hag. Maybe we'll still have a child. But that can't be our answer. Burgie says I don't have to work—go write. He sounds like Walt, refusing to understand why I needed the fellowship. At least Burgie must know one needs the right kind of atmosphere to create. One simply can't sit before a typewriter every day like a stenographer and turn out a good book. Would I be able to work better around a Burgie? True, he's more my kind...” Ruth giggled, remembering what he'd said. They were both bums.
The cab stopped for a light. Glancing out the window Ruth saw the street busy with people going to watch the hockey game at the stadium. She remembered the first time Walt had taken her there. It seemed so exciting and... When was that, their second or third date?
Upon graduating from college Ruth rushed to find an apartment with another girl, an aspiring actress, on the edge of the alleged “arty” section of town. It was a miserable cold water flat, bug- and mouse-infested, but it was tremendous fun and excitement in the beginning: the time they had stayed up all day and night to paint the flat with wild colors; meeting other writers and artists; the long bull sessions; the informality; the freedom; the feeling of being a part of things—all of them so pure and high-minded, and actually a gassy part of nothing. Although she had sold a story for a hundred dollars, and was given envious pats on the back, Ruth very soon found she had to get a job. She came from a middle class family and could have asked for money, but never did after overhearing her father, when Momma suggested he pay Ruth's rent for a year, wisecrack, “For this she needs a college education?”
For a time she didn't even attempt to find editorial work, afraid it might “spoil” her writing talent. Ruth took a part-time sales job in a department store. Regularly at noon she rode the subway uptown. Almost as regularly she noticed Walt. She had to. They always seemed to ride the same car and were the tallest people on the train. After the fifth or six day, they grinned at each other. Walt asked for a date the following noon.
Walt was an exciting experience for Ruth. For one thing he was taller than she, the importance of which Ruth wouldn't even admit to herself. And she was utterly amazed to learn he was a cop. To her a policeman was as nebulous and impersonal as a fire hydrant. For some “unknown” reason Ruth had been outside the sexual play of her neighbors. Her actress friend had affairs, although they both had agreed not to have men spend the night in the flat. Ruth did her share of necking, but somehow had never gone beyond that. The second time Walt kissed her was in bed and his muscular body utterly delighted and fascinated her. He was still thinking of turning pro and while she doubted if any man could hurt big Walt, the thought of his being marked or injured became her nightmare. She was flatly against his doing any more boxing.
At parties she found Walt fitted in well with her friends, that he could hold his own in bull sessions. For example, if Paris or Rome were mentioned, Walt knew the cities thoroughly, from his army days. When he casually mentioned he'd been a member of the U. S. Olympic team (which was a surprise to Ruth) he completely stopped conversation at the home of an
Above all, for the first time Ruth knew a man financially capable of marriage. (Not that she'd admit that to herself, either.) Nor was that the reason she married Walt. For months she had been so much a part of Walt that when he suggested marriage it was as expected as if he'd mentioned having supper together. After they married they moved uptown, so he would be within walking distance of his precinct house. He had nearly two thousand dollars saved— mostly from his army days—and both their parents had been lavish with gifts for their only children. For a time it was exciting furnishing the two room apartment, being a housewife. When that wore off, Ruth religiously began writing every day, found an agent, and turned out a story a week. Not one sold. She learned writing for the commercial magazines wasn't the “moronic snap” she had imagined.
Ruth tried—really tried—being friends with the other young wives, but after the first reaction they were not impressed with her being a “writer,” and she found their conversation about shopping and family politics petty. It was about this time, along with her rejections, Ruth started to feel she was in a rut, wasting her talents. She began hanging out with her old friends downtown more and more, especially when Walt was working night tours. That spring, after they had spent his month's vacation at Cape Cod, she suggested they move downtown and Walt was willing. Ruth landed a job as a reader in a publishing house and for a while was content. When one of her stories brought a polite letter from a publisher asking if she had a novel, Ruth was in orbit and began planning her novel. She immediately quit her job and worked on an outline. The publisher said it was interesting but wanted to see a few sample chapters.
Ruth nearly had a breakdown writing and rewriting the chapters. She and Walt had their first serious fight when he suggested she try writing a novel and not the world's greatest literature. Ruth blamed the “atmosphere” now and although it was a strain on his bank account, Walt rented a place for her on a small island which was trying terribly hard to be a second Fire Island. Ruth spent the summer attending many parties and doing little writing. That fall she took her present job, editing a trade magazine and now had a true excuse for not writing—the job “pooped” Ruth.
Whatever Walt did turned out wrong. A famous playwright and a well-known book reviewer happened to be at a party Ruth had dragged Walt to. Both men were fight fans and on learning Walt had been an amateur champ, they tried to take him over. Walt explained about Ruth and her novel and they suggested she try for a fellowship, agreed to sponsor her. For a time Ruth worked feverishly, filling out forms, retyping her chapters. When she mentioned living in Paris for the year, if she won the fellowship, Walt said he couldn't get that much leave. She accused him of being selfish, after all, he had been to Paris. He said he didn't want to give up his job, even if Ruth felt her book would make a fortune. They had a real battle, but Walt simply refused to think of leaving the force. He had just been promoted to a detective, third grade, for capturing two stick-up men. In a fit of rage Ruth tore up the applications and ever since had accused Walt of ruining her career. In her own mind she had neatly convinced herself she had, in fact, been awarded the fellowship.
For a time she tried drinking, but wasn't good at it. Then, as if to spite herself, she began working like an eager-beaver on the cosmetic magazine, making it one of the top journals in its field. In a perverse way she was happy at her job because she hated it and knew Walt was unhappy because she despised and mocked her job. For the past three months they had barely talked to each other—and with Walt's change of tours, during some weeks rarely saw the other. Ruth decided to “punish” Walt by not having any “mama-papa” stuff until Walt came crawling. But he also seemed indifferent. A month ago she met Burges and somehow he reminded Ruth of her younger days, when she was so sure of being a famous writer.
Ruth stopped to buy a bottle of soda. Entering their apartment, with her story about being at the printers carefully worked out in her mind, Ruth was surprised that Walt wasn't there. It was a few minutes after nine thirty and she stared at the cigarette butts in the ash tray, made herself a light drink, wondered, uneasily, where Walt was. Now she was sure somebody had been with him when she had phoned, and felt a flash of hysterics as she examined the butts for lipstick traces.
The late evening paper was on top of the television set and Ruth had a hunch Walt had just left the house. But that wasn't like him. He never went out alone. She glanced at the paper, thinking a little about Burgie, not at all sure what he meant to her. After soaking in a hot tub, she finished the paper in bed. By ten-thirty she was really worried about Walt. As Ruth was debating whether to call the squad room, he might have gone out on an emergency assignment, the phone rang. Walt said, “Glad you're home. I'll be right over. Oh, I'm bringing somebody with me.”
He hung up before she could ask what it was all about There was an intenseness in his voice which annoyed her. She carefully brushed her long black hair and, as an afterthought put on her best girdle and bra, to make certain she looked slim under her robe. “Now wouldn't this be a living bitch if Walt is bringing another woman over for a showdown!” Ruth told herself. “But that's impossible, I know Walt. Still... he might have been seeing some floozie all these months. Perhaps I misunderstood his coolness in bed. Well I can always phone Burgie. I'll scream if Walt tries to leave me!”
Twenty minutes later Walt unlocked the door. There was a little, boyish-looking old man with him. As Walt said, “This is my wife, Ruth. Ruth, meet Tommy Cork,” she realized the man wasn't old. It was merely his face was out of shape and at the moment full of worry.
Shaking her hand, Tommy muttered, “Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Steiner, I...eh...” Opening his coat Walt told her, “Ruth, we're in a kind of jam. We have a favor to ask. Something very important we want you to do. Right now. A woman's life may depend upon it.”
TOMMY
Leaving the steak house, Tommy headed west. At the corner he glanced at a window clock. It was a few minutes after eight and the window happened to be part of a bar. Knowing May didn't come on until around ten o'clock, he decided to have a shot. He needed one.
