Foley left the siren wailing all the way, and with no traffic but cops and plows we made it in fifteen minutes. He pulled into Marlborough Street from Arlington and went up it the wrong way two doors to my apartment.
“You ain’t here when we want you,” Foley said, “and I’ll be working next week in a carwash.”
I got out with Rachel. I had been holding her all the way.
I looked at Foley and nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said.
He spun the wheels pulling away, slammed the car into snowbanks on both sides of the street making a U-turn and spun the wheels some more as he skidded out into Arlington.
I carried Rachel up to my front door and leaned on my bell till Susan said, “Who is it?” over the intercom.
I said, “Me,” never at a loss for repartee.
She buzzed and I pushed and in we went. I called the elevator with my elbow and punched my floor with the same elbow and banged on my door with the toe of my boot. Susan opened it. She saw Rachel.
“Oh,” she said. “Isn’t that good!”
We went in and I put Rachel down on the couch.
I said, “Would you like a drink?”
She said, “Yes, very much.”
“Bourbon, okay?”
“Yes, on the rocks, please.”
She still had her gray blanket tightly wrapped around her. I went out in the kitchen and got a bottle of Wild Turkey and three glasses and a bucket of ice and came back out. I poured each of us a drink. Susan had kept the fire going and it went well with the Wild Turkey. Each of us drank.
“You need a doctor?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. I was not abused in that sense.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Susan said.
“Yes,” Rachel said, “I think I would. I shall talk about it and probably write about it. But right now I should very much like to bathe and put on clean clothes, and then perhaps eat something.” She drank some bourbon. “I’ve not,” she said, “been eating particularly well lately.” She smiled slightly.
“Sure,” I said. “Spenser’s the name, cooking’s the game.”
I started to get up. “No,” she said. “Stay here a minute, both of you, while I finish this drink.”
And so we sat—me and Rachel on the couch, Susan in the wing chair—and sipped the bourbon and looked at the fire. There was no traffic noise and it was quiet except for the hiss of the fire and the tick of the old steeple clock with wooden works that my father had given me years ago.
Rachel finished her drink. “I would like another,” she said, “to take into the bath with me.”
I mixed it for her.
She said, “Thank you.”
Susan said, “If you want to give me your old clothes, I can put them through the wash for you. Lancelot here has all the latest conveniences.”
Rachel shook her head. “No,” she said. “I haven’t any clothes. They took them. I have only the blanket.”
Susan said, “Well, I’ve got some things you can wear.”
Rachel smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
Susan showed Rachel to the bathroom door. “There are clean towels,” Susan said. “While he was out I was being domestic.”
Rachel went in and closed the door. I heard the water begin to run in the tub. Susan walked over to me on the couch.
“How are you?” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Was it bad?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Was it English?”
I nodded. She rubbed my head—the way you tousle a dog.
“What was that old song?” she said. “ ‘Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, we want you on our side.‘”
“Yeah, except around here we used to sing, ‘Who’s better than his brother Joe? Dominic DiMaggio.’ ”
She rubbed my head again, “Well, anyway,” she said. “I want
“You’re just saying that,” I said, “because DiMaggio’s not around.”
“That’s true,” she said.
