'Will you tell me what you were doing at a faculty tea?'
'Bloody public relations; something you should be doing.'
Chris handed him a gin on the rocks.
'God, the way we've been mucking their grounds,' the director muttered; pious; the glass to his lips. 'Oh, yes, go ahead, laugh! That's all that you're good for, laughing and showing a bit of bum.'
'I'm just smiling.'
'Well, someone had to make a good show.'
'And how many times did you say 'fuck,' Burke?'
'Darling, that's crude,' he rebuked her gently. 'Now tell me, how are you?'
She answered with a despondent shrug.
'Are you glum? Come on, tell me.'
'I dunno.'
'Tell your uncle.'
'Shit, I think I'll have a drink,' she said, reaching for a glass.
'Yes, it's good for the stomach. Now, then, what?'
She was slowly pouring vodka. 'Ever think A dying?'
'I beg your---'
'Dying,' she interrupted. 'Ever think about it, Burke? What it means? I mean, really what it means?'
Faintly edgy, he answered, 'I don't know. No, I don't. I don't think about it at all. I just do it. What the hell'd you bring it up for?'
She shrugged. 'I don't know,' she answered softly. She plopped ice into her glass; eyed it thoughtfully. 'Yeah... yeah, I do,' she amended. 'I sort of... well, I thought about it this morning... like a dream... waking up. I don't know. I mean, it just sort of hit me... what it means. I mean, the end---the end!---like I'd never even heard of it before.' She shook her head. 'Oh, Jesus, did that spook me! I felt like I was falling off the goddamn planet at a hundred million miles an hour.'
'Oh, rubbish. Death's a comfort,' Dennings sniffed.
'Not for me it isn't, Charlie.'
'Well, you live through your children.'
'Oh, come off it! My children aren't me.'
'Yes, thank heaven. One's entirely enough.'
'I mean, think about it, Burke! Not existing---forever! It's---'
'Oh, for heaven sakes! Show your bum at the faculty tea next week and perhaps those priests can give you comfort!'
He banged down his glass. 'Let's another.'
'You know, I didn't know they drank?'
'Well, you're stupid.'
His eyes had grown mean. Was he reaching the point of no return? Chris wondered. She had the feeling she had touched a nerve. Had she?
'Do they go to confession?' she asked him.
'How would I know!' he suddenly bellowed.
'Well, weren't you studying to be a---'
'Where's the bloody drink!'
'Want some coffee?'
'Don't be fatuous. I want another drink.'
'Have some coffee.'
'Come along, now. One for the road.'
'The Lincoln Highway?'
'That's ugly, and I loathe an ugly drunk. Come along, dammit, fill it!'
He shoved his glass across the bar and she poured more gin.
'I guess maybe I should ask a couple of them over,' Chris murmured.
'Ask who?'
'Well, whoever.' She shrugged. 'The big wheels; you know, priests.'
'They'll never leave; there fucking plunderers,' he rasped, and gulped his gin.
