She looked at the pavement burns on my arms again. “I’ll get something for those,” she said, and left before I could protest. She was back before long with a white metal first-aid kit. She used an antiseptic on the scrapes, doctored them with iodine.
“Better not bandage them,” she said. “They’ll heal faster.”
I looked up to see a man standing in the doorway. He wore loose pajamas and no robe. Evelyn Rinke was too engrossed in repacking the first-aid kit to notice him. He was a little man, slightly built, with pale hair in a crew cut and thick glasses that made his grayish-purple eyes round and staring. His ears were big and his jaws long and hollowed beneath strong wide cheekbones. The mouth was too large for his face, and folded down at the edges when it ran out of room. The upper lip was thin and almost bloodless, slanted down from the cleft, corners fitting into deep pockets. His lips had a certain acid primness, like those of an obnoxious preacher. But his voice was firm and soft and polite, betraying no irritation from finding his wife in my room.
“I missed you, Evelyn,” he said. He was looking at me. “You weren’t in your bed.”
She was startled. She jerked around, pulling the robe together. Her fingers clamped tightly together at her belly. The small pleasure she had taken from helping me cleanse my scraped arms fled.
“I... couldn’t sleep, Charley. It was warm, and... I couldn’t sleep. Mr. Mallory was hurt. I...”
Rinke walked toward me and offered his hand. He apparently wasn’t bothered by the fact that his wife’s body had been prominently visible through the nightgown under the carelessly worn robe.
He shook hands with me strongly. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “From Macy.” His mouth told the tone of his thoughts. It stayed surly. “Macy thinks a lot of you,” he went on. “I’m Charley Rinke. I suppose Macy told you about me.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Rinke.”
“Oh?” It seemed to disturb him that Macy hadn’t mentioned him. “I guess you’ll be with us for a while, Mr. Mallory.”
“Probably.”
“I know you want to be left alone.” He glanced at his wife. “You’re not feeling well, Evelyn?”
She shook her head. Her agitation had become worse since the sudden appearance of her husband.
“Did you have an accident, Mr. Mallory?” Rinke said, still looking at Evelyn. It was a trick he had, to look at one person and talk to another. He seemed interested.
“Sort of. I’m all right.”
He waited for more information. When I didn’t offer any he said, “Evelyn, a hot bath would help, wouldn’t it?”
“I... I don’t think so, Char—”
“But it has helped before, hasn’t it?” he said, taking her by the arm. “It does relax you. Wouldn’t you like to have a hot bath? I’ll wash your back for you.”
“Ch-Charley...” she said unhappily, her head hanging. She allowed herself to be guided toward the door.
“We’ll be seeing you in the morning, Mr. Mallory,” Rinke said pleasantly. Evelyn turned to me for a moment, and there was a glitter of anguish in her eyes, of a plea that had been ignored often. She tugged with her arm and he let her go quickly, followed her into the hall.
After a moment I shut the door and finished undressing, set the alarm for eight. It was ten after four then, but I wasn’t there to catch up on my sleep.
I slept right through the alarm but a Puerto Rican house-boy shook me awake a few minutes later and got me out of the sack. He had to assist me in getting to the bathroom, then held me up under the shower until the feel of the water penetrated gritty layers of pain. I might have stayed under all day but he reminded me politely that Macy expected everyone to be at breakfast by eight-thirty. I shook my head gently to test the reliability of stiff muscles, and got out.
My fingers had trouble holding the razor and my wrist was rubber as I shaved. I felt like death warmed over. Clean clothes and hot coffee thoughtfully provided by the houseboy helped some. I made the dining room at twenty of nine. The others were eating. Macy looked up from a plateful of eggs and threw introductions around carelessly. Then he went back to eating.
I knew most of them. Only Rudy and Mrs. Rinke were absent. I took a vacant seat beside Rinke, looked at Diane more carefully. She was a tall lemon-haired blonde with a serene face every bit as beautiful as my quick look in the cigarette glow last night had suggested. She paid no attention to me. She was wearing shorts and some kind of pullover playshirt with elbow length split sleeves laced together and tied with little cord bows.
Next to her was Aimee, a thin, undersized little Cuban girl with straight black hair and a flat nose. Aimee and Macy did most of the talking, back and forth across the table. Macy was in good spirits. He took great delight in learning everything the child had done the day before.
Aimee would twist her head from side to side and smile big but vaguely and answer in a few halting words. Her attention was easily distracted. Diane had to coax her patiently to eat.
“We gonna go boat riding ’safternoon, Daddy?” Aimee asked Macy, lifting a napkin to wipe away milk from the corner of her mouth. I noticed a wide glossy scar on her arm.
“Well, I don’t know, dear,” Macy said, with a slight frown. He looked better this morning, in a bright yellow sport shirt, his hair carefully combed and face shaved. He looked more like the old confident, angle-wise Macy. “You know I don’t care for boats...”
Aimee stuck with it. “I haven’t been boat riding all week.” There was a trace of her ancestry in her speech.
“Diane can take you,” Macy said, cutting up a piece of steak.
“But I want to go with you,” Aimee said pathetically.
Macy reached across the table and patted her hand. “I know, baby. Well — ” He scratched his jaw. “Maybe tomorrow. Daddy has to work today.”
One of the servants brought me orange juice and a platter of steak and eggs. Rinke had said nothing to me when I sat down, only nodded, but when he was through eating he turned and asked, “How are you this morning, Mr. Mallory?”
“I’m hanging on.” I remarked on the absence of his wife.
“Evelyn’s not feeling well this morning. Her back is giving her some pain.” He turned his glum face away abruptly, put a cup of coffee to it. “Evelyn has a problem with her nerves,” he said, sipping slowly. “She suffers a great deal. We’ve been unable to find anything that might help her.” He put the cup down and straightened his glasses precisely. “I wanted to be sure you understood about Evelyn. About how she is.”
“I think I know what you mean,” I said.
He nodded, his large eyes on me. He blinked once, slowly.
“I’m engaged to be married, myself,” I said.
He nodded again, and smiled disarmingly. “Is that so?” The news seemed to please him. “Is that right?” he said again, as if he were afraid I was only funning.
“I sure hope Mrs. Rinke feels better,” I said.
“I’m sure she will.” He got up then, having tugged at my heartstrings enough, and excused himself.
“You going into town, Pete?” Macy said through a mouthful.
“Yes.”
Diane looked up and glanced at me fleetingly. “Could Aimee and I go in with Mallory?” she said to Macy.
“I’m going in later. I can take you,” a new voice grumbled. It came from Taggart, Macy’s hired hand, a formidable giant as solidly and thickly built as bridge piling. He was good-looking but his features had no mobility and his expression was gluey, turtle-slow.
“I wanted to go in earlier so I could take Aimee shopping after we leave the doctor,” Diane explained. She touched the back of Taggart’s brown hand. “You can pick us up at the department store this afternoon.”
His face inclined toward his plate by half an inch. He didn’t look at the blonde girl. Her fingers touched his hand for a moment longer, then withdrew. Despite the lack of words, there seemed to be some bond of intimacy
