all my love' across the bottom of it AS USUAL SHE WAS LATE FOR THE NINE O'CLOCK class. Sitting in the back of the room, he watched the rows of seats fill up with students. It was raining outside and ribbons of water sluiced down the wall of windows. The seat on his left was still empty when the lecturer mounted the platform and began talking about the City Manager form of government.
He had everything in readiness. His pen was poised over the notebook opened before him and the Spanish novel, La Casa de las Flares Negras, was balanced on his knee. A sudden heart-stopping thought hit him; what if she picked today to cut? Tomorrow was Friday, the deadline. This was the only chance he would have to get the note, and he had to have it by tonight. What would he do if she cut?
At ten past nine, though, she appeared; out of breath, her books in one arm, her raincoat over the other, a smile for him lighting her face the moment she eased through the door. Tiptoeing across the room behind him, she draped the raincoat over the back of her chair and sat down. The smile was still there as she sorted her books, keeping a notebook and a small assignment pad before her and putting the remaining books in the aisle between their seats. Then she saw the book that he held open on his knee, and her eyebrows lifted questioningly. He closed the book, keeping his finger between the pages, and tilted it towards her so that she could see the title. Then he opened it again and with his pen ruefully indicated the two exposed pages and his notebook, meaning that that was how much translation he had to do. Dorothy shook her head condolingly. He pointed to the lecturer and to her notebook -she should take notes and he would copy them later. She nodded.
After he had worked for a quarter of an hour, carefully following the words of the novel, slowly writing in his notebook, he glanced cautiously at Dorothy and saw that she was intent on her own work. He tore a piece of paper about two inches square from the corner of one of the notebook's pages. One side of it he covered with doodling; words written and crossed out, spirals and zigzagging lines. He turned that side downward. With a finger stabbing the print of the novel, he began shaking his head and tapping his foot in impatient perplexity.
Dorothy noticed. Inquiringly, she turned to him.
He looked at her and expelled a troubled sigh. Then he lifted his finger in a gesture that asked her to wait a moment before returning her attention to the lecturer. He began to write, squeezing words onto the small piece of paper, words that he was apparently copying from the novel. When he was through, he passed the paper to her.
Traduccion, por favor, he had headed it. Translation, please Querido, Espero que me perdonares por la infelicidad que causare. No hay ninguna otra cosa que puedo hacer.
She gave him a mildly puzzled glance, because the sentences were quite simple. His face was expressionless, waiting. She picked up her pen and turned the paper over, but the back of it was covered with doodling. So she tore a page from her assignment pad and wrote on that.
She handed him the translation. He read it and nodded. 'Muchas gracias,' he whispered. He hunched forward and wrote in his notebook. Dorothy crumpled the paper on which he had written the Spanish and dropped it to the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw it land. There was another bit of paper near it, and some cigarette butts. At the end of the day they would all be swept together and burned.
He looked at the paper again, at Dorothy's small slanted handwriting: Darling, I hope you will forgive me for the unhappiness that I will cause. There is nothing else that I can do.
He tucked the paper carefully into the pocket on the inner cover of the notebook, and closed it. He closed the novel and placed it on top of the notebook. Dorothy turned, looked at the books and then at him. Her questioning glance asked if he were finished.
He nodded and smiled.
They were not to see each other that evening. Dorothy wanted to wash and set her hair and pack a small valise for their weekend honeymoon at the New Washington House. But at eight-thirty the phone on her desk rang.
'Listen, Dorrie. Something's come up. Something important.'
'What do you mean?'
'I've got to see you right away.'
'But I can't I can't come out. I just washed my hair.'
'Dorrie, this is important.'
'Can't you tell me now?'
'No. I have to see you. Meet me at the bench in half an hour.'
'It's drizzling out. Can't you come to the lounge downstairs?'
'No. Listen, you know that place where we had the cheeseburgers last night? Gideon's? Well, meet me there. At nine.'
'I don't see why you can't come to the lounge...'
'Baby, please.. '
'Is-is it anything to do with tomorrow?'
'I'll explain everything at Gideon's.'
'Is it?'
'Well, yes and no. Look, everything's going to be all right. I'll explain everything. You just be there at nine.'
'All right.'
At ten minutes of nine he opened the bottom drawer of his bureau and took two envelopes from under the pajamas. One envelope was stamped, sealed, and addressed: Miss Ellen Kingship North Dormitory Caldwell College Caldwell, Wisconsin He had typed the address that afternoon in the Student Union lounge, on one of the typewriters available for general student use. In the envelope was the note that Dorothy had written in class that morning. The other envelope contained the two capsules.
He put one envelope in each of the inner pockets of his jacket, taking care to remember which envelope was on which side. Then he put on his trench-coat, belted it securely, and with a final glance in the mirror, left the room.
When he opened the front door of the house he was careful to step out with his right foot forward, smiling indulgently at himself as he did so.
Gideon's was practically empty when he arrived. Only two booths were occupied; in one, a pair of elderly men sat frozen over a chessboard; in the other, across the room, Dorothy sat with her hands clasped around a cup of coffee, gazing down at it as though it were a crystal ball. She had a white kerchief tied about her head. The hair that showed in front was a series of flattened damp-darkened rings, each transfixed by a bobby pin.
She became aware of him only when he was standing at the head of the booth taking off his coat. Then she looked up, her brown eyes worried. She had no make-up on. Her pallor and the closeness of her hair made her seem younger. He put his coat on a hook beside her raincoat and eased into the seat opposite her. 'What is it?' she asked anxiously.
Gideon, a sunken cheeked old man, came to their table.
'What's yours?'
'Coffee.'
'Just coffee?'
'Yes.'
Gideon moved away, his slippered feet dragging audibly. Dorothy leaned forward. 'What is it?'
He kept his voice low, matter-of-fact. 'When I got back to my place this afternoon there was a message for me. Hermy Godsen called.'
Her hands squeezed tighter around the coffee cup. 'Hermy Godsen...'
'I called him back.' He paused for a moment, scratching the tabletop. 'He made a mistake with those pills the other day. His uncle-' He cut off as Gideon approached with a cup of coffee rattling in his hand. They sat motionless, eyes locked, until the old man was gone. 'His uncle switched things around in the drugstore or something. Those pills weren't what they were supposed to be.'
'What were they?' She sounded frightened. 'Some kind of emetic. You said you threw up. Lifting his cup, he put a paper napkin in the saucer to absorb the coffee that Gideon's shaking hand bad spilled. He pressed the bottom of the cup into the napkin to wipe it.
She breathed relief. 'Well that's all over with. They didn't hurt me. The way you spoke on the phone, you got me so worried...'
