Breathe No More My Lady

impatiently, “What has the prosecutor to say?”

“I have no objection, your Honor,” Wagner said.

The judge fussed some more, had Jackson mark the passages he wanted to read. The judge glanced through them and all this took a great deal of time. I was restless for a smoke. Matt was writing away at his table as though he was in his den and couldn't care less about the proceedings.

Wilma and Joel were whispering, their red and white heads together like a clumsy nosegay. I stared at her without any feeling and wondered why I didn't feel some damn thing. I'd certainly made the most asinine spectacle of myself possible before her. Also, I hadn't slept with more than a half a dozen women in my life, if that many. Yet seeing Wilma didn't remind me of a thing. All I could think of was—she wasn't wearing those awkward health shoes but regular high heeled ones.

The judge finally gave Jackson the go-ahead signal as the court attendants told people to stop talking. Jackson brought the books back to his table, then addressing the jury, he said, “As I stated in my opening address, it is the defense's contention—which I am about to prove—that a creative person, such as a writer, is a genius and not an ordinary person. Nor can the creative person, the writer, be expected to live by ordinary customs and conventions. I am about to read what several world-famous writers, experts, have said about the living and working habits of authors. Obviously they did not write this for Matt Anthony's trial. In each case I will give you the copyright date, and you will note that most of these observations were written many years ago and cover all writers.”

I left the court as Jackson began to read in a clear, elocution-teacher's voice. In the corridor I lit my pipe, enjoying the taste of the smoke. I could hear Jackson quoting somebody who said a writer should not be tied to one woman since the tool of his trade was curiosity. That sounded like pure bunk. Sinclair Lewis, I think, came in for some statement about writers needing to travel, a constant change. Jackson quoted Ben Jonson's “Who casts to write a living line must sweat,” followed by a long bit from Maugham about an author does not write only when at his desk, but all day long as he is thinking and experiencing many things. And a writer can not give his undivided attention to any other calling.

I waited until four, phoned our apartment. Michele said she was going to take the late afternoon Friday train. Liz Kuhn bad asked her to a dress rehearsal of a new musical—Michele was beat but hadn't been able to get out of it. She asked how the trial was going and I said the State hadn't presented much of a case.

Michele went into detail about an idea for decorating the fireplace in our 'country home.' Court was over, I watched people streaming out into the hallway. Brown went by, didn't hear my tapping on the booth door. When I finally hung up, the courthouse already had that deserted feeling.

Heading for the street, I found Joel inside the door, almost hiding. Asking me for tobacco, he got a new corncob going as he said nervously, “All this lousy publicity for nothing. For Christsakes, Wagner couldn't convict a fly on his evidence. The judge should have tossed the case out. For the life of me, I don't know why they couldn't have called it manslaughter, fined Matt and prevented this ridiculous spectacle. Anyway, it's over.”

“Over?”

“For us. Wilma is checking with Wagner if we're free to return to town now. My God, I'm a wreck, really need a vacation.”

“Going to your musical flying saucer, out of this world?”

“Told you we're heading for the West—” He smiled. “Oh, my, you're pulling my leg about my den. I may retire there for a few hours relaxation at that. I rarely spend a night there but... that time. It wasn't just Matt and the case, things had been rather nasty between Wilma and myself. That's over, we're like rabbits now.”

“Good for you two. I'll send you Easter cards.”

Joel puffed hard on the pipe. “Odd taste to this tobacco. I got a break with Wilma.”

“You did?”

“You see, I understand Wilma, she has a great sexual curiosity. Most of the time I'm grateful for that, but it can also be quite... demanding. Of course we're both broad-minded and... oh, I'm pretty sure she had an affair a month or two ago.”

There wasn't anything for me to say, but my insides coiled.

“Hell, we're sophisticated people—I've strayed myself a few times—but, and this proves it's a healthy thing. She must have gone with a kid. Very immature, I mean, he must have been a lousy lay. Ever since she—we—we've been wonderful in bed.”

He wasn't looking at me as he said this. He wasn't smiling. If he'd done either I would have hit him, busted his goddamn queer face. I said, “The silver lining. Look, give me a ring when you get back from the islands. I want you both to meet my wife.”

He said he would and I walked out. It was only when I reached the car, drove to the motel that my anger—or was it shame?—left me and I could grin about it. Knowing the Hunters had been something.

I washed up and wondered what the devil to do with myself. Michele and I had been so close these last months, I felt strange being alone. The window looked out upon a bay and I wondered if we could get in some fishing over the weekend. If it would turn just a little warmer we might even do some swimming or—

The phone rang. “Mr. Connor?”

“Yeah.” It was a man's voice.

“Norm, this is Henry Brown. I can't find a place to sleep. Is that invitation to share your room still open?”

“Certainly. Look, how about supper together? All goes on the swindle sheet.”

He hesitated, then said all right and I drove into town, picked him up in front of a drugstore. It wasn't five yet and we rode out to the canal, sat in the car and watched the fishermen going after tiny snappers. Brown said he had decided to stay for the duration of the trial, that he thought Matt needed his friends in the courtroom. I told him, “Looks like you won't be called at all. Matter of fact, the case may be over tomorrow. Clair hasn't any witnesses except Matt.”

“I imagine he'll put on a psychiatrist, or several of them. He's pleading temporary insanity. Then the State will put their own experts on the stand, and when all the smoke has cleared, nothing will have been proved.”