Deep Water

highly suspect or greatly exaggerated by the majority of people who had heard it. Vic had been impressed by the fact that Trixie had not come home with a single canard against him. The only thing she had brought home to tell him was that one of her classmates had said that her parents had said that people liked to pick on people who were different from other people. Trixie had not really grasped what she was saying, and Vic had had to think to make sense of her words himself, but it seemed to be the old story of the conforming majority against the nonconformer, in this case his nonconformance being his income, he supposed, his nonprofitable publishing business, his tolerance of his wife's affairs, his televisionless household, and perhaps even his superannuated car. Vic had given Trixie a talk then on persecuted minorities and individuals, with examples from history. Trixie was going to be a conformist par excellence after her childhood, Vic was sure, but he liked to think that he might have opened a small door in her mind about nonconformers. He had made the story of Galileo as interesting as he could.

       When the time came to drive the Mellers home, Melinda wanted to go, too. That had not happened in years.

       No one could have said the evening was not a success. The closest to it, Vic thought, had been the first birthday Melinda had celebrated in Little Wesley about nine years ago, when they had also invited the Mellers. But as he started out of the door into the garage with his sweaters and his Geiger counter he was struck by the contrast of his isolation now with his closeness to Melinda then, and he stopped, turned around, and went back into the living room.

       Melinda was in her bedroom, starting to remove her dress.

       "I wasn't sure I thanked you enough," Vic said. "It's the nicest birthday I can remember."

       "I think you thanked me," she said, smiling. "Do you mind unfastening this? I can't reach the middle part."

       He put everything down on her bed and unhooked the rest of the hooks and eyes that went down the middle of her back. "Who hooked you up?"

       "Trixie. She's asleep now. Would you like a nightcap?"

       A faint chill went up his spine. "No, thanks. I thought I'd go over and try my counter on that crazy conglomerate rock in my room."

       "What rock?"

       "I guess you haven't seen it. It's been there for months, though. In the corner by the filing cabinet." She looked as if she were about to say, "I want to go with you and look at it, too," and he hoped she wouldn't.

       She didn't. She looked from him down to the floor, then turned and began to pull her dress over her head.

       "So I'll say good night," Vic said, walking to the door. "Good night, Vic. And happy birthday"

       He tried the counter, following the directions in the instruction book. After a moment he heard a click, then another, then a longer pause, and three more. The rocks in the conglomeration were of varying ages, of course. He put the set away, feeling tired and a little troubled. As soon as he lay down in bed, he thought of the way Melinda had asked him if he wanted a nightcap—tentatively, as if she didn't know him. Or was that it? He felt an echo of the same unpleasant chill. It was fear, and why did he have it? Just what had he to be afraid of if he had had a nightcap with her in her room, sat on her bed, perhaps even slept in her bed? His mind shied away from further imaginings, and returned to the fear he had felt. He didn't know why Melinda was being so friendly That was part of it. He supposed it was the main part. He decided to proceed with even more caution—not be cold or unreceptive, just proceed with caution. Too often he had swallowed her bait and found himself wriggling on a hook. All he wanted was peace in the household, he reminded himself. Once there was real peace, a peace that could be trusted—Well, 'lie' could go on from there when he came to that.

       The following evening, with really no forethought about it, Vic had a nightcap with Melinda in her room. She had not asked him into her room, he had simply brought her highball in to her and sat down, on a chair. But once there, he was uncomfortable, and began talking to her about getting some new curtains for her room.

       "Oh, I don't care," Melinda said. "Curtains're awfully expensive, and after all who sees them?"

       "That's right, who sees them?—Well, you."

       "I never look at them." She was sitting in front of her dressing table, brushing her hair. "You know, Vic, I'm glad I didn't go away with Tony. I like you better," she said matter-of-factly. "You don't mind, do you?"

       "No-o."

       "Well, do you?" She smiled at him.

       He found her self-consciousness fascinating. "No."

       "I'm glad you behaved the way you did. About Charley, too." "What do you mean 'behaved'?"

       "Oh—you never really lost control, and yet they both knew you didn't like them and wished they'd disappear. Maybe Tony did just disappear. Go to another town, I mean." She waited.

       "Well, I'm glad you realize that," he said gently, after a moment. "You may hear from him some day—a note of apology. He's got a conscience."

       "A conscience? Do you think so?"

       "More than De Lisle had, anyway."

       "We'll never hear from him, will we?"

       "Not bloody likely. Poor guy."

       "They're both poor guys—compared to you." She was standing by her night table lamp now, working at one nail with an emery board.

       "What makes you suddenly think that?"

       "You think so, don't you?"

       "Yes. But you've never thought so, even when we were first married."

       "Oh, Vic,