Dinner, then, was dismal. With Leo and Marion at the ends of the table and his mother and he at the sides, conversation passed only around the edges; father and daughter would not talk; mother and son could not talk, for anything they had to say would be personal and exclusive-sounding before these people who were still in a sense outsiders. So Marion called him 'darling' and told his mother about the Sutton Terrace apartment, and his mother spoke to Leo about 'the children,' and Leo asked him to pass the bread please, not quite looking at him.
And he was silent, lifting each fork and spoon slowly as he selected it, so that his mother could see and do likewise; an affectionate conspiracy fallen into without word or signal, dramatizing the bond between them and forming the one enjoyable aspect of the meal-that and the smiles that passed across the table when Marion and Leo were looking down at their food, smiles prideful and loving and all the more pleasing to him because of the unsuspecting heads whose path they slipped across.
At the end of the meal, although there was a silver lighter on the table, he lit Marion's and his own cigarette with his matches, afterwards tapping the folder absentmindedly on the cloth until his mother had noticed the white cover on which Bud Corliss was stamped in copper leaf.
But all along there was the pebble in his shoe.
Later, it being Christmas Eve, they went to church, and after church Bud expected to take his mother back to her hotel while Marion returned home with Leo. But Marion, to his annoyance, assumed an unfamiliar coquetry and insisted on accompanying them to the hotel, so Leo went off by himself as Bud squired the two women into a taxi; He sat between them, reciting to his mother the names of what landmarks they passed. The cab, at his direction, depart- ed from its course so that Mrs. Corliss, who had never been to New York before, might see Times Square at night.
He left her in the lobby of her hotel, outside the elevator. 'Are you very tired?' he asked, and when she said she was, he seemed disappointed. 'Don't go to sleep right away,' he said. 'I'll call you later.' They kissed goodnight and, still holding Bud's hand, Mrs. Corliss kissed Marion happily on the cheek.
During the taxi ride back to Leo's, Marion was silent.
'What's the matter, darling?'
'Nothing,' she said, smiling unconvincingly.
'Why?'
He shrugged.
He had intended to leave her at the door of the apartment, but the pebble of worry was assuming the proportions of a sharp stone; he went in with her. Kingship had already retired. They went into the living room where Bud lighted cigarettes while Marion turned on the radio. They sat on the couch.
She told him that she liked his mother very much. He said he was glad, and he could tell that his mother liked her too. They began to speak of the future, and he sensed from the stiff casualness of her voice that she was working up to something. He leaned back with his eyes half closed, one arm around her shoulders, listening as he had never listened before, weighing every pause and inflection, fearful all the while of what it was leading up to. It couldn't be anything important! It couldn't be! He had slighted her somehow, forgotten something he'd promised to do, that was all. What could it be?... He paused before each reply, examining his words before he spoke them, trying to determine what response they would bring, like a chess player touching pieces before making his move.
She worked the conversation around to children. Two,' she said.
His left hand, on his knee, pinched the crease of his trousers. He smiled. 'Or three,' he said. 'Or four.'
'Two,' she said. 'Then one can go to Columbia and one to Caldwell.'
Caldwell. Something about Caldwell. Ellen? 'They'll probably both wind up at Michigan or someplace,' he said.
'Oh if we only have one,' Marion went on, 'he can go to Columbia and then transfer to Caldwell. Or vice- versa.' She leaned forward, smiling, and pressed her cigarette into an ashtray. Much more carefully than she usually put out her cigarettes, he observed. Transfer to Caldwell. Transfer to Caldwell... He waited in silence. 'No,' she said, 'I really wouldn't want him to do that,'-following up her statement with a tenacity she never would have applied to mere idle chatter-'because he would lose credits. Transferring must be very involved.'
They sat side by side, silently for a moment.
'No it isn't,' he said.
'Isn't it?' she asked.
'No,' he said. 'I didn't lose any credits.'
'You didn't transfer, did you?' She sounded surprised.
'Of course,' he said. 'I told you.'
'No you didn't. You never said-'
'I did, honey. I'm sure I told you. I went to Stoddard University, and then to Caldwell.'
'Why, that's where my sister Dorothy went, Stoddard!'
'I know. Ellen told me.'
'Don't tell me you knew her.'
'No. Ellen showed me her picture though, and I think I remember seeing her around. I'm sure I told you, that first day, in the museum.'
'No, you didn't. I'm positive.'
'Well sure, I was at Stoddard two years. And you mean to say you didn't-' Marion's lips stopped the rest of the sentence, kissing him fervidly, atoning for doubt.
A few minutes later he looked at his watch. 'I'd better be leaving,' he said. 'I want to get as much sleep as I can this week, because I have an idea I won't be getting much sleep at all next week.'
It only meant that Leo had somehow learned he'd been at Stoddard. There was no real danger. There wasn't! Trouble maybe; the wedding plans might be blown up-oh Jesus!-but there was no danger, no police danger. There's no law against going after a rich girl, is there?
But why so late? If Leo wanted to check on him, why hadn't he done it sooner? Why today?... The announcement in The Times... of course! Someone had seen it, someone who'd been at Stoddard. The son of one of Leo's friends or someone like that 'My son and your future son-in-law were at Stoddard together.' So Leo puts two and two together; Dorothy, Ellen, Marion-gold-digger. He tells Marion, and that was their argument God damn, if only it had been possible to mention Stoddard at the beginning! That would have been crazy though; Leo would have suspected right off, and Marion would have listened to him then. But why did it have to come up now!
Still, what could Leo do, with only suspicions? They must be only suspicious; the old man couldn't know for sure that he'd known Dorothy, or else Marion wouldn't have been so happy when he himself told her he hadn't known her. Or could Leo have withheld part of his information from Marion? No, he would have tried to convince her, given her all the evidence he had. So Leo wasn't certain. Could he make certain? How? The kids at Stoddard, mostly seniors now, would they remember who Dorothy had gone with? They might But it's Christmas! Vacation. They're scattered all over the country. Only four days to the wedding. Leo could never talk Marion into postponing.
All he had to do was sit tight and keep his fingers crossed. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday... Saturday. If worst came to worst, so he was after the money; that was all Leo could ever prove. He couldn't prove that Dorothy didn't commit suicide. He couldn't drag the Mississippi for a gun that was probably buried under twenty feet of mud.
And if best came to best, the wedding would go off as per schedule. Then what could Leo do even if the kids at Stoddard did remember? Divorce? Annulment? Not nearly enough grounds for either, even if Marion could be persuaded to seek one, which she probably couldn't What then? Maybe Leo would try to buy him off...
Now there was a thought... How much would Leo be willing to pay to free his daughter from the big bad gold-digger? Quite a lot, probably.
But not nearly as much as Marion would have some day.
Bread now or cake later?
When he got back to his rooming house, he telephoned his mother.
'I hope I didn't wake you. I walked back from Marion's.'
'That's all right, darling. Oh Bud, she's a lovely girl! Lovely! So sweet... I'm so happy for you!'
'Thanks, Mom.'
'And Mr. Kingship, such a fine man! Did you notice his hands?'
