This Sweet Sickness

by Patricia Highsmith

  He groaned. “I hoped you would like it. I hoped you would like me—love me. And I think you would, if you gave me a chance. You don’t give me much of a chance, Annabelle. You don’t give me much of your time. With no time together, it’s hard to tell—I mean, look at both of us, sitting here stiff as pokers,” he said with a laugh. “Is there any need of it? Couldn’t you have visited me weekends, lots of weekends, and brought the baby with you, if you had to?”

  “Women don’t usually visit single men on weekends,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh, rot!” Then, seeing she was shocked at his tone, he said, “Well, we could’ve had the baby as chaperon. We still could. How about it?”

  She shook her head and with a forefinger drew back into place a strand of hair that had been disarranged since she took her hat off. She waggled the half-empty teacup in its saucer, staring at it. “Would you like to see Mr. Neumeister’s letter?”

  “Of course I would.”

  She took it from her pocket and handed it to him.

  David unfolded it and read it quickly but with interest, almost as if he had never seen it before. His eyes paused momentarily at the two typing errors he had deliberately made and corrected with a pencil, his own typing being rather good. “It is a nice letter,” he said when he had finished.

  “I was darned glad to get it. I’m going to keep it.”

  And David saw the start of tears as she replaced it in her pocketbook. “I’m glad you have it,” he said gently. “I still want to know—when you might come to the house.”

  “Oh, Dave—you make it so hard for me to talk to you.”

  “Good God, I don’t mean to. What’re you trying to say? I’ll help you.”

  “I think you’d better turn loose of me—emotionally and every other way. You know you said—or maybe you didn’t exactly say it, that after Gerald died, there’d be a chance for me to see.” Her eyes still staring at the teacup, were suddenly brimming with tears. One zipped down her cheek, and David pulled out his pocket handkerchief.

  “Darling, here.”

  She got her own Kleenex from her pocketbook. “Well, it’s no different now, Dave.”

  “You’re still in love with Gerald?” It was easy for him to ask it, because he had never believed it. “But you’re not going to stay a widow all your life, are you?”

  “No,” she said matter-of-factly, and put the wet Kleenex back in her bag.

  “Well, how long do I have to wait?”

  “That’s what I mean. I’m afraid it can’t ever be—with us. That’s what’s so hard to tell you—because you won’t understand. Even I don’t understand.”

  Tears in her pretty eyes. She seemed to be going through more torture than he was. He slid closer and put his arm around her, pulled out his handkerchief again. “Darling, I can’t stand to see you—”

  “Please, Dave.” She pressed him away.

  And he had only wanted to wipe her eyes, as one wipes a crying child’s eyes. “I don’t think you understand me, Annabelle. You don’t understand the kind of feelings I have for you. They’re deep. They won’t go away.”

  She said nothing. And the tears still oozed. Now she was using his handkerchief.

  “Had you rather I took you home now? Would you like to rest for a while and maybe I can see you this evening?” he asked, desperate as to what to propose.

  “I’m busy this evening—Dave, do you know what I’ve been trying to say?”

  He nodded, mute.

  “That it’s useless for you to call me any more? That I can’t see you as a friend, because that’s not the way it is with you, on your part,” she said in a rush, “and that I do know what all this has been for you. It must be like a nightmare. I’m not heartless, Dave.”

  “Heartless! I never thought—” He stopped. It was as if he had bumped suddenly against a stone wall. He blinked, frightened.

  “You do understand, I think,” she said, so gently and yet the words were terrible.

  David tried to smile. He poured more tea for her and himself.

  “I had a letter from your aunt in La Jolla. She’s quite worried about you, Dave.”

  “Aunt Edie? What in hell is she writing you about?”

  “About you—in regard to me. I answered her letter.”

  David frowned. “What did you say?”

  “What I’ve said to you. That I understood and felt very sorry. But that it couldn’t be helped—by me, I mean. Dave, I may marry some day, but it won’t be you. Maybe something’s the matter with me, I don’t know, but that’s the way it is.”

  “You’re talking about—somebody in particular?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Grant?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Who is he?” David asked, frowning harder.

  “He lives in Hartford. He’s an accountant. The son of one of my neighbors. I’ve known him quite a while,” she said rather apologetically.

  “Barber. You mean the son of that old woman who tried to start a fight in your apartment?” David asked incredulously.

  “She didn’t—”

  “An accountant!” David smiled a little.

  “I only said I was going out with him,” Annabelle said, flushing.

  “You didn’t. You said you were thinking you might marry him.”

  “Well, what if I am?” Her hands were on the edge of the table, as if she intended to jump up and leave.

  David’s amusement struggled with a sense of imminent danger. He spoke calmly. “Annabelle, what is it? That you’ve had a chance to spend a lot of time with him? Give me a chance. Are you trying to crawl back into some dreary life? Can’t you—can’t you treat yourself a little better?”

  “He likes the baby and he’s very kind,” Annabelle said quickly. “I’m sorry I brought it up, Dave.”

  “So am I.” He sat back against the bench. “I know you so well,” he said with a little laugh. “Why don’t you know me as well?”

  She didn’t answer. She looked around as if she were trying to find the waiter.

  “Annabelle, how would you like to live in Troy for a while? Bring the baby. I can find an apartment there for you—”

  “Stop it, Dave.”

  He still felt more amused than angry. He could imagine what Mrs. Barber’s son was like, and he couldn’t believe that Annabelle would make the same mistake twice.

  “There’s one more thing, Dave,” she said, opening her pocketbook. “This—I simply can’t take it.” She pulled out the little beige box that held the diamond clip he had mailed to her a couple of weeks before.

  “It’ll keep,” he said.

  “Take it. Please.”

  He took it slowly from her hands. For some reason, he thought of the Steinway and saw its black form in miniature, the size of the little beige box. “They’ll keep,” he said. “Everything’ll keep.”

  “Except me.”

  “Including you.”

  “Dave, would you mind if we took off now?”

  “I don’t mind anything you want,” he said. “Waiter!”

  Outside, David felt a leap of nausea in his stomach. The air was cold on his forehead. He took a couple of deep breaths, and the nausea passed in a few seconds. Annabelle was silent and she walked quickly. David wanted to appear relaxed, untroubled by what she had said to him, and he really felt unperturbed, but the fact remained, he was taking her back to her apartment that would lock her up from him. And he realized he was afraid to ask when he might call her or see her again.

  “Has Effie been to your new house?” Annabelle asked.

  “No.”

  “Aren’t you going to have her up?”

  “I really hadn’t thought about it.” His hands were perspiring. He ought to
get a hamburger somewhere before he started the drive home, he thought, because he felt a little faint.

  After he left Annabelle, he drove to a bar and had a double martini, two in one, and then went to the men’s room and was sick. He asked the barman for a drink of water before he left, and he smiled at his pale face in the mirror. Grant Barber. David felt himself rising to the challenge. And what an absurd challenge it was, what a silly rival!

  24

  Wed., March 25, 1959

  Dear Annabelle,

  I have let a good deal of time go by on purpose. Or maybe four days isn’t a lot of time to everybody. It depends on what you do with it. Every time I see you, I grow more confident about us, and if I felt or showed any resentment of Mr. Barber, it was only momentary. But please don’t use him, darling, as a wedge between us. If you want more time to consider, I’ll give you more, all you want. I’m not one to be discouraged by the presence of some dummy male figure. I won’t call you, if that bothers you. I’ll wait for you to call me. (Tyler 5-0934) Call collect, of course, or drop me a note.

  The weather’s getting better. The baby’s getting bigger. Aren’t there some cheerful aspects to all this?

  The house will still be here, even prettier in summer. The sailing of the Darwin (Dickson-Rand’s ship) has been put off until mid-July, due to a delay in getting some instruments we need. I expect to go with them, a two-month cruise and maybe longer. So don’t think I am pressing you, darling. Though the greatest thing I can think of is that we might be married before July. Things being what they are at the lab (everybody’s treated like a privileged character) I bet they would let you come with us on the voyage. The China Sea and the Indian Ocean. Would you like that? One man has already gotten permission to take his wife, a young fellow too.

  Please do call me, darling. One call would brighten my whole weekend. Wes is coming up Saturday morning. I think I’ve mentioned Wes Carmichael to you a few times. A friend from Cheswick. I thought you’d like to know I’m not leading the life of a hermit. I had the Osbournes here once for dinner. They were impressed by my cooking. Isn’t it time you sampled some too?

  All my love, darling, and forever,

  Dave

  She would get the letter by Saturday, if not Friday, if he mailed it tomorrow morning, and he thought it more likely, somehow, that she would call him this weekend, knowing that Wes was in the house.

  The telephone rang the next evening when David was under the shower, and he jumped out, grabbed a towel and ran downstairs. He had been listening for the telephone. It had become a habit with him to leave the bedroom and bathroom doors open always, so he could hear the telephone, if it rang.

  It was Wes, calling to say he couldn’t make it on Saturday. His voice sounded grim.

  “What’s happened?” David asked.

  “It’s Laura. She’s stirring up all kinds of hell about Effie.”

  “At this late date?”

  “It’s not funny. I might get fired, Dave. Effie could lose her job, too. I passed out in Effie’s apartment and spent the night there. Effie’s super’s wife told my wife. I don’t even know how she found out who I was. Isn’t it great living in a small town?”

  “Well, does she finally want a divorce?” David asked, thinking that when the chips were down, it would be Wes who wouldn’t want a divorce.

  “Nothing so nice. She just wants to embarrass both of us all over town. Effie and me. But Effie’s behaving very well.”

  “Good old Effie!”

  “I wish I could see you. You’ve got the right attitude. This town’s full of prigs.”

  “Come on up, Wes.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to stick around and try to calm Laura down. Effie at least had the guts to call her and tell her what happened. I fell asleep on the sofa, period. But I’m worried about my job, Dave.”

  “Who told Lewissohn?”

  “Laura,” Wes said loudly. “If that isn’t something for a wife to do! Jeopardize her means of—” Then he laughed.

  “Come up, Wes. You can’t do anything about it over the weekend.”

  “No, I have to see Lewissohn tomorrow. We’re having a little talk. Gad, you’d think we were living in the Victorian age. And I never even necked with her on a couch! I might as well have spent the night with my sister!”

  David said he could still come up, if he changed his mind, that the refrigerator was full of food, and if he couldn’t make it this weekend, then maybe he could next weekend.

  “If you lose your job, maybe you could get on at Dickson-Rand,” David said with sudden exuberance. “Want me to find out?”

  The operator interrupted, and Wes dropped some more coins.

  “Let me see what happens here. With Laura, you know, I have to make more money.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s nothing but habit.”

  “You’re in a good humor. What’s happening with Annabelle?”

  It brought only a throb, like a delayed reaction.

  “Dave? That’s Delaney’s wife, isn’t it?”

  David couldn’t speak.

  “What’s the matter, Dave? I was just wondering—You know her, don’t you?”

  “No,” David said, knowing it didn’t make sense and that Wes wouldn’t believe him.

  There was a long silence.

  “Dave, I’m not your enemy. But I could tell that night. You do know her. Is she the girl, Dave? You do know this fellow Newmester too, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Another silence, and though David thought there must be a phrase, a statement he could make, that would sweep away Wes’s suspicions, he didn’t have it in his head, and if it had been in his head, he thought he might not have said it.

  “All right, Dave,” Wes said softly, and in it David heard disappointment, resentment, and disbelief. “Effie—”

  “Effie doesn’t know anything about this,” David said.

  “All right, Dave. Well—I’ll call you—about the weekend after this.” Now he sounded as if he didn’t want to come.

  And David, when he put the telephone down, had lost his desire to see Wes. Effie must have told him a lot, he thought. And even if she hadn’t, Wes had seen him go into Neumeister’s house. A few more questions that Effie answered yes to, and Wes would know the whole story. And Wes couldn’t be trusted, David thought. He would have a few drinks—or maybe he wouldn’t even need them—and call up Annabelle and tell her that David Kelsey and Neumeister were the same person.

  His thoughts swung the other way: Wes wouldn’t and couldn’t do a thing like that. What did Wes have against him that would make him do a thing like that?

  On the other hand, mightn’t Wes and Effie put their heads together and decide the only way to end an apparently “hopeless” courtship was to tell Annabelle the truth?

  “Damn them both, damn them both, damn them both,” David chanted.

  He finished drying himself and dressed.

  That evening he could scarcely eat his dinner. Maybe they would call Annabelle tonight. Annabelle would telephone him immediately, or more likely telephone the police. The Beck’s Brook police would be very interested.

  But then, since Wes was in such hot water because of Effie, he probably wouldn’t be spending this evening with her. It was rather contemptible of Wes, David thought, that at the first real counterattack from his wife, he cringed and tried to go crawling back to her. He had mentioned needing to make a big salary only because presumably he was going to stay married to her.

  David drank no coffee that evening, knowing already that he was going to sleep badly. Around nine, when he was trying to read, he had an impulse to call Effie and find out how much she had told Wes, but his pride kept him from it. The safest was to assume she had told him everything now.

  The telephone
did not ring the rest of the evening, though once, at a quarter to eleven, David ran down from the bathroom to see if it was ringing. The toilet made an odd ringing sound as the tank refilled, and it was not the first time David had been fooled by it.

  That night he felt he did not sleep at all, though he had something that passed for a dream, or a nightmare. It was about turtles, little turtles that crawled across the tile floor of a darkish room. They came in a flow, diagonally, and David, crossing the room, took great pains not to step on them. In a corner of the room, he saw his bed at Mrs. McCartney’s, and under the thin blankets the contour of a small figure. He drew the covers back and found a beautiful young girl, naked, whom he recognized as Joan, a girl he had been in love with at seventeen or eighteen. “I’m still in love with you, Dave. I guess I always will be,” she said. And David replied with quiet assurance, “Love is like that” (though Joan had never cared for him, and the curious thing about the dream was that during it he felt he had dreamed of seeing Joan before, so that the dream now seemed reality and not a dream). Then came a series of pretty images: a large white blossom which, when he held it by its base, opened like a spider’s web or like a cage. David exclaimed about its beauty, but he could not get the three or four other people (two women and another man) in the room with him to take any interest in it. He peered into the white cage and saw some small, dark, moving things like insects. Then he realized they were the turtles. One, larger than the rest, was injured, as if someone had stepped on its back. Its shell had been crushed and blood oozed out. In a sudden agony of compassion, David tried to think how best to put the turtle out of its pain, called frantically to the other people in the room, then began to push the blood back into the shell and to try to reshape it. “You know well enough what to do about that,” the other man in the room said to him rudely. Then the turtle began to retch, silently and horribly, and vomited what seemed to be its stomach. The shell was suddenly empty. David, exhausted by witnessing all this, asked the man to take the shell away and bury it. Then, with an interest more scientific than merely curious, David took the vomited part to a water tap and washed it off in order to see it better. It had three sections: the first the shape of a turtle’s head, the next fat and pinkish like lung tissue, then a waist and a fatter part again. It began to writhe, as if to get out of his hands, and David realized to his horror that instead of a dead organ he held the whole turtle, all that was within the shell—the turtle’s soul, it seemed—in his two hands. He woke up sweating and panting, and his heart beat faster and faster as he reviewed the dream and its horror. He got up and dressed.