This Sweet Sickness (19 page)

He went to bed, but the brandies and the coffee kept him from sleeping. He felt wide awake and hopeless of sleeping for hours. A disturbing feeling that something was the matter with Annabelle—she was sick or had had an accident—made him want to telephone her, but suppose nothing was wrong and he simply woke her up and annoyed her? Suppose she thought he was a little off his head for getting premonitions? He vowed not to telephone tonight, no matter how he felt.

He put on a robe, went into the sitting room, and addressed an envelope to Mrs. Beecham at Mrs. McCartney's. He wrote her a letter telling her about his new job and his new house, about the eastern windows of his kitchen and living room and bedroom that were so good for plants, and he promised to bring her a praying begonia that he had just bought, because he did not remember that she had any. At that moment, David felt a great desire and need to pay her a visit and to have a long talk, though he knew the impulse might not last. It even occurred to him, though he did not put it in his letter, to invite her to spend a day with him here, to fetch her and take her home again in the evening. After all, he had turned over a new leaf. David Kelsey. Nothing to hide. He sealed the letter, stamped it, and put it on the table by the front door.

Suddenly he felt infinitely better and almost cheerful. He got a beer from the refrigerator, thinking it would help him to get to sleep. As he got into bed with the beer and a book, a thought came to him: he ought not to call Annabelle for ten days. He had been importuning her—just because he wanted her to see his house, just because she was free now—and Annabelle had never liked that. Let her miss his calls a little, and be glad when she heard his voice again.

He thought of her just before he slept, saw her standing in the living room in Hartford, saw her figure turn as she went about some ordinary action, and it was like a little knife in his heart.

Exactly ten days later, on a Tuesday, he called at seven in the evening. A childlike voice answered and said, “Hello?”

“Hello. Is Annabelle there, please?”

“Uh-uh. She's out with Grant.”

“With what?”

“
Grant
. Barber,” she added. “They went to the movies and she won't be back till late.”

“What's late? What time?”

But the child had hung up.

David sat, frustrated, on the sofa for a minute. Grant. He thought of Ulysses S. Grant's bearded face with cap and cigar, thought of an army tank moving on crude tractors. He stood up. Was Barber his last name or was he a barber? David shrugged. Had Annabelle ever mentioned the name Barber? He thought she had, but he couldn't remember when or how. He'd try tomorrow night then. It was only one more day to wait.

23

A
nnabelle was in the next evening. David had rehearsed himself well, and his tone was cheerful and light. He proposed a Saturday lunch at his house, and he would come and get her and bring her back.

“I just don't think I can get away that long, Dave,” she said with a sigh.

“Well, a shorter time—without lunch?” he asked, dismal already. There was such a long silence, he said frantically, “Hello? Operator, are we cut off?”

“No, I'm still here.”

“Please, Annabelle,” he begged, all his composure and resolution gone. “It's been so many weeks now. I'm just asking for a couple of hours.” The whine in his voice mortified him. “Well if you can't—”

“All right, Dave, maybe around three?”

“You mean, can I pick you up at three? We'll drive back to my place?”

But she didn't mean that. She hadn't time for the drive. She suggested going somewhere in Hartford, begged off going to his house on the grounds of taking care of the baby, and David, half defeated, said: “We'll go anywhere you like, Annabelle. I'll pick you up at three.”

“Maybe earlier. Can you make it at two?”

After they had hung up, he thought it was not impossible that he could persuade her to drive on to his house with him. Not impossible they could have dinner here Saturday night. If she had to get a baby-sitter, that could be arranged by telephone. Or should he call back and suggest she bring the baby with her? He gave that up.

He walked around his house for a while, hands in his pockets, went upstairs twice, strolling about and judging everything with Annabelle in mind. He had started to mention the piano again on the telephone and had checked himself. She knew about the piano. He couldn't tempt her with material things (or was a piano really a material thing?) and it was shameful to think he could. He hadn't written her any letters lately. Would that have helped?

“To hell with it all!” David muttered suddenly, and went downstairs to get a beer. He thought that beer had a sedative effect, and beers were also nourishing. His appetite was bad lately, and he was losing weight.

The telephone rang and David flew to it.

He heard the operator saying, “Seventy-five cents, please,” and David said quickly, “Tell her she can reverse the charges,” but he was drowned out by the clanging of coins.

“Annabelle?” David said.

“Dave? This is Wes.”

“Oh! Hello Wes.”

“I just called up to see how you are. I'm with Eff and a couple of other people. Well, how are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. And you?”

“Very fine. Greetings from Michael's Tavern! Why didn't you phone or something in all this time?”

“I don't know.”

“You sound gloomy tonight. Want to talk to Eff?”

He almost said no, and said nothing.

“Hello, Dave. How are you?” Effie asked.

“Very well, thanks. Thank you for your housewarming gifts, Effie. I should have written you a note. They're very pretty. I use the place mats every day.”

“You did write me a note,” she said with a laugh. “A very nice note. Have you forgotten?”

“Must have. Sorry.” He wet his lips.

“Has Annabelle been to see you?”

“Why, yes,” he said so loudly, it roared in his own ears. “She was over a couple of times. She likes the house. Haven't you spoken to her?” he asked politely, loathing the idea they might have spoken to each other.

“No, I haven't. Well, you're on better terms then. I'm glad.”

“Oh, fine terms.”

“Would you like to speak to Wes again?” shakily. “Here he is.”

“Hey, who's Annabelle or Plurabelle or whatever?”

“Oh—my car,” David said.

“Ha ha ha. Is she the girl? The famous girl?”

“No, she is not,” David said.

“Come on now.”

“Can I speak to Effie again?”

But Wes paid no attention to that request. He asked David about his job, and then said that Effie wanted to come up and see him. “With me, if—” Wes hesitated, and David heard his breath against the telephone. “Dave, I'm sorry about that night. I guess we were both a little loaded. I certainly was.”

“That's okay, Wes. We can let it go, can't we?” At that moment, he had only a vague memory of the evening. More important was that he wanted Wes as a friend. “I'd like you to come up some time, Wes. I'd have to make you a map to get here. I can mail you one.”

“Will you do that, Dave? Right away, so you don't forget?”

“I will, Wes.”

“Can I bring Effie up when I come? You can say yes or no,” Wes said in a lower tone. “She can't hear us now.”

“It makes a different atmosphere,” David said, “having her. Maybe some time but—”

Wes said he understood. He said he would come up some time by himself, and David said if he made it on a Saturday, he could put Wes up for the night. Wes sounded delighted.

“You needn't tell Effie—about the first time you come up,” David told him.

David had a funny feeling after he had hung up, that the conversation really hadn't happened. It seemed incredible, unspeakably shameful that he had uttered Annabelle's name to Wes, even though he had done it accidentally. And Wes had repeated it. David shuddered at the thought Effie might break down and admit to Wes that Annabelle Delaney was the girl he loved, and tell Wes all the rest of it too. Or could he trust her? Wouldn't Wes, anyway, remember that Mrs. Gerald Delaney's name was Annabelle? It scared him. He tried to imagine Wes sitting with him in his living room, and this was frightening too.

But why, David Kelsey? What was the harm or the danger there? Why should he have set up a law for himself that Annabelle had to be his first visitor, the first person beside himself to set foot in the house? And after all, Annabelle might still get there before Wes did. He had a date with her Saturday.

Remembering Saturday, he felt better, and almost jubilant.

He sat down and drew a map for Wes to get to his house from Troy. He wanted to add a little note to it, but he found he had nothing to say, or was not in the mood.

David made such good time Saturday on his way to Hartford he had to kill an hour in the town. He parked the car at a meter, and walked along one of the business streets, looking into the windows of jewelry stores. It occurred to him that he had never before thought about what kind of wedding ring he would give Annabelle. The one she wore was one of those plain bands of gold, solid and convex, that had become too common in the world for David's taste. He preferred the very thin silver rings, set with tiny blue or white diamonds.

When he drove up to the red brick apartment house promptly at two, Annabelle was standing on the steps waiting for him. She waved to him, came toward the car, and David jumped out to meet her.

“Hello, darling! Both of us on the dot!” He touched her arm and kissed her quickly on the cheek—not a rehearsed move, and he felt somewhat awkward, having to press her arm to keep his own balance, and he noticed with dismay, too, that she drew back from him a little. She wore a black cloth coat that was new to him and a black hat like a thick beret.

“I know what your eyes are like now,” David said. “Star sapphires.”

She smiled and looked away from his face. “Is that your car?” she asked with surprise.

“Yep, a new one. I mean, a different one. I decided to trade mine in for a convertible.” He opened the car door for her.

“I don't think—I want to drive anywhere, Dave. I haven't that much time. There's a new restaurant just around the corner. A Chinese place.”

“Let's drive, anyway,” he said, smiling. “I want you to try the car.”

She shook her head. There was a funny tenseness about her.

Reluctantly he closed the door, had to slam it twice to make it catch. “All right. We'll walk.” He knew now it was hopeless that she would drive with him to his house.

The Chinese place was called the Golden Dragon, small and gaudy, but at least it looked quiet. They took one of the semicircular booths. David asked if she had had lunch, hoping she hadn't, but she had.

“You haven't,” she said. “Please have something.”

He was hungry, but he ordered only tea, for both of them. It would have been depressing to eat when she did not. He noticed she did not have her wedding ring on, and he wondered what that might mean. “If you'd like a drink along with the tea—now or later?”

“No, thanks, Dave. I love this Chinese tea.” And patiently she waited for it, not looking at him.

They had been here before, he thought, the lunches that he rushed to so confidently, and then—It was like a crazy chess game in which he advanced one position and then had to retreat to the position he had been in before. He pulled an envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “I wanted to show you some pictures of the house.” He had brought the pictures along, reluctantly, in case she wouldn't be able to drive to the house with him, and he had thought it defeatist to anticipate that, and yet here it was—a lot better than nothing, after all. Among the pictures were two interior shots, one of which showed the piano with its top up.

“It's just—spectacular!” Annabelle said in a tone of awe, and David laughed.

“It's for you. It has to be pretty,” he said. “Now
when
are you going to come and see it, at least?” Her hand, the ringless hand, was only inches from his, which rested on the red upholstered bench. He took her hand gently, hungrily, and a sigh came from his chest and for an instant seemed to drain his strength.

“David, I think I ought never to see it.” She rushed on before he could speak. “I don't know how else to say it. However I say it, it's bad, I know—and not nice.”

“Well—” he stammered, and released her hand because she wanted him to.

“It's harder for you, if I see it, that's what I mean to say. I know it's beautiful. You've spent a lot of money—”

He groaned. “I hoped you would like it. I hoped you would like me—
love
me. And I think you would, if you gave me a chance. You don't give me much of a chance, Annabelle. You don't give me much of your time. With no time together, it's hard to tell—I mean, look at both of us, sitting here stiff as pokers,” he said with a laugh. “Is there any need of it? Couldn't you have visited me weekends, lots of weekends, and brought the baby with you, if you had to?”

“Women don't usually visit single men on weekends,” she said, smiling.

“Oh,
rot
!” Then, seeing she was shocked at his tone, he said, “Well, we could've had the baby as chaperon. We still could. How about it?”

She shook her head and with a forefinger drew back into place a strand of hair that had been disarranged since she took her hat off. She waggled the half-empty teacup in its saucer, staring at it. “Would you like to see Mr. Neumeister's letter?”

“Of course I would.”

She took it from her pocket and handed it to him.

David unfolded it and read it quickly but with interest, almost as if he had never seen it before. His eyes paused momentarily at the two typing errors he had deliberately made and corrected with a pencil, his own typing being rather good. “It is a nice letter,” he said when he had finished.

“I was darned glad to get it. I'm going to keep it.”

And David saw the start of tears as she replaced it in her pocketbook. “I'm glad you have it,” he said gently. “I still want to know—when you might come to the house.”

“Oh, Dave—you make it so hard for me to talk to you.”

“Good God, I don't mean to. What're you trying to say? I'll help you.”

“I think you'd better turn loose of me—emotionally and every other way. You know you said—or maybe you didn't exactly say it, that after Gerald died, there'd be a chance for me to see.” Her eyes still staring at the teacup, were suddenly brimming with tears. One zipped down her cheek, and David pulled out his pocket handkerchief.

“Darling, here.”

She got her own Kleenex from her pocketbook. “Well, it's no different now, Dave.”

“You're still in love with Gerald?” It was easy for him to ask it, because he had never believed it. “But you're not going to stay a widow all your life, are you?”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly, and put the wet Kleenex back in her bag.

“Well, how long do I have to wait?”

“That's what I mean. I'm afraid it can't ever be—with us. That's what's so hard to tell you—because you won't understand. Even I don't understand.”

Tears in her pretty eyes. She seemed to be going through more torture than he was. He slid closer and put his arm around her, pulled out his handkerchief again. “Darling, I can't stand to see you—”

“Please, Dave.” She pressed him away.

And he had only wanted to wipe her eyes, as one wipes a crying child's eyes. “I don't think you understand
me
, Annabelle. You don't understand the kind of feelings I have for you. They're deep. They won't go away.”

She said nothing. And the tears still oozed. Now she was using his handkerchief.

“Had you rather I took you home now? Would you like to rest for a while and maybe I can see you this evening?” he asked, desperate as to what to propose.

“I'm busy this evening—Dave, do you know what I've been trying to say?”

He nodded, mute.

“That it's useless for you to call me any more? That I can't see you as a friend, because that's not the way it is with you, on your part,” she said in a rush, “and that I do know what all this has been for you. It must be like a nightmare. I'm not heartless, Dave.”

“Heartless! I never thought—” He stopped. It was as if he had bumped suddenly against a stone wall. He blinked, frightened.