“All right,” she said. “Dont use any word then.”
I wrote Do you mean you want to
“Of course you can,” she said. “Always. You know that.” I wrote Thats not what I asked you She read it. Then she didn’t move. I wrote Look at me She did so, looking at me from out or across what it was that I would recognise in a moment now.
“Yes,” she said.
I wrote Didnt I just tell you you dont ever have to be afraid and this time I had to move the pad slightly to draw her attention to it, until she said, not looking up:
“I dont have to go away either?”
I wrote No under her eyes this time, then she looked up, at me, and I knew what it was she looked out of or across: the immeasurable loss, the appeaseless grief, the fidelity and the enduring, the dry quacking voice saying, “Gavin. Gavin. Gavin.” while I wrote
because we are the 2 in all the world who can love each other without having to the end of it tailing off in a sort of violent rubric as she clasped me, clinging to me, quite hard, the dry clapping voice saying,
“Gavin. Gavin. I love you. I love you,” so that I had to break free to reach the pad and write
Give me the card
She stared down at it, her hands arrested in the act of leaving my shoulders. “Card?” she said. Then she said, “I’ve lost it.”
Then I knew: a flash, like lightning. I wrote your father even while I was saying out loud: “Oh the son of a bitch, the son of a bitch,” saying to myself Wait. Wait! He had to. Put yourself in his place. What else could he do, what other weapon did he have to defend his very existence before she destroyed it—the position he had sacrificed everything for—wife home friends peace—to gain the only prize heen shw since it was the only one he could understand since the world itself as he understood it assured him that was what he wanted because that was the only thing worth having. Of course: his only possible weapon: gain possession of the card, hold the threat of turning it in to the F.B.I, over her and stop her before she destroyed him. Yet all this time I was telling myself You know better. He will use it to destroy her. It was he himself probably who scrawled Jew Communist Kohl on his own sidewalk at midnight to bank a reserve of Jefferson sympathy against the day when he would be compelled to commit his only child to the insane asylum. I wrote
Ransacked your room drawers desk
“Somebody did,” she said. “It was last year. I thought—” I wrote
It was your father
“Was it?” Yes, it was exactly that tone. I wrote
Dont you know it was
“Does it matter? They will send me another one I suppose. But that doesn’t matter either. I haven’t changed. I dont have to have a little printed card to show it.”
This time I wrote slowly and carefully You dont have to go I wont ask any more but when I do ask you again to go will you just believe me & go at once I will make all plans will you do that
“Yes,” she said.
I wrote Swear
“Yes,” she said. “Then you can marry.” I couldn’t have written anyway; she had caught up both my hands, holding them between hers against her chest. “You must. I want you to. You mustn’t miss that. Nobody must never have had that once. Nobody. Nobody.” She was looking at me. “That word you didn’t like. My mother said that to you once too, didn’t she.” It wasn’t even a question. “Did you?”
I freed my hands and wrote You know we didnt
“Why didn’t you?”
I wrote Because she felt sorry for me when you do things for people just because you feel sorry for them what you do is probably not very important to you
“I dont feel sorry for you. You know that. Dont you know it will be important to me?”
I wrote Then maybe it was because I wasnt worthy of her & we both knew it but I thought if we didnt maybe she might always think maybe I might have been and ripped the sheet off and crumpled it into my pocket and wrote I must go now
“Dont go,” she said. Then she said, “Yes, go. You see, I’m all right now, I’m not even afraid any more.”
I wrote why should you ever have been then on the same sheet My hat and she went and got it while I gathered up the rest of the used sheets into my pocket and took the hat and went toward the door, the quacking voice saying “Gavin” until I turned. “How did we say it? the only two people in the world that love each other and dont have to? I love you, Gavin,” in that voice, tone which to her was whispering, murmuring perhaps but to anyone tragic enough to still have ears was as penetrating and shocking almost as an old-time klaxon automobile horn.
And out, fast and quick out of his house, his mansion, his palace, on to his bank fast and quick too, right on back into that little room and bump, nudge, startle the propped feet off the fireplace, my hand already out: “I will now take that card, if you please.” Except that would be wantonly throwing away an opportunity, a gift actually; why let him pick his moment to surrender, produce the evidence on his side, to the F.B.I.? Why not strike first, sic the F.B.I, on him before he could, as Ratliff would say, snatch back: that mild neutral gray man flashing that badge on him, saying, “We have it on authority, Mr Snopes, that you have a Communist party card in your possession. Do you care to make a statement?”
But I didn’t know where Gihon would be now and, his declared enemy, he wouldn’t believe me. So the F.B.I., as
