to meet them—sanctimonious men, always preaching morals and then doing like that. You talk about mischief.”
“Did she say who they were?”
“No, she didn’t and that’s another proof. Margie don’t want to hurt anybody even if they hurt her. But she said there was one I just wouldn’t believe. She said it would turn my hair gray if I knew.”
Ethan took a deep breath and held it and let it out as a huge sigh.
“Wonder who it could be,” Mary said. “The way she said it was like it was somebody we know well and just couldn’t believe.”
“But she would tell under certain circumstances,” Ethan said softly.
“Only if she was forced. She said that herself. Only if she had to if like her—honor, or her good name, you know… Who do you s’pose it could be?”
“I think I know.”
“You know? Who?”
“Me.”
Her mouth fell open. “Oh! You fool,” she said. “If I don’t watch you, you trap me every time. Well it’s better than gloomy.”
“A pretty kettle. Man confesses to sins of the flesh with wife’s best friend. Is laughed to scorn.”
“That’s not nice talk.”
“Perhaps man should have denied it. Then at least his wife would have honored him with suspicion. My darling, I swear to you by all that’s holy, that never by word or deed have I ever made a pass at Margie Young-Hunt. Now will you believe I’m guilty?”
“You!”
“You don’t think I’m good enough, desirable enough, in other words you don’t think I could make the grade?”
“I like jokes. You know it—but that’s not something to joke about. I hope the children haven’t got into the trunks up there. They never put anything back.”
“I’ll try once more, fair wife. A certain woman, initials M. Y.-H., has surrounded me with traps, for reasons known only to herself. I am in grave danger of falling into one or more of them.”
“Why don’t you think of your fortune? The cards said July and they said it three times—I saw it. You are going to get money and lots of money. Think about that.”
“Do you love money so much, cottontail?”
“Love money? What do you mean?”
“Do you want money enough so that even necromancy, thaumaturgy, juju, or any other dark practices are justified?”
“You said it! You started it. I’m not going to let you hide in your words. Do I love money? No, I don’t love money. But I don’t love worry either. I’d like to be able to hold up my head in this town. I don’t like the children to be hang-dog because they can’t dress as good—as well—as some others. I’d love to hold up my head.”
“And money would prop up your head?”
“It would wipe the sneers off the faces of your holy la-dedas.”
“No one sneers at Hawley.”
“That’s what you think! You just don’t see it.”
“Maybe because I don’t look for it.”
“Are you throwing your holy Hawleys up at me?”
“No, my darling. It’s not much of a weapon any more.”
“Well, I’m glad you found it out. In this town or any other town a Hawley grocery clerk is still a grocery clerk.”
“Do you blame me for my failure?”
“No. Of course I don’t. But I do blame you for sitting wallowing in it. You could climb out of it if you didn’t have your old-fashioned fancy-pants ideas. Everybody’s laughing at you. A grand gentleman without money is a bum.” The word exploded in her head, and she was silent and ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said. “You have taught me something—maybe three things, rabbit footling mine. Three things will never be believed—the true, the probable, and the logical. I know now where to get the money to start my fortune.”
“Where?”
“I’ll rob a bank.”
The little bell of the timer on the stove took up a slow-spaced pinging.