And they both made frequent use of the word nice all afternoon. Christine seemed unable to keep away from him except for brief intervals when she had to attend to the baby; once, when Warren was alone in the living room, she came dancing slowly and dreamily across the floor, as if to the sound of violins, and fell into his arms like a girl in the movies. Another time, curled fast against him on the sofa, she softly crooned a popular song called “Unforgettable” to him, with a significant dipping of her eyelashes over the title word whenever the lyrics brought it around.
“Oh, you’re nice, Warren,” she kept saying. “You know that? You’re really nice.”
And he would tell her, again and again, how nice she was too.
When Alfred Arnold came home from work—a compact and tired and bashfully agreeable-looking man—his wife and young Amy were quick to busy themselves in the ritual of making him welcome: taking his coat, readying his chair, bringing his glass of gin. But Christine held back, clinging to Warren’s arm, until the time came to take him up for a formal introduction to the man of the house.
“Pleased to meet you, Warren,” Alfred Arnold said. “Make yourself at home.”
There was corned beef with boiled potatoes for supper, which everyone said was very good, and in the afterglow Alfred fell to reminiscing in a laconic way about his time as prisoner of war in Burma. “Four years,” he said, displaying the fingers of one hand with only the thumb held down. “Four years.”
And Warren said it must have been terrible.
“Alfred?” Grace said. “Show Warren your citation.”
“Oh no, love; nobody wants to bother with that.”
“Show him,” she insisted.
And Alfred gave in. A thick black wallet was shyly withdrawn from his hip pocket; then from one of its depths came a stained, much-folded piece of paper. It was almost falling apart at the creases, but the typewritten message was clear: it conveyed the British Army’s recognition that Private A. J. Arnold, while a prisoner of war of the Japanese in Burma, had been commended by his captors as a good and steady worker on the construction of a railroad bridge in 1944.
“Well,” Warren said. “That’s fine.”
“Ah, you know the women,” Alfred confided, tucking the paper back where it came from. “The women always want you to show this stuff around. I’d rather forget the whole bloody business.”
Christine and Warren managed to make an early escape, under Grace Arnold’s winking smile, and as soon as the bedroom door was shut they were clasped and writhing and breathing heavily, eager and solemn in lust. The shedding of their clothes took no time at all but seemed a terrible hindrance and delay; then they were deep in bed and reveling in each other, and then they were joined again.
“Oh, Warren,” she said. “Oh, God. Oh, Warren. Oh, I love you.”
And he heard himself saying more than once, more times than he cared to believe or remember, that he loved her too.
Sometime after midnight, as they lay quiet, he wondered how those words could have spilled so easily and often from his mouth. And at about the same time, when Christine began talking again, he became aware that she’d had a lot to drink. A quarter-full bottle of gin stood on the floor beside the bed, with two cloudy, finger-printed glasses to prove they had both made ample use of it, but she seemed to be well ahead of him now. Pouring herself still another one, she sat back in comfort against the pillows and the wall and talked in a way that suggested she was carefully composing each sentence for dramatic effect, like a little girl pretending to be an actress.
“You know something, Warren? Everything I ever wanted was taken away from me. All my life. When I was eleven I wanted a bicycle more than anything in the world, and my father finally bought me one. Oh, it was only secondhand and cheap, but I loved it. And then that same summer he got mad and wanted to punish me for something—I can’t even remember what—and he took it away. I never saw it again.”
“Yeah, well, that must’ve felt bad,” Warren said, but then he tried to steer the talk along less sentimental lines. “What kind of work does your father do?”
“Oh, he’s a pen-pusher. For the gas works. We don’t get along at all, and I don’t get along with my mother either. I never go home. No, but it’s true what I said: everything I ever wanted was—you know—taken away from me.” She paused there, as if to bring her stage voice back under control, and when she began to speak again, with greater confidence, it was in the low, hushed tones appropriate for an intimate audience of one.
“Warren? Would you like to hear about Adrian? Laura’s father? Because I’d really like to tell you, if you’re interested.”
“Sure.”
“Well, Adrian’s an American Army officer. A young major. Or maybe he’s a lieutenant colonel by now, wherever he is. I don’t even know where he is, and the funny part is I don’t care. I really don’t care at all anymore. But Adrian and I had a wonderful time until I told him I was pregnant; then he froze up. He just froze up. Oh, I suppose I didn’t really think he’d ask me to marry him or anything—he had this rich society girl waiting for him back in the States; I knew that. But he got very cold and he told me to get an abortion, and I said no. I said, ‘I’m going to have this baby, Adrian.’ And he said, ‘All right.’ He said, ‘All right, but you’re on your own, Christine. You’ll have to raise this child any way you can.’ That was when I decided to go and see his commanding officer.”
“His commanding officer?”
“Well, somebody had to help,” she said. “Somebody had to make him see his responsibility. And God, I’ll never forget that day. The regimental commander was this very dignified man named Colonel Masters, and he just sat there behind his desk and looked at me and listened, and he nodded a few times. Adrian was there with me, not saying a word; there were just the three of us in the office. And in the end Colonel Masters said, ‘Well, Miss Phillips, as far as I can see it comes down to this. You made a mistake. You made a mistake, and you’ll have to live with it.’”
“Yeah,” Warren said uneasily. “Yeah, well, that must’ve been—”
But he didn’t have to finish that sentence, or to say anything else that might let her know he hadn’t believed a word of the story, because she was crying. She had drawn up her knees and laid the side of her rumpled head on them as the sobs began; then she set her empty glass carefully on the floor, slid back into bed, and turned away from him, crying and crying.
“Hey, come on,” he said. “Come on, baby, don’t cry.” And there was nothing to do but turn her around and take her in his arms until she was still.
After a long time she said, “Is there any more gin?”
“Some.”
“Well, listen, let’s finish it, okay? Grace won’t mind, or if she wants me to pay her for it, I’ll pay her for it.”
In the morning, with her face so swollen from emotion and sleep that she tried to hide it with her fingers, she said, “Jesus. I guess I got pretty drunk last night.”
“That’s okay; we both drank a lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said in the impatient, almost defiant way of people accustomed to making frequent apologies. “I’m sorry.” She had taken care of the baby and was walking unsteadily around the little room in a drab green bathrobe. “Anyway, listen. Will you come back, Warren?”
“Sure. I’ll call you, okay?”
“No, there’s no telephone here. But will you come back soon?” She followed him out to the front door, where he turned to see the limpid appeal in her eyes. “If you come in the daytime,” she said, “I’ll always be home.”
* * *
For a few days, idling at his desk or wandering the streets and the park in the first real spring weather of the year, Warren found it impossible to keep his mind on anything but Christine. Nothing like this could ever have been expected to happen in his life: a young Scotch prostitute in love with him. With a high, fine confidence that wasn’t at all characteristic of him, he had begun to see himself as a rare
and privileged adventurer of the heart. Memories of Christine in his arms whispering, “Oh, I love you,” made him smile like a fool in the sunshine, and at other moments he found a different, subtler pleasure in considering all the pathetic things about her—the humorless ignorance, the cheap, drooping underwear, the drunken crying. Even her story of “Adrian” (a name almost certainly lifted from a women’s magazine) was easy to forgive—or would be, once he’d found some wise and gentle way of letting her know he knew it wasn’t true. He might eventually have to find a way of telling her he hadn’t really meant to say he loved her too, but all that could wait. There was no hurry, and the season was spring.
“Know what I like most about you, Warren?” she asked very late in their third or fourth night together. “Know what I really love about you? It’s that I feel I can trust you. All my life, that’s all I ever wanted: somebody to trust. And you see I keep making mistakes and making mistakes because I trust people who turn out to be—”
“Shh, shh,” he said, “it’s okay, baby. Let’s just sleep now.”
“Well, but wait a second. Listen a minute, okay? Because I really do want to tell you something, Warren. I knew this boy Jack. He kept saying he wanted to marry me and everything, but this was the trouble: Jack’s a gambler. He’ll always be a gambler. And I suppose you can guess what that meant.”
“What’d it mean?”
“It meant money, that’s what it meant. Staking him, covering his losses, helping him get through the month until payday—ah, Christ, it makes me sick just to think of all that now. For almost a year. And do you know how much of it I ever got back? Well, you won’t believe this, but I’ll tell you. Or no, wait—I’ll show you. Wait a second.”
She got up and stumbled and switched on the ceiling light in an explosion of brilliance that startled the baby, who whimpered in her sleep. “It’s okay, Laura,” Christine said softly as she rummaged in the top drawer of her dresser; then she found what she was looking for and brought it back to the bed. “Here,” she said. “Look. Read this.”
It was a single sheet of cheap ruled paper torn from a tablet of the kind meant for schoolchildren, and it bore no date.
Dear Miss Phillips:
Enclosed is the sum of two pounds ten shillings. This is all I can afford now and there will be no more as I am being shipped back to the U.S. next week for discharge and separation from the service.
My Commanding Officer says you telephoned him four times last month and three times this month and this must stop as he is a busy man and can not be bothered with calls of this kind. Do not call him again, or the 1st Sgt. either, or anyone else in this organization.
Pfc. John F. Curtis
“Isn’t that the damnedest thing?” Christine said. “I mean really, Warren, isn’t that the goddamnedest thing?”
“Sure is.” And he read it over again. It was the sentence beginning “My Commanding Officer” that seemed to give it all away, demolishing “Adrian” at a glance and leaving little doubt in Warren’s mind that John F. Curtis had fathered her child.
“Could you turn the light off now, Christine?” he said, handing the letter back to her.
“Sure, honey. I just wanted you to see that.” And she had undoubtedly wanted to see if he’d be dumb enough to swallow the story too.
When the room was dark again and she lay curled against his back, he silently prepared a quiet, reasonable speech. He would say, Baby, don’t get mad, but listen. You mustn’t try to put these stories over on me anymore. I didn’t believe the one about Adrian and I don’t believe Jack the Gambler either, so how about cutting this stuff out? Wouldn’t it be better if we could sort of try to tell each other the truth?
What stopped his mouth, on thinking it over, was that to say all that would humiliate her into wrath. She’d be out of bed and shouting in an instant, reviling him in the ugliest language of her trade until long after the baby woke up crying, and then there would be nothing but wreckage.
There might still be an appropriate moment for inquiring into her truthfulness—there would have to be, and soon—but whether it made him feel cowardly or not he had to acknowledge, as he lay facing the wall with her sweet arm around his ribs, that this wasn’t the time.
A few nights later, at home, he answered the phone and was startled to hear her voice: “Hi, honey.”
“Christine? Well, hi, but how’d you—how’d you get this number?”
“You gave it to me. Don’t you remember? You wrote it down.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, smiling foolishly into the mouthpiece, but this was alarming. The phone here in the basement flat was only an extension of Judith’s phone upstairs. They rang simultaneously, and when Judith was home she always picked up her receiver on the first or second ring.
“So listen,” Christine was saying. “Can you come over Thursday instead of Friday? Because it’s Jane’s birthday and we’re having a party. She’ll be nine.…”
After he’d hung up he sat hunched for a long time in the attitude of a man turning over grave and secret questions in his mind. How could he have been dumb enough to give her Judith’s number? And soon he remembered something else, a second dumb thing that brought him to his feet for an intense, dramatic pacing of the floor: she knew his address too. Once in the pub he had run out of cash and been unable to pay for all the beer, so he’d given Christine a check to cover it.
“Most customers find it’s a convenience to have their street addresses printed beneath their names on each check,” an assistant bank manager had explained when Warren and Carol opened their checking account last year. “Shall I order them that way for you?”
“Sure, I guess so,” Carol had said. “Why not?”
He was almost all the way to the Arnolds’ house on Thursday before he realized he’d forgotten to buy a present for Jane. But he found a sweetshop and kept telling the girl at the counter to scoop more and more assorted hard candies into a paper bag until he had a heavy bundle of the stuff that he could only hope might be of passing interest to a nine-year-old.
And whether it was or not, Jane’s party turned out to be a profound success. There were children all over that bright, ramshackle apartment, and when the time came for them to be seated at the table—three tables shoved together—Warren stood back smiling and watching with his arm around Christine, thinking of that other party at The Peter Pan Club. Alfred came home from work with a giant stuffed panda bear that he pressed into Jane’s arms, laughing and then crouching to receive her long and heartfelt hug. But soon Jane was obliged to bring her delirium under control because the cake was set before her. She frowned, closed her eyes, made a wish and blew out all nine candles in a single heroic breath as the room erupted into full-throated cheers.
There was plenty to drink for the grown-ups after that, even before the last of the party guests had gone home and all the Arnold children were in bed. Christine left the room to put her baby down for the night, carrying a drink along with her. Grace had begun fixing supper with apparent reluctance, and when Alfred excused himself to have a bit of a rest she turned the gas burners down very low and abandoned the stove to join him.
That left Warren alone with Amy, who stood meticulously applying her makeup at the oval mirror above the mantelpiece. She was really a lot better looking than Christine, he decided as he sat on the sofa with a drink in his hand, watching her. She was tall and long-legged and flawlessly graceful, with a firm slender ass that made you ache to clasp it and with plump, pointed little breasts. Her dark hair hung to her shoulder blades, and this evening she had chosen to wear a narrow black skirt with a peach-colored blouse. She was a proud and lovely girl, and he didn’t want to think about the total stranger who would have her for money at the end of the night.
Amy had finished with her eyes and begun to work on her mouth, drawing the lipstick slowly along the yielding shape of each full lip until it glistened like marzipan, then pouting so that one lip could caress and rub the other, then parting them t
o inspect her perfect young teeth for possible traces of red. When she was finished, when she’d put all her implements back into a little plastic case and snapped it shut, she continued to stand at the mirror for what seemed at least half a minute, doing nothing, and that was when Warren realized she knew he’d been staring at her in all this privacy and silence, all this time. At last she turned around in such a quick, high-shouldered way, and with such a look of bravery conquering fear, that it was as if he might be halfway across the floor to make a grab for her.
“You look very nice, Amy,” he said from the sofa.
Her shoulders slackened then and she let out a breath of relief, but she didn’t smile. “Jesus,” she said. “You scared the shit out of me.”
When she’d put on her coat and left the house, Christine came back into the room with the languorous, self-indulgent air of a girl who has found a good reason for staying home from work.
“Move over,” she said, and sat close beside him. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, okay. You?”
“Okay.” She hesitated then, as if constrained by the difficulty of making small talk. “Seen any good movies?”
“No.”
She took his hand and held it in both of her own. “You miss me?”
“I sure did.”
“The hell you did.” And she flung down his hand as if it were something vile. “I went around to your place the other night, to surprise you, and I saw you going in there with a girl.”
“No you didn’t,” he told her. “Come on, Christine, you know you didn’t do that at all. Why do you always want to tell me these—”
Her eyes narrowed in menace and her lips went flat. “You calling me a liar?”
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, “don’t be like that. Why do you want to be like that? Let’s just drop it, okay?”
She seemed to be thinking it over. “Okay,” she said. “Look: It was dark and I was across the street; I could’ve had the wrong house; it could’ve been somebody else I saw with the girl, so okay, we’ll drop it. But I want to tell you something: don’t ever call me a liar, Warren. I’m warning you. Because I swear to God”—and she pointed emphatically toward her bedroom—“I swear on that baby’s life I’m not a liar.”
Liars in Love Page 10