“I really don’t think I slept with him,” she said. “I really don’t.”
“Well, there you go,” I said. “She’s really pretty sure she didn’t. And anyway, whether she did or not isn’t anybody else’s business anyway.”
“Damn right,” she said. “You listen to him, Jeff. What he’s saying makes sense. It isn’t anybody else’s business.”
“Yeah, but I’d know,” he said, thumping his chest. “In here. And if my folks ever hear, they won’t want me to marry her.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Oh, no,” she said. “He’s not kidding. His parents are just like that. His mother got me alone the other night and asked if I knew what to do on my wedding night. I mean, it was sweet and scary at the same time. If they hear that I’m only seventy-five percent sure I’m a virgin-”
“The wedding’s off,” Cronin said. He looked ready to go crazy. Straitjacket time.
And then he was on his feet and stomping across the small space of my office. Out the door.
Down the steps.
She put her head down and wept.
Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in hot gasps.
I wished I could hold my liquor. My dad and I are just too small to be good drinkers.
I pulled a chair up next to her and started patting her head and back and shoulders. I wasn’t sure what else to do. She just kept sobbing. I started alternately rubbing and patting.
And then she turned to me and put her wet face into my neck and said, “I’m not telling the truth, McCain.”
“You’re not?”
“I said I was seventy-five percent sure nothing happened? But I’m really only about fifty percent sure.”
And took her sobbing up yet another notch.
Fifty percent was a long way down from seventy-five percent on the absolutely sure scale. A long way. But I guessed it didn’t matter.
“He loves you.”
“I know.”
“And he wants to marry you.”
“You sure?”
“I’m positive. Just look how miserable he is.”
She lifted her head and looked at me.
“I’m not sure I understand that one, McCain.”
“If he didn’t want to marry you, he wouldn’t be miserable. Don’t you see?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’ll talk with him tomorrow.”
“And say what?”
“Tell him he’s in danger of losing you.”
“What if he doesn’t care?”
“He cares; believe me, he cares.”
“It’s not fair. Women don’t care if men are virgins. And I’m probably a virgin anyway.”
“Yeah, I know. Fifty percent.”
“Maybe sixty, then. If that sounds better.”
“I wouldn’t give him any more statistics, if I were you.”
She threw her arms around me and held me tight. I liked her. And she smelled good to boot. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What if you found out your fianc@ee wasn’t a virgin?”
I thought of Pamela. “I’d marry her in a minute.”
“God, it’s just so unfair. My mom’s as bad as his. All I ever got growing up was “Nobody’ll want you if you’re not a virgin.” And even if Chip and I did do something, I only did it because I was drunk and mad at Jeff. Jeff was the one who broke up with me. He gave me my Eddie Fisher records back and everything.”
Then I said, “He’s waiting outside in the car.”
“How do you know? Maybe he left me here.”
“He didn’t leave you. I can hear his car.
He loves you.”
“He hates me.”
“Well, at the moment he hates you a little bit. But he loves you a lot more.”
“You’re deep, McCain. You know that? People always say that about you, how deep you are.”
“Well, I try, God knows. Being deep isn’t always easy.”
I slipped from her arms to the door. He was sitting out in the station wagon that belonged to his father’s gas station.
“He’s out there waiting.”
“I love him so much, McCain.”
“I know you do. And he loves you.”
She was at the door. Hugging me. “I really appreciate your talking to us.”
“No problem. I enjoyed it.”
A chaste little kiss on the cheek and then she was hurrying down the steps to the car.
I waved to them. Cronin didn’t wave back. He just backed up the wagon before she’d quite had time to close her door.
I went inside and resumed my life’s work of being deep, which isn’t half as easy as you might think. Just ask Socrates.
Just before five, the phone rang.
“Hi, Sam. This is Miriam Travers.”
“Hi, Miriam. How’s Bill?”
“Oh, actually coming along a little better than the doctor thought he would. In so short a time, I mean.”
“That’s great.”
“The reason I’m calling, Sam, is to ask if you’ve seen Mary.”
“Isn’t she working at Rexall?”
“It’s her afternoon off.”
“Oh.”
“She said she was going to stop by your office and then come home. She said she had something important to tell you.”
“Gee, no, I haven’t seen her. Of course, I haven’t been here all afternoon either.”
“Well, if you do see her, please tell her I’ll hold supper for her.”
“I sure will, Miriam. And that’s great news about Bill.”
At the time, I didn’t think anything of the call. A lot of times, Mary got in her old DeSoto and drove to Cedar Rapids or Iowa City to shop. Being almost twenty-three, she didn’t feel any great need to tell her mother her plans.
A harmless shopping trip.
That was my first conjecture about her absence.
But it would prove to be very wrong.
Perfume. A glimpse of a candlelit dining room. A Jerry Vale Lp on the record player. Mrs. Goldman was up to something tonight.
Her door was open so I peeked in. I wanted to ask her if she’d seen who’d dropped off a letter for me. An unstamped letter.
She was looking mighty fine, Mrs.
Goldman was, in a tan tailored suit, her dark hair swept up in a stunning Cyd Charisse hairdo.
“Wow.”
She laughed. “Thank you, McCain.”
“In fact, double wow.”
“My optometrist friend is coming for dinner tonight.”
“He doesn’t stand a chance.”
She smiled. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
“So your date Saturday night went well?”
“Very well. Except for a little guilt now and then. You know, as if I were betraying my husband by going out.”
“You’ll get over that.”
“I suppose. But I’ll never forget him.”
The smile this time was sad, remembering her husband. She changed the subject. “So what’s up with you?”
I remembered the letter. “You see who dropped this off on the front porch?”
“Afraid not, McCain. I was downtown most of the afternoon.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll let you get back to setting the stage.”
“I made peach pie. I’ll save you a piece.”
“Thanks.”
Up in my apartment, I settled in with a beer and a cigarette. Early autumn dusk, the colors of the sky, the last birds of day filling the fiery trees with song and silence. Soon enough their winter trek south would begin. In the alley, a couple of kids were playing the last act of their cowboy movie for the day, a shootout in which one was the victor and the other got to ham up a slow death as he dropped to the ground. Far away you could see the lights of the football stadium. They were testing everything for the big game Friday night.
I sat in the easy chair with a Four Freshmen album on the hi-fi. As much as I like rock-and-roll, I also appreciate the simple beauty of the human voice.
I kept studying the envelope and the letter inside.
Chevy ‘ee: (312) 945-3260
That’s all it said.
Who had left the letter for me? And why?
Cliffie was convinced that Mike Chalmers had killed Susan to avenge his prison sentence. But if the ‘ee Chevy figured in the killing, it would tend to exonerate Chalmers. He didn’t own a ‘ee Chevy.
I was just about to dial the 312 number when the phone rang.
“Hi, Miriam,” I said.