This Sweet Sickness

by Patricia Highsmith

  David sensed a falseness in Wes’s good humor, and he suddenly realized that it had been many weeks since Wes had come to see him in his room at Mrs. McCartney’s. David also found himself recalling the incident at the factory today, the incident at Michael’s Tavern, and he felt self-conscious and ashamed. He was sorry he had sent Wes sprawling on the floor, and sorry he was going to leave before he had attempted to patch things up. Wes and Effie had a second drink, and because they pressed him and David wanted to be agreeable, he accepted a scotch and water. He had drunk more than half the Sauterne. David watched Wes’s face as a spate of silly words came out of his mouth, accompanied by Effie’s giggles at regular intervals. He fingered the wristwatch under his cuff, and when Wes ended a story with a clap of laughter, David stood up and said, “Take my watch, Wes.” He handed it to Wes.

  Wes looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like you to have it. You like it, don’t you?” He knew Wes liked it, because Wes had often told him he thought it was a handsome watch.

  Wes took it uncertainly. “That’s an expensive watch, pal.”

  “David,” Effie said reproachfully, “that’s a lovely watch.”

  “That’s why I want him to have it,” David replied, opening his arms and letting them drop at his sides. “What’s so funny about that? I’ll get myself a new watch.”

  “A Vacheron Constantin? On your new salary?” Wes asked. “The liquor’s gone to his head, Eff.”

  “I want you to have it,” David said. “I’m tired of it, in fact, and you like it and it keeps wonderful time and the big second hand’s very useful.”

  “No, Dave.”

  “Take it! I can’t understand what all the fuss is about!” David shouted, and then smiled at Effie’s startled expression.

  There was silence then, and finally Wes said very seriously, “Well, thank you, David. If you ever want it back—”

  “I don’t ever want to see that watch again. I’m going to buy a new watch.” David was amused by their startled faces, by the puzzled glances they exchanged. “Put it on, put it on,” he said to Wes.

  “Two wristwatches,” Wes said, fastening the alligator strap. “I’ve always wanted to be rich enough to wear two wristwatches.”

  David gave a sad, disappointed laugh, and sat down.

  Wes cleared his throat and drank, deeply. “If this is an evening for farewell presents, why don’t you take the sketch Effie made of you, Dave? She got it framed for you.”

  Effie looked suddenly panicky. David watched her with curiosity. “I destroyed that sketch—I’m sorry to say.”

  “Really?” Wes frowned. “Destroyed it, Eff?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?” Wes asked.

  And Effie got up and went into the kitchen without answering.

  Rather grateful that she had destroyed the sketch, so that he would not feel obliged to hang it, David followed her into the kitchen. He had meant to ask if he could help her, but she wasn’t doing anything. “Would you mind if I had another drink?” he asked, expecting the pleased surprise he usually saw on people’s faces when he accepted or asked for a drink, but Effie’s face grew more troubled.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have any more, Dave,” she said.

  “What? I bet I could drink that whole bottle and never show it. Never feel it and never show it.”

  Wes had come in and heard him. “Famous last words.”

  “Do you want to bet?” David asked.

  “No, no, I don’t want to bet,” Wes said, glancing at Effie as if they had a secret of some kind.

  “In that case, I’ll have just one, if nobody minds,” David said, looking at Effie. He reached for the bottle and poured a generous amount, but not foolishly much, he thought. Three fingers or so. He set the bottle down and gave it a push toward Wes, whose glass was empty, dropped two ice cubes into his glass and added a little water from the sink tap. Wes and Effie stared at him as if they had never seen anybody fix a drink before.

  Then Wes solemnly half filled his own glass, plopping his ice in, adding the token inch or so of soda. David smiled at him, but Wes did not return it. Wes went into the living room.

  “Dave,” Effie whispered, coming toward him, “I’m sorry I said that—about the sketch. It’s not destroyed and you can have it if you want it. I thought of destroying it, that’s all.”

  Her muddled sentiments were of no interest to him at all. “I see,” he said politely.

  “I thought if those police from Beck’s Brook ever came here and saw it—That’s why I haven’t got it hanging. It’s in the bottom of a drawer. They’d recognize it as Newmester—wouldn’t they, Dave?”

  “As him?” David said with an incredulous smile. “Yes. But so what? That’s all in the past. Why be so dramatic about it?”

  But she still looked dramatic, and shocked. “All right, Dave, I hope it’s in the past.” And after a couple of her famous nods, she went out of the kitchen into the living room.

  David lifted his glass, shut his eyes, and took three big swallows. Neumeister. He hadn’t thought of him in days until tonight, and there was little Effie, keeping his precious secret. Neumeister had served his purpose, sailing serenely, victoriously, over tumultuous waters, up and down riding the waves, a strong ship in full sail. Neumeister had never lost. It was too bad Annabelle had never known Neumeister—even though Neumeister had in a way lived with her. Well, he had been over all that, he remembered. He had come to the cold and terrifying conclusion that if he ever told Annabelle that he was William Neumeister, she’d never get over it, never believe that Gerald’s death had been an accident. Very well, Neumeister was gone now, and might as well be dead and buried himself. David swayed a little as he rounded a kitchen cabinet, and he was careful to walk straight as he entered the living room.

  Wes and Effie stopped their murmuring when they saw him. Effie put some new records on and she and Wes started to dance, but Wes said it was too slow. Wes was showing his drinks now, and, when he went to get a refill, tried to take David’s empty glass with him to the kitchen. David held onto it, saying he didn’t want any more.

  “Don’t if he doesn’t want it, Wes,” Effie said.

  “He was boasting he could drink the whole bottle!” Wes’s good-natured smile was back.

  David let him take his glass.

  The next hour or so was unclear to David, and he thought it strange that so little alcohol could affect him so much, though the effect seemed to be only in his vision. Wes, on the other hand, was going to pieces, dancing clumsily with Effie, occasionally making a wild gesture or a wild statement: “I’m glad you destroyed that sketch of Dave, I’m really glad, Eff. Shows progress. No more will the little maiden pure sit home and wait while her beloved chases after a—a myth!”

  David ignored it and looked up at a corner of the room, put his head back against the sofa, and listened to the piano on the phonograph.

  Then Effie said, “Wes!” in a teary voice, and David saw her press her hands together in a ludicrous despair, as if the evening and her two guests had slipped out of her control. And Wes was stumbling toward David, smiling slyly and pointing at him.

  “Isn’t that true, Davy boy?” Wes asked.

  “Be careful, Wes. Leave Dave alone,” Effie said.

  “I didn’t even hear what he said,” David told her calmly.

  “I said you don’t want a girl you can have, you want a girl who doesn’t want you. It’s a neurotic symptom,” Wes said cheerfully, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “I’m thinking of your welfare. I’m trying to give you some good advice. I don’t care who she is.”

  “Dave, I haven’t been talking to him about this. Honestly. Don’t let it—” Effie made a jump to protect a glass on the coffee table, but Wes knocked it over, an
yway—his own, and empty.

  David looked at him placidly. “Since you don’t know what you’re talking about, I’d appreciate it if—”

  But Wes didn’t stop. The boring, half-jocular advice went on and on. That girl. No name mentioned. That girl who was finishing college or something. And did it drive him so crazy he had to spend his weekends drunk maybe? Or maybe with another girl? David took a cigarette, then threw it down on the coffee table unlighted. He kept his composure, but the words fell on his shoulders, the top of his lowered head, and seemed to cling to him. Even Effie was begging Wes to stop.

  “You don’t understand,” David said into his hands, and heard Wes laugh.

  “Effie’s been telling me,” Wes said explanatorily, “that she feels sorry for you. She thinks it’s hopeless.”

  “I didn’t say exactly hopeless,” Effie bleated.

  David had stood up. “Sorry for me?” he asked with a smile.

  “You did say it,” Wes said to Effie, “so why deny it?”

  David lit the cigarette now. Easy to see why Effie called it hopeless. Hopelessly in love perhaps he was, and that was why he’d never been able to look twice at Effie. “I’m going to marry the girl and that’s that,” David said, interrupting Wes. “It’s embarrassing to have one’s private life discussed, but since you brought it up—”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Dave. I’m interested. Eff and I are both interested, because we like you. And Effie more than likes you.” He gave David a light, friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “I don’t want the girl I intend to marry to be discussed by anyone. I hope someday you’ll meet her, but it’ll be under my roof, our roof. We’re going to be married in a very few months, maybe less than that, and anybody who says anything different just doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” David crushed the cigarette out quickly in an ashtray. His heartbeats shook his chest and even jarred his vision. “There never has been any doubt in my mind that I’d marry her,” he went on, though he did not even want to go on. He took a step toward Wes, who retreated a little. And now it was David who went on and on, talking over Wes’s attempts to put an end to it, Wes’s apologies, as if Wes’s slight figure in the brown suit were an obstacle between himself and Annabelle that had to be crushed and swept away by words. Then he saw his own arm go out in a swing at Wes, and Wes ducked and stepped back, though David’s fist had been at least a foot short of hitting him, and it hadn’t been David’s intention to hit him. His words suddenly stopped.

  Wes’s baffled, angry face weaved a little and turned away. Effie clung to David’s arm, saying something to him, and David wanted to tell her that her concern wasn’t at all necessary, but he felt in the grip of something, unable to move or speak, and his body was rigid and trembling.

  “Just don’t say anything else about her to me, ever,” David said, his voice shaking with fury. He reached for his glass, finished it, and looked back at Wes’s scowling face.

  “Boys, boys,” Effie murmured with a try at a smile. “I think I’ll put on some coffee.” She went into the kitchen.

  David kept looking at Wes, somehow expecting retaliation from him, either in words or in action.

  “Well, how’s anybody supposed to feel who’s just been swung at?” Wes said resentfully.

  David gave a little smile. “Let’s have some coffee.”

  But the resentment did not leave Wes’s face. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said in a lower tone, “if you ever got that girl, you wouldn’t be able to do anything with her. You’re in such a state—You don’t know it, pal, but you’re all in knots.”

  David couldn’t believe his ears for a moment, then when it dawned on him what Wes meant, it was like an electric charge hitting him. “You dirty liar!” David said between his teeth. He walked past Wes to the front closet, not even hearing Effie’s words behind him, only their high-pitched whine that was like a razor scoring the surface of his brain. “Good night and thanks, Effie,” he said quickly, plunging his arms into his overcoat, opening the door for himself.

  The bang of its closing behind him was a sound of delicious finality. The unjustness, the stupidity of it! The vulgarity! The falseness!

  “Take your watch, Dave!” Wes’s voice called down the stairs.

  David made the front door boom, too.

  22

  David’s anger stayed with him for days. It generated heat and energy, spoiled his sleep, and as he tossed in his bed, he tried to reason his anger away, went over Wes’s words until they were drained of their emotional effect and became even meaningless, yet the core of his anger remained. He put his energy into arranging his things in his new house, and worked all night the second night. Yet the conversation of that evening kept going through his mind. Effie had said he was lucky. David could not see anything lucky about David Kelsey. Maybe William Neumeister was lucky. Effie was worried because they were still looking for William Neumeister, but William Neumeister’s luck was not going to run out in a hurry. Effie’s words acted on him as a challenge. He felt like calling up the Beck’s Brook police and giving them a full account of Neumeister’s doings since he had apparently disappeared. Oregon, the state of Washington, Texas, California—there was no telling where Neumeister’s far-flung journalistic activities had taken him. David began to smile, and impulsively he reached for the telephone. But he had hardly picked it up, when he realized that the Beck’s Brook police would most likely want to see him.

  Very calmly, David changed into the Oxford gray suit he had worn as William Neumeister that memorable Sunday afternoon. He had not the cuff links with the N on them, because he had thrown them away when he was packing at the other house, but he had the same hat, and he even remembered the tie he had worn, but he chose another. He removed his driver’s license from his billfold, just in case they would ask for that for identification, and he racked his brain for a way of identifying himself as Neumeister. He had destroyed every Neumeister bill and receipt. He’d have to bluster his way through it, he thought. This interview would either allay all suspicion or it would be the finish, and he was in the mood now, and the mood might not come again. No use waiting until tomorrow or the next day to get hold of some card or other to sign with Neumeister’s name.

  He would bluster through. And he would not forget to slump a little.

  Beck’s Brook was approximately ninety miles south, and he arrived at four-fifteen on Sunday afternoon. There was only one man, whom David had never seen before, in the station, and David had to introduce himself with considerable explanation. A good sign. The man picked up a telephone and called Sergeant Terry. David hoped the sergeant was unavailable, but he was at home.

  “He’ll be over. He wants to see you,” said the officer.

  David thanked him and sat down. A certain arrogance that he had felt since he had decided on this expedition rose in him more strongly now, and he struggled to put it down. He must appear somewhat solemn, even slightly depressed, and above all cooperative.

  The sergeant arrived after David had been waiting perhaps fifteen minutes. “Well, Mr. Newmester. I’m glad to see you again,” he said as he approached David with slow, heavy strides.

  David stood up. “How do you do, sergeant?” he said pleasantly. “I was in the neighborhood and I remembered I’d never called Mrs.—the woman in Hartford. I don’t have her address. Delaney, isn’t it? But I’ve forgotten the first name.”

  “Gerald,” said the sergeant. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I’ve just made a trip to California and back,” David replied. “Why?”

  “Well, Mrs. Delaney wanted to talk to you. We were doing our best to find you.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize that. What’s the trouble?”

  “No trouble. Just that Mrs. Delaney wanted to talk to you. She wanted to see you and ask you just what happened that day,” the sergeant sa
id somewhat reproachfully. “I don’t know what papers you work for, but they’re not in the state of New York.”

  “Well, a couple are,” David said with a slight smile. “I supply science editors with material for their articles. Not very often I have anything under my own name in the papers.”

  “I see,” said the sergeant, his doubt, or annoyance, still apparent. “Well, Mrs. Delaney would like to see you.” He moved behind the desk, at which the other man sat watching them both over his newspaper, and pulled out a drawer. From a folder he took a sheet of paper and copied something from it on a slip of paper. He handed the slip to David.

  “Thank you,” David said. It was Annabelle’s address and telephone number.

  “Where you living now, Mr. Newmester?”

  “I’m not settled anywhere just now. I’ll be in New York for a while, and I expect to go abroad in a month or so,” David replied, remembering what he had said to Mr. Willis about traveling.

  “Yes, so your rental agent said. You know, we couldn’t even find the two people you gave Willis as references. Patterson and—What was the other?”

  “John Atherley,” David said promptly, confident suddenly that the name was Atherley and not Asherley. “Have you tried South America?” he asked with a reckless inspiration.

  “No,” the sergeant replied, straightfaced.

  “I had a letter from John a couple of months ago. They’re both in Cali, Colombia, doing organizational work for a mining concern. They’re industrial consultants.”

  “Oh.”

  “But what’s the trouble? Why did you want to reach them?”

  “Thought they could help us find you.”

  “Gosh—if I’d known you were going to all that trouble—There wasn’t anything in the newspapers, was there? I’m a pretty thorough reader of the papers.”

  “Oh, no, we didn’t put anything in the papers,” the sergeant said, shaking his gray head slowly, still looking dubiously at David. “We thought your references might know where you were, and when we couldn’t find them, we began to think something was fishy.”