Please Write for Details

by John D. MacDonald

  He sensed that in some unreadable area of her she was amused and grateful. She had turned toward him slightly in her emotional attitude, slightly but detectably, a flower making a quiet quarter turn toward the light. And, once she was assured that he was making no attempt to force conversation with her, she co-operated in the conspiracy, lagging behind until she could be certain they were both heading for the same table where two people already sat.

  He told himself that this was summer intrigue, and certainly not on a very volatile level. Nothing more. Equivalent to one of those shipboard deals that never get beyond the stage of maneuver. He did not want it to be more important than that, and yet he had the uneasy suspicion that it might be. In attempting to analyze how she affected him, the easiest factor was the physical. She had a lovely body and moved with unconsciously provocative grace. He desired her. That was an uncomplicated drive. But there was more beyond that—or in another sense more that was perhaps more important. He felt a strong need to protect her. It was laughably close to those boyhood daydreams where he wanted so desperately to defeat a flock of scoundrels before the eyes of his eighth-grade beloved. He wanted to protect her, and more. He wanted to be able to watch her in homely things, brushing that white sheen of her hair with her strangely dark brows knitted in cosmetic concentration, brushing her teeth, putting on a robe, making coffee, washing plates, hanging out washing, pushing a supermarket cart. He wanted to see the shifting and untellable mysteries of her dissolved into the ordinary. More than anything, he wanted her to glow and laugh. At one lunch Park Barnum told John and Barbara and Bitsy about some of the trials and turmoils of a small advertising agency in Manhattan. He told it so amusingly and well that it was not spoiled by the consciousness that he had told it many times before, editing and exaggerating his material. One story was really very funny. And as John laughed he heard Barbara laugh beside him. It was the first time he had heard her laugh. And, he realized, it was not the sort of laugh he would have expected, not light and fragile at all. It was a hearty, husky, earthy burst of sound. He glanced at her and saw her face alight. A moment later she was composed again, smiling evenly and rather carefully at the rest of Park’s monologue. And John Kemp felt a shaft of pain and loss so deep and sudden that for a few moments he was unable to identify it for what it was, pure jealousy and envy directed against the dead husband, and a sense of outraged indignation that one man should have been permitted to be given so much.

  And after that he wished that he were the world’s greatest clown, such a genius of comedy that he could make her laugh at any time.

  Some days before, on the day as a matter of fact that he had received, forwarded from New Orleans, the casual, proud, brave and deeply moving letter from Mary Jenningson in California, he had gone for an evening walk outside the wall and had seen Barbara standing in pallid moonlight against the wall, her shoulders held in a strange and rigid way, as though she faced execution.

  He had gone over to her. She had kept her face turned away from him, but he had seen the glinting of moonlight on moisture below her eyes.

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Thank you. No. I do not want any kind of sympathy. It makes such a nice approach, doesn’t it? Sympathy. Such a nifty gambit, John. Comfort the poor sad lady. Make her spill her woes. Tell her yours. And then you can comfort each other. I’m so damn tired of devices.”

  He stood silent in the moonlight, a few feet from her, looking at the way her profile was outlined against the wall. He sensed that this was a time of crisis in their relationship. The draw-bridge, so tentatively lowered, had suddenly been snatched up with a great rattling of chains, and every battlement bristled with pikes, and all the bowstrings were drawn taut. There had to be some way of crying “Friend!” Some way to still her instinctive alarm. And she had spoken so bitterly.

  Before he spoke he took a long time to think his words over very carefully. “Barbara, there is a very ugly fetish in our culture, a kind of erroneous folklore which says that divorcees and widows are uncommonly vulnerable to a male on the hunt. So that makes them fair game. So, from the way you talk, I’d say you’ve been a target. Certainly Klauss is as obvious as they come. To be entirely honest with you, I suppose in one sense—in the sense that I respond in a perfectly ordinary way to a pretty woman—I’m a male on the hunt. But not devious, Barbara. I’m not that kind of guy. I haven’t got any fancy program outlined which is supposed to end up with us in bed. I do like you. I’m attracted to you. I’d like to have you drop your guard a little. You can drop it without my changing my attitude or habits or approach to you one damn bit. I didn’t follow you out here. I didn’t know you were out here. This was an accident. You’ve been crying. So let’s start over. Anything I can do?”

  She was silent and motionless for so long that he began to think she would not speak again, that perhaps the least awkward thing to do would be to just turn and walk quietly away.

  Her rigid shoulders slumped and she turned and looked at him. “I’m sorry, John. Gun-shy, or something. That Klauss person snuck under my guard right after I got here. For a few minutes. He makes me crawly. And our instructor isn’t much better. He told me I was a lovely clockwork toy in a crystal case. The inference seemed to be he was ready and able to wind up my spring again. I suppose it’s flattering. A long time ago it used to be sort of … reassuring to be pursued. A nice full datebook. But now it just makes me feel tired and depressed. I lost a husband I loved with all my heart. I’m not over it. Tonight I was, maybe for the first time, facing the idea—and it seems in a sense to be a terrible idea—that I will get over it. In time. In my own way. I don’t want help. Not the kind of help that people—men, seem to be most eager to offer. It is such a horrid form of arrogance for them to feel themselves to be so utterly fascinating that they can easily make me … forget. Do you understand why I … keep my guard up?”

  “Of course I do. But you can let it down a little for kindly ole John. I just want to be a friend.”

  She put her hand out suddenly and they shook hands solemnly in the moonlight. “Walk with me a little,” she said. “Please.”

  And they had walked and talked about the school and the courses. She had begun to regain a large measure of forgotten skills, to the extent that the exercise imposed by Agnes Keeley had become unsatisfying. On the other hand, Torrigan’s approach, so steamy and pseudo-philosophical and frantic, left her dissatisfied. They agreed that they would both enjoy spending the equivalent time on their own work, and were amused to learn that they both continued the classes because, due to the constantly increasing absenteeism, somebody had to attend to keep the classes from being embarassingly tiny.

  He talked to her about his own work, his hobby painting and its relation to architecture. He described some of the structures he had designed and she said she would very much like to see them some day.

  Later, after he was in bed, he had the smug feeling that he had handled it well. She had begun to talk freely with him, and with animation. During the days that followed their relationship continued on the new level.

  And yesterday, Thursday, he had dared to suggest to her the Saturday trip he had in mind. Park was going with Bitsy in the Mercedes up to Mexico City. So he would have no use for the station wagon, and was quite willing to lend it to John Kemp. He suggested to Barbara that they drive down to Taxco and see it, and on the way back out over to Vista Hermosa for a swim and dinner.

  She had looked as if she would make some excuse not to go, and when she said yes, he had the impression that her answer had surprised her almost as much as it had surprised him. The prospect of spending a whole day with her kept giving him recurrent prickles of excitement.

  He sat in the dusky garden patio and knocked his pipe out on the edge of the stone bench. It had begun to look as though his Mexican plans would not work out the way he had thought. He had thought to paint a little and let all the emotional knots loosen and then, in a state of rest and calm, make the decision as to whether
to take over Kurt Jenningson’s share of the firm, or insist on being bought out by Kurt. He had not counted on any new factors in the equation. But it had begun to look as though Barbara might be a factor. He sensed that, if he was lucky enough, marriage might be the only possible answer to the whole thing. And, should he take over the whole shop, it would leave no time for either the careful and long-term courtship necessary, or the proper establishment of a life with a new bride.

  He heard the clack of high heels on thee stone path and felt his heart lift as he thought it was she. But it was that woman. Miles’s friend. For a moment he could not remember her name. Gloria something. Gloria Garvey. She had not been near the school since that night they had left together and he had managed to attain a certain measure of sobriety during the long walk back to the hotel.

  He stood up and said, “Hello, Gloria.”

  She planted herself carefully, facing him. “Hello there, John Sneaky Kemp.” She was dressed brightly and untidily, and her coarse hair was unkempt. She swayed and caught herself, took two measured strides to the stone bench and sat down a little more violently than she had intended. She hiccuped once and patted the stone beside her. “Sit, Johnny my lad.” He sat beside her.

  “I am drunk,” she said. “I am besotted. You know, ladies in their cups are horrible sights. Hate the sight of it myself. But you see, I got caught in a sort of a bind. Usually I can handle it just fine. But this time I had to take on a little more than I can handle. Know why?”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea.”

  “You hurt hell out of my pride, you basser, you big basser. Expected maybe you’d come apologize. ‘F you didn’t come, I wasn’t ever going to come here, come near you. See?”

  “Gloria, that was my time to get drunk. I don’t know why the hell I did.”

  “Found out the next day, baby, that I didn’t exactly go in that pool by any big fat accident. It was described to me. You took a little half step and swung it at me. Pow! Was all over town. All my friends. Great friends. Just deeeeelighted that Gloria got herself bunked into the pool and walked out on. What the hell, Johnny my lad?”

  “Okay. I did do it on purpose. But I was drunk. That’s my excuse. You were determined I was coming home with you and I was determined I wasn’t. So I did a silly thing and I’m sorry. I thought of finding you and apologizing. But sometimes apologies just make things worse. You know.”

  “You are frank and honest, you basser, aren’t you? Which leads us to the next step. Am I such a raddled old pig you got to bunk me into a pool to keep from sleeping with me? I talk real direct, don’t I? I know it isn’t because you’re queer. Even when they look like a pro wrestler, I can spot a queer at a thousand yards. And li’l ole Drummy checked the records for me so I know it isn’t one of those faithful-to-the-old-lady kicks. You’re no prude, boy. You’ve been around. So, you see, I don’t know what the hell it is. I got too much pride to come around here and try to find out. I know when I’m not wanted, all right. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And so the only way to come here and find out, you basser, was to get real go to hell out of a bottle or two. I got a wrinkle here and a wrinkle there. Standard wear and tear. I’m thirty-seven. And I have kept hell out of my shape, Johnny my lad. Just luck because I’m no exercise and diet bug. But it’s there. And this face hasn’t ever stopped clocks. So let’s come clean with Gloria. Bad breath? Dandruff?”

  There was an anxious sincerity behind her slurred chatter, and he sensed that she was not quite as drunk as she was appearing to be.

  “I can’t really give you a good answer, Gloria. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you know, you were pretty damn aggressive. It made me a little jumpy. I haven’t been scared of any female since I got used to playing kissing games a long time ago. I guess I was drunk enough to be filled with a kind of stuffy dignity. When I take too much I either get enormously dignified, or I get the girlish giggles.”

  “Aggression, huh?”

  “I guess so.”

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Been about three weeks of self-evaluation. Never spent so much damn time staring in mirrors, front and back and sideways. You know something, Johnny dear? I’m no damn good. I gave three husbands a taste of hell on earth. I haven’t got one real friend. Oh, I know a hell of a lot of people. No friends. I go my way. They go theirs. Lots of money. Oh, lots of it. And I know just where every penny is and how hard it’s working for Gloria. No damn good, though.” She straightened up and turned and stared at him, her face an oval of pallor on the edge of night. “I never in my whole life wanted to give anybody anything. Any part of me. All I want to do is take. I want things and people to make me feel pleasured and when I’m through I want them to go away quietly. That’s what I came to, John Kemp. Three weeks to hit the answer. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t the Garvey physical assets. So it had to be that you were so smart you could see the nogoodnik part of me. And it’s beginning to show more. Oh, I’ve got a mean eye. Never noticed before. Real mean. Cold as a toad.”

  “It isn’t that involved. I just resented you, I guess, because there … wasn’t any chase. No chance for pursuit. No business of the stone club and dragging her off to the cave by the hair.”

  “Hmmm. Hell, I’m pursued enough, but it’s by spooks I wouldn’t be seen dead with. When I see what I want, like when I came here and saw you, I get a billion butterflies and I can’t take a deep breath. So maybe I get obvious. Aren’t we supposed to be emancipated? Never had any trouble before. Just you. Damn you!”

  “I guess I’m the old-fashioned type.”

  They sat in a rather strained silence for almost a minute until she finally said with exasperation, “So start pursuing, damn it!”

  “What?”

  “Here I am. Go get your stone club, friend. You certainly raise hell with my morale. You make me feel awkward and clumsy and guilty as all hell. And specially unattractive to men.”

  “Now listen, Gloria, I …”

  “Here we go again. My car is outside. Aggress me or something. I went at it wrong the last time, so I’m trying to go at it right. Here’s the keys. You drive.”

  He refused to take the keys. “Gloria, we just got off on the wrong foot in the beginning. It’s something you can’t go back and fix. I’m sorry. I don’t want your morale to suffer.”

  “What have I done wrong now?” she cried.

  “It isn’t anything you’ve done. It’s just the timing. I … I’ve gotten so interested in one of the women students that …”

  “The slim blonde with the Jesus Saves expression?” she asked in a dull voice.

  “I guess you have the right one in mind,” he said.

  “Having lots of fun and games?” she asked tauntingly.

  “No. It’s … more of a marriage bit, I think.”

  Gloria stood up slowly. “Some days, ducks, I’m older than God.” He stood up and she turned and faced him. “Well, I have a file of testimonials that indicate you’re missing out on a lot of natural talent and energy and the fruits of lots of practice, man. Don’t suppose that gives you any regrets, does it?”

  “Sorry, Lady Gloria.”

  There was just enough light left so that he could see her wry grin. She patted his cheek. “If some night you hear a dog howling outside your window, Kemp, it’ll be me. Wish you’d been one of the tiresome three. I have the feeling I might have been able to stay married to you. Because if I’d stepped out of line you’d have beat hell out of me. Which any one of them should have done. God knows I gave ’em cause. Nighty-night, you basser.”

  She walked away quite briskly. He saw her silhouetted for a moment against the lights in the lobby as she went through the doorway.

  Later, bystanders reported that Gloria Garvey came stalking through toward the front door, her face expressionless. When Gam Torrigan, who was sitting with Monica and Harvey, explaining to them the world of Picasso, spoke to Gloria, she gave no sign that she had heard him. But she paused with her han
d on the door and stood there for long seconds before she wheeled around and marched straight to where Gam sat.

  “Gloria, darling, have a chair. This might interest you. I was telling these young …”

  “On your feet!”

  “I … I beg your pardon.”

  “Up, boy!”

  They say that Gam got up and was marched out the front door. He looked back with a certain plaintive look of apology, but they did not hear what he tried to say. They did hear the engine in the powder-blue Jag rev up to six thousand screaming rpm. It gave the auditory impression of rearing back and then plunging out through the gate.

  They did not see the rest of it. They did not see her streak by the barracks, turn left, turn left again on the main road and drop down into Cuernavaca as if they were in free fall. In the stutter of street lights Torrigan looked with apprehension and the beginning of a primitive fear at the narrow eyes, clamped jaw and set lips of the Viking woman at the wheel. He looked at the road ahead. He clamped his big hands around his hard thighs. He shut his eyes. He opened them for a fraction of a second and saw a man in mid-air, leaping in terror toward the sidewalk. The next glimpse disclosed the gray furry rear end of a burro inches from the right front fender as she swerved. On the third glimpse he saw the big rackety bus starting across their bows, closing the gap between its front bumper and the rear end of a truck. He made a squeaky little sound as he squinched his eyes shut. There was a violent swerve, a tiny little ting of metal audible over the roar of wind and engine, and they were free again, dropping down into the city, with the shrill and angry wheeing of the policeman’s whistle dying away behind them.