“Go,” said Jack. “You’re driving me nuts anyway with that damn pacing the floor.”
“I wish I was driving you nuts,” Terry retorted. “I just seem to be in your way.”
“You are, lover. Shut up and eat something. You’ll feel better.”
“I just ate!”
“Then just shut up.”
“God! This place is a mausoleum. I’ve had enough!” He went to the bedroom and grabbed a sweater, but when he reached the front door he turned and found that Jack wasn’t even looking at him. He was talking to Beebo. He was saying, “By God, it’s worth a try. I’m going over there. Nothing could be worse than sitting here wondering if she’s drowned in the damn river or swinging from a rope somewhere.”
“Oh, for Chrissake, Jack!” Beebo snapped. “Have mercy. I’m not made of stone.”
Jack got up and headed for the door. Terry stood uncertainly and watched him approach. “Make up your mind,” Jack said to him. “In or out?” His anxiety over Laura made this attitude of impatience with Terry perfectly genuine. Yet Jack was not without a small sudden pleasure at Terry’s reactions.
“How about you?” Terry said.
“Out.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.”
“I want to go with you.”
Jack stared at him, again pleased and surprised. “You can’t,” was all he said, putting his cigarette in his mouth while he pulled his jacket on.
“Why the hell not?”
Jack took him by the shoulders. “Terry, you want to do something for me?”
Terry eyed him like a suspicious five-year-old. “I don’t know. You’re so bitchy tonight.” He sighed. “All right, all right. What do I have to do?”
“Stay here. And if she shows up, hang on to her. I’ll be back at—” He looked at his watch. “—at ten. No later.”
Terry threw himself in an armchair with a huge sigh of disgust. “Oh, this Laura!” he groaned. “She must be the most fabulous female in the whole goddam world.”
“She is,” Beebo said briefly. She dinched her cigarette and walked out ahead of Jack. “I’ll be at home, Terry,” she called back. “If she shows up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll hogtie her and call all the newspapers. I’ll notify the President. Christ!”
Jack and Beebo went down the stairs together and out into the lowering night. The first drops were coming down. “What’d you give him, Jackson?” Beebo smiled. “He’s learning how to mind. He doesn’t like it very much, but he’s learning.”
Jack shrugged. “He does like it, doll. That’s the secret. He likes to be shoved around a little. I wish to hell I’d known before I bought all those stinking oysters.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was five past ten and the rain was fairly heavy outside. Terry was curled up in the armchair watching television, eating peanuts and drinking a beer. He was irritated with Jack for being late. He tried to get interested in the film and sat for a quarter of an hour with his eyes on the set, wiggling restlessly, like a child in need of a comfort station. He jumped when a knock on the door disturbed him.
“Come in, you know it’s not locked,” he said without looking up. “Where the hell were you? At least I tell you where I’m going. Well talk, damn it.” And he turned around to see a tall slim girl standing five feet from him, her long hair streaming wet and her clothes clinging to her body. He was conscious of nothing in her face but her eyes; huge, blue and heavy, dominating, agonized.
Terry stood up suddenly, stammering a little. “You must be Laura,” he said finally. “I was beginning to think you weren’t real.” He took another look at her, pale as a wraith, her eyes the only warmth in the cold oval of her face. “Are you?” he asked. And then smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in and sit down.”
She moved as if she were dreaming, one hand to her forehead, and he guided her to the sofa where she half sat and half collapsed, letting her head fall back against the cushions. She looked utterly exhausted.
Terry stood hovering uncertainly over her, staring at her. At last he said, “Jack says I’ve got to keep you here.” She shut her eyes. “He’s supposed to be home at ten. He should be right along. I’m Terry. Terry Fleming. Jack says he told you about me. He certainly talks a lot about you. He thinks the world of you.” She gave no sign that she had heard or cared to hear.
At last in some consternation he said, “Would you like something to eat, Laura? You look like you could do with something.” No answer. He went out to the kitchen and opened a can of soup. He fixed up the plate with crackers and cheese and, as a second thought, smoked oysters, and poured a glass of milk. Every two or three minutes he interrupted his task to go to the doorway and check on her. He thought she might vanish, like a ghost. But she didn’t move. She looked dead. She scared him.
He put the food on a tray and brought it into the living room and sat down on the sofa next to her. He put the soup and milk on the coffee table in front of her and then he said, “Wake up. Wake up, Laura.” She didn’t stir. Terry put an oyster on a cracker. “Here,” he said, shaking her a little. “Here, for God’s sake, eat it. It’s your oyster.”
Laura stirred and opened her eyes, took one look at the smoked oyster, and turned away with a grimace. Terry was offended. “So what’s wrong with smoked oysters?” he said. “Here. It’s yours.”
She looked at him then. Really saw him. And then sat up a little, rubbing her eyes. “Mine?” she repeated dimly.
“Jack says you bought ’em.” Terry looked at her with bright eyes, curious now. “You might as well enjoy them.”
Laura sighed and then saw
