“She was willing to get him the hell out of her hair after a bad quarrel,” he said. “That’s all. She just let him believe it to get rid of him.”
“Please Jack,” she said with forced patience. “How’s Terry?” If he’s going to torment me, I’ll give him the same treatment, she thought.
Jack lifted his eyebrows slightly and shrugged. “Healthy,” he said. “And hungry. Jesus, how that kid eats. And he likes smoked oysters.”
Laura had to smile, though she didn’t feel like it. “Get him a bale of smoked oysters,” she said, “and leave me alone for a while. Please.”
Jack gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Okay.” He started out and then turned to ask, “How did Sarah like Jensen?”
“She said she liked him. She has a crush on Dr. Hagstrom, but she liked Carl anyway.”
“He’s smitten. Says he’s going to call her again.”
“Good.” They smiled a little at each other. “Somebody’s doing it right,” Laura said wistfully.
Jack laughed. “Never mind,” he said. “Someday we’ll die and go to heaven. All the angels are queer, you know.” And he left.
Laura followed soon after. She knew just where she was going—the McAlton Hotel. She would walk right in and ask for Merrill Landon and the clerk would say he had left, the convention was over, and Laura could quit suffering over him. He would be hundreds of miles away and she could start to forget him.
She walked over to the hotel in a matter of minutes and went into the lobby with a confidence she had not felt during the week her father had been there. She was out to kill her ghost. She looked forward to great relief.
At the desk she waited for a moment or two until a clerk could take care of her. She recognized him from one of her previous visits but fortunately he didn’t seem to remember her. “Yes?” he said.
“Is the Chi Delta Sigma convention over?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am it is.”
“Oh. Then I guess Merrill Landon isn’t staying here anymore.”
“Oh, yes he is.”
Laura was startled. “He said a young lady might be asking for him,” the clerk said. “He left a message.” He looked at her dubiously, unnerved by the strange expression on her face. “Would you be his daughter, by any chance?”
Laura shook her head numbly. The clerk brought her an envelope and Laura opened it and read, in her father’s hand: “Laura, I will be here till the end of the month. Come up to my room any evening after eight.” It was not even signed. Nice and sentimental, she thought. Just like him.
“Thank you,” she told the clerk.
“Will there be any answer?” he asked.
“Yes,” Laura said. She took the pad of paper he pushed toward her and wrote on it, “Go to hell.” Then she folded it, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and wrote “Merrill Landon” on the front.
She shook all the way home. He was still there, still haunting her, waiting to pounce on her and punish her. When Marcie asked her what was the matter, Laura couldn’t tell her. It was Laura’s problem, it was intimate and awful, and she had no wish to share it. She hardly noticed how little she had looked at Marcie the past few days, how little she had responded to her. And yet in the back of her mind the question rankled: Why did Marcie let Burr believe that lie? Even for a short while? Why hadn’t she fought it harder?
But the fact of her father’s physical presence in New York obliterated other considerations. He was waiting for her around every corner, in every doorway. She was even afraid to answer the phone, and afraid to return to his hotel for fear he would have the police there waiting for her. She didn’t know on what grounds he could arrest her, but she believed her father could do anything violent and forceful. Her work suffered still more at the office. And she hadn’t the interest to stay late and make it up.
Sarah talked to her one afternoon at the end of the week. “Guess what?” she said, to start out in a friendly vein.
“What?”
“Carl Jensen called me again. We’re going out tomorrow night.”
“How nice, Sarah. I’m glad for you.” But she spoke without enthusiasm.
“Are you?” Sarah’s voice was pointed enough to catch Laura’s attention and warn her that something was wrong. She looked up. “Yes, of course I am, Sarah. I’m sorry, I’m not myself lately. I—”
“You’ve been in a fog all week. Another one of those headaches?”
“No. I mean yes. I don’t know. I just don’t feel alive.” She laughed listlessly.
Sarah sat down beside her. “Laura,” she said firmly, “you could do real well in this job. If you wanted to. Everybody here likes you. Everybody’s pulling for you. You’re a good typist and you’re a smart girl. Jeanie liked you a lot, and she’ll be back here in another week. There’ll be three of us, and things could go a lot better…but Laura…”
“But I haven’t worked out too well,” Laura said for her. “Is that it?”
“You haven’t worked at all sometimes. Other times you work your tail off. That’s the trouble, Laura, you’re so erratic,” Sarah said. “You stay late and knock yourself out one night, and then a week goes by and you can’t do a damn thing. You drag along all day, you just don’t seem to care.
“I hate to pull a philosophical on you, but gee, Laura, we’re dealing with sick people. Sometimes these X-ray reports spell life and death for somebody. We can’t dawdle over them. Doctors are waiting all over the city for these things. Dr. Hollingsworth is swamped. We can’t let him down.”
“I know.” Laura felt the way she had in third grade when she feigned sick to get out of playing a role in the annual spring pageant. The teacher had talked to her in much the same tone of voice, and used much the same
