Hornets and Others

He heard Ginny come in, heard her hesitate as she beheld his prone body on the couch, heard her mutter, 'Wonderful,' and waited until she stalked off to the bedroom and slammed the door before trying to rouse himself. Blearily opening his eyes, he saw the orange sun setting through the living room window. It looked like a fat pumpkin.

Maybe there's something I can use there, he thought blearily. A fat old pumpkin named Pete...

He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

A noise roused him. He knew it was much later, because it was dark through the window now. A dull white streetlight lamp glared at him where the sun had been.

He stared at the grandfather clock in the adjacent dining room, and saw that it was nearly eleven o'clock.

He heard noise off in the hallway leading to the front door.

He hoisted himself into a sitting position on the couch. Head in his hands, he saw the empty Scotch bottle on the floor on its side between his legs.

'Wonderful indeed,' he said, remembering Ginny's use of the word hours before, as the first poundings of an evening hangover began in his temples.

He stood, and discovered he was still mildly drunk.

And there, piled in the hallway leading to the front door, was much of what Ginny owned, neatly stacked and suitcased.

Holy shit.

He suddenly discovered he wanted another drink. He found his way to the liquor cabinet, and was rooting around for an unopened bottle of Scotch when Ginny returned.

In a cold, even tone, she said, 'Don't you think you've had enough to drink for one day?'

'Just one more, to clear my head,' he said. 'I get the feeling I'm going to need it'

She was beside him, her hand on his arm as he removed the discovered fifth of Dewers. To his surprise, her grip was gentle.

'Please don't,' she said, and moved her hand down to take the Scotch from him.

Sudden resentment and anger boiled up in him. He pulled the bottle away, keeping it in his own hand. He turned away from her and twisted the cap off, looking unsteadily back into the living room for the glass tumbler he had used.

Ginny, amazingly, kept the gentle tone, but it had hardened slightly into urgency: 'Please don't, Peter—'

'Just one!' he said, swiveling back to take a fresh tumbler from the top of the liquor cabinet, where they stood, cut crystal sparkling like winking eyes.

He poured and drank.

'I really can't take this any longer,' Ginny said quietly, and the continued mild tone of what she said made him focus.

'Take what? Me?'

'Yes.'

He grunted a laugh. 'So you're going to—leave?'

'I think I have to'

'You gonna run to your lover? Jump into Bill Revell's arms?' Even as he said it, even with his drunkenness, he knew it was a mistake.

Silence descended on the room like a cold hand. 'I told you, Peter—'

He poured another drink, downed it. 'You told me! You told me!'

He waved the tumbler at her. 'What if I don't believe you?'

With iron control she motioned toward the dining room table. 'Sit down, Peter.'

He moved the neck of the Scotch bottle to the tumbler, but her hands were firmer this time, yanking the bottle and glass out of his grip.

'Sit down.'

He did so, fumbling at the chair until she pulled it out for him. He sat, and watched her sit on the opposite side of the table. Startled, he saw that there were tears in her eyes.

'I'm going to say this for the last time, Peter,' she began, and suddenly he was focused on her as if he'd been struck suddenly sober. He knew by everything—by her posture, her voice, the tears in her eyes—that this was the pivotal moment they had been moving toward for the past weeks.

'I'm listening,' he said, the fight out of him before it had even begun.

She studied his face for a moment. 'Good. Then please listen closely, because this is the best I can do to explain what's happened to us.' She took a deep breath. 'First of all, I never had an affair with Bill Revell, and never would. He's your agent, and, quite frankly, I don't like him. He's smart but he's ruthless, and the only reason he's with you is that you're making him money. We both know he would drop you in a second if you stopped producing.'

Kerlan thought of his conversation that afternoon with Revell. 'You're right about—' he began, but Ginny cut him off.

'Let me finish. I was merely being polite to him at that party in September. He tried to kiss me and I didn't let him. End of story.'

'I saw—'

'You saw him try. I turned my cheek and let him peck me there. That's what you saw. After you turned away I told him as nicely as I could that if he ever tried to kiss me again I'd knee him in the balls.'

Kerlan felt an odd urge to laugh—this sounded so much like the old Ginny, the one he had fallen in love with. But instead he just stared at her.

'You said that? You never told me—'

'You never let me tell you. For the last month you've been treating me like a leper. Ever since you started that Halloween magazine assignment Revell got you.'

He found that his head had cleared to a miraculous extent. It was as if the importance of the moment had surged through him, canceling out the liquor.

'You know I've been having trouble with it—'

Ginny laughed. 'Having trouble? Like I said this morning, you've been nothing but a monster since you began researching it.'

'The money's too good—'

'To hell with the money—and to hell with Bill Revell! Just tell him you can't do it!'

'I've never had trouble with anything before—'

She leapt on his words as if she had been waiting for them. 'Isn't that what this is all about, Peter? Isn't this all about you not being able to pull the trigger when you want to? It's always come easy, hasn't it? You've always been able to write when you wanted or needed to—and now for the first time you've got. . . writer's block—'

'Don't say that!' he nearly screeched. She had touched the nerve, and even she seemed to know she had gone too far.

'All right then,' she said, backing off. 'Let's just say you're having trouble with this one. Isn't that the root of all our problems lately?'

After a moment, when he found there was nothing else he could say, he said, 'Yes.'

She seemed to give a huge sigh of relief. In the gentlest voice he had ever heard her use, she said, 'Peter, do you think we can stop fighting?'

His eyes were drawn to the pile of her belongings waiting in the hallway. He found that the last thing in the world he wanted was for her to leave. To hell with his work—to hell with everything. He wanted her to stay.

'I.. .love you, Ginny. I'm . . . sorry for everything I've done.'

Then suddenly she was around the table and holding him, and they both were crying.

'Oh, Peter, it's all right, everything's going to be all right.'

'Yes, Ginny, I promise...^'

'And you'll tell Revell you can't do that piece?'

He stiffened, and she pulled away from him.