“Yes, baby, I think you did. You gave up too much. It wasn’t worth the price, and you see that now. Admit it. Don’t be a stubborn idiot.”
Laura was appalled at the apathy in her voice. “What would you do if I insisted on staying with you?” she asked.
Beebo shrugged. “I’d let you stay, of course. I haven’t the ambition to kick you out. Besides, I love you still, in my way. I meant it when I said it.”
Laura stood up, unable to look at her anymore. “I’m going back to the apartment, and I’m going to talk to Jack,” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“I doubt it.” Beebo did not even leave her chair. She lighted a cigarette slowly, watching Laura’s back.
Finally Laura turned around and faced her. “Please, Beebo, don’t talk to me as if nothing in the world mattered anymore. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand to think I did it to you.”
“Jack still matters, baby. Don’t do it to him, too.”
Laura went and got her coat and purse from the bedroom, and then she looked into the kitchen. Beebo sat with her back to the door, still smoking thoughtfully. “I’m leaving,” Laura told her. “I should be back around nine.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Tell old Jack I said hello.”
“I will.” Laura looked at her dark curly head, not sure if the frosting on her curls came from the kitchen light above or from the first gray hairs. She walked over to Beebo and kissed her cheek, leaning over her chair from behind. Beebo smiled though she did not turn her head.
And then Laura walked out, knowing somehow, deep within herself, that it was for the last time.
Chapter Eleven
LAURA APPROACHED the apartment building with her legs trembling. It was all she could do to keep from turning around and running. It was hard to imagine what she might find. She left Jack a desperate man, and her absence for two weeks would not have made things any easier for him.
She stopped at the front door to marshal her strength, and the chain link fence at the end of the street caught her eye. She marveled that she had been able to climb it the night she ran away. It looked almost insurmountable now with the long shadows creeping along the ground beneath it. She touched one of the cuts on her arm, still healing, and wondered where her shabby guide with his friendly dime was now. All unaware, he had taught her a valuable lesson about herself and turned a spotlight on the lies until even Laura had been forced to see them and confess the truth. She loved Jack too much to hurt him, and she had come back now to heal him if she could.
That thought gave her the most strength as she pushed open the lacquer-red front door with its brass knocker. If he didn’t need me so desperately, I couldn’t do this, she told herself. And if I didn’t love him so much, I couldn’t do it, either. She pushed the button for the elevator and felt a thrill of shame and fear that almost made her sick. And then, out of habit, she glanced at her mailbox. It was so full that it could not be locked and the door hung open. Laura went to it and pulled the bundle of mail out with a sudden premonition.
The box had not been emptied for days, perhaps weeks; perhaps not since the night she ran away.
Is Jack—is he gone, then? she wondered. For a second her weakness and humiliation overwhelmed her and she hoped he was. She hoped she would never have to face him. For she dreaded what she had done to this man who loved her, in his own odd way, more than he loved, or ever had loved, anyone else on earth.
And then, suddenly, she whispered aloud, “No! Oh, no! He’s got to be here!”
She took the elevator to the third floor in a frenzy of impatience and crossed the carpeted hall to her apartment door swiftly. Like the mailbox, the door was unlocked, and that gave her hope. He wouldn’t go out and leave it open for any stranger to wander into. It wasn’t like him.
Silent and tremulous, Laura entered the living room. “Jack?” she said softly, knowing already there would be no answer. “Jack? Be here. Darling, please be here,” she murmured. Slowly and fearfully she entered each room, saying his name as she did so, and silently, each room revealed nothing but his absence. Never had a home seemed so empty.
Never had her own voice awed and saddened her so.
She had been through all the rooms a couple of times, halfheartedly picking up a thing or two and looking with frightened eyes into the dark corners, before she spotted the note. It was rolled into the top of a whisky bottle, one of several sitting on the kitchen table. She picked it up with trembling fingers and read:
Laura darling. I’m with Terry. I guess you’ve gone back to Beebo. Maybe that’s fate, but I still think we could have made a go of it. You’re my wife, Laura—that’s the difference between life and death to me, even now. If you ever read these words, remember, I love you, Mrs. Mann. And remember it too if you ever want to come home. Jack.
Laura wept silently, her throat and chest painfully tight with it, crushing the letter against her neck.
She walked dazedly into the living room, still holding the letter, and stared around through her tears. She thought of Beebo and the warm, slightly worn rooms she lived in and the worn-out love she had left. And she thought of Jack. There had been none of his usual piercing sarcasm in the note. Nothing but gentleness, nothing but love.
After a long moment Laura pulled herself together. She sank
