By means of an impulsive detour on the way here he had established that Amanda’s house was dark, as was the Lopezes’, and her car gone. He had now begun to think that Mrs. Balsam’s telephone might be out of order, and it would be reassuring to drive up there, snow or no snow; very possibly there would be lights still on, and Amanda’s car might even be parked in front. He knew this sudden quest to be irrational, even obsessive, but there it was.
First he had to get Lucy settled. It was she who had persuaded Justin to the magicians’ party, but he could scarcely leave her in a condition to fall or otherwise harm herself. It was a wonder, he thought as he maneuvered her inside, that the living room didn’t shock her sober: It was all creams and whites except for an abstract painting in pink and pimento red, a burnt orange butterfly chair, a daffodil lampshade over a base of Prussian blue.
Lucy sat instantly down in the orange chair and gazed dazedly at the table beside it. When Justin asked, “Will you be all right, Lucy? Will you go straight to bed?” she said, “Certainly,” and attempted to light a white cigarette filter with a match.
This seemed to bring her situation home to her. Her eyes brimmed. “You can’t wait to be rid of me.”
Don’t be silly. That was deadly stuff we drank, and I think the best—”
“I don’t blame you. I am des-pic-able,” said Lucy, triumphing over the syllables while tears rolled down her cheeks. “I have made a, oh, what is it, a spectacle of myself. I am drunk. All I ask, and I don’t think it’s much asking, is a cigarette. Or would that be too much for Justin Howard? I don’t like your name, by the way.”
She was fast progressing from self-abasement to abuse. Justin gave her a cigarette and lit it, weighing what to do next. If he made her coffee, would it alert her just enough to wander around after he had left instead of going to bed, conceivably setting the apartment on fire? Even if she had sleeping pills they shouldn’t be taken on top of liquor in spite of an emptied stomach.
On the other hand, he couldn’t stay here all night. He went into the kitchen, investigated the refrigerator, and said robustly, “How about a beer?”
Beer was nourishment of a sort and, at this stage of the game, a soporific. Lucy turned in her chair and craned at him, a long suspicious stare. “Are you going to have one?”
“Yes,” lied Justin. He opened a cabinet, took down a tall glass so that the beer should appear more enticing, poured, and carried it into the living room. “Here you are.”
Lucy studied the glass profoundly, bringing it up to eye level as though inspecting for minnows, and gave a strange contemptuous little smile. Justin thought for a second that she was going to empty it onto the rug; instead, she drank thirstily, set the glass down with great care, and looked at one of his hands and then the other. “I don’t see yours.”
“I’ll go get it.”
The mere notion of nourishment had set off gnawing hunger pains in Justin’s long-neglected stomach. lie returned to the refrigerator and glanced ravenously in. His hostess was extraordinarily slender, and small wonder: Here in the nondrinkable line were capers, horseradish, a solitary egg, a head of lettuce, a poisonous-looking yellow mixture in a dish, and an eggplant.
He thought wistfully of the salad over which his fork had hovered so briefly; he reflected even more poignantly that Amanda, a cheese-fancier, would have Port du Salut or Camembert or both. He closed the refrigerator door and looked in despair for crackers. There were none—but here, folded tightly and thriftily in its wrapper on one corner of the counter, was a heel of whole-wheat bread. Justin undid it with speed. She must have been saving it for some irritating bird; it was richly starred through with blue mold.
“Justin?” Very small voice; Lucy had veered again. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t like your name. It was insec—inesk—I shouldn’t have said it.”
“That’s all right, I didn’t pick it out,” Justin assured her, and, because something had to go into the abyss, took a can of beer from the refrigerator.
And thought uneasily a few minutes later, sauce for the gander. Lucy had at least gotten rid of her punch (although perhaps, all things considered, it might be regarded as a potion) but he had not, and now it stirred lazily. He did not want to start his companion off on any lively discussion but could think of nothing calm and drowsy to say, with the result that Lucy stared bemusedly at him and he divided benign smiles between her and the rug while the silence settled over them like aspic. It occurred to him with an involuntary twitch of the mouth corners that it was too bad they had no materials for whittling.
Fortunately, the trancelike situation didn’t last. Lucy suddenly snapped her eyelids wide, tossed her fair head, said with clarity and briskness, “I’m going to bed,” and got to her feet, betrayed only by a sharp and immediate collision with the lamp table. She seemed to be headed for the couch. Justin, leaping up, steered her firmly into the bedroom, where she subsided obediently; took off her shoes, pulled the coverlet over her. Five minutes later, when her even breathing took no notice of his light pat on her shoulder, he closed the door of the darkened apartment behind him and went out to his car.
The snowfall was beginning to diminish; here, at any rate. To Justin, born and brought up in Connecticut, New Mexico weather seemed astonishingly localized: What was a mild rain in one
