Without knowing it, Jill had touched a perpetual sore spot in Nora—that in a hospital, of all places, she had to stop and ask permission, like other visitors. No matter how often she did it, it was always newly annoying.
"They'd let me in if they knew I was a doctor," she said at last. "Kit asked me not to mention it."
"Why, I wonder? I'd think he'd be proud."
Nora said, "I don't know." But she knew, very well. Even the surgeon handling Kit's case did not know of his wife's profession. Kit, oddly touchy in some ways, felt that professional collusion—even an ordinary exchange of courtesies between his doctor and his wife—would somehow undermine that ferocious self-sufficiency of his.
"I guess he didn't want me discussing his case behind his back. This way—he's still in a private room since his last operation," she said, and turned in the half-open door.
"Kit, darling!"
Even flattened against his pillows, Kit Ellersen had an air of command. His face, haggard and lined about mouth and eyes, looked disarmingly young; Nora felt the painful wrench, deep in her body, as he grinned at her.
She bent and his arms closed around her; his mouth, hard and hungry, thrust at hers with rough violence. He grasped at her upper arms with painfully strong hands; she felt the scratch of his chin, the electric warmth of his breath, the probe of his tongue against hers, plucking a string of desire—and sudden dread—deep in her body. She drew away.
"We have company, Kit," she said softly.
"Hell," he muttered ungraciously, and raised himself slightly against the pillows. He was rumpled and untidy in his hospital pajamas. He looked at Jill, and suddenly, he smiled.
He had a wonderful smile, so vital that it cancelled the lines of pain and weariness, and he looked as if he were loafing there for the fun of it. It melted Nora, and she saw it work the familiar magic on Jill; the shy and sullen face lit up with an elfish twinkle.
"What a wife," Kit said, "she even rounds up beautiful women for me."
Nora, aware suddenly that her lipstick was smeared all over her face, turned away.
"Don't mind my staring," Kit went on, "but the scenery around here is usually damn monotonous. The nurses are brassy blonde battle-axes, six feet tall and at least forty; and I'm sure they're all frigid—not that I've bothered to find out. And then there are the orderlies, as nice a bunch of queers as you'll find outside Greenwich Village. I must say they let me alone, though." He chuckled. "But if you knew what good it does us just to look at a pretty girl, all you glamorous dolls would line up three deep at the foot of the beds. Come here, honey bun, and do your bit for my morale."
Jill came and gave him her hand. Nora, seeing him through Jill's eyes, felt a surge of defensive love. Kit hated shaking hands because of the rough ridge of scar tissue across his right palm. If Jill stares, Nora thought, I'll break her neck. But she didn't. She smiled and said nicely, "You make me wish I'd dressed up to the occasion."
"You're safer like that," Kit said, studying her, "boots and all. At that, half the patients would chase you for three blocks. Better smuggle her out on a stretcher, Nora."
"Kit, this is Jill Bristol, who's going to marry Mack, and I'm taking her to Fairfax with me—"
"My God," said Kit, "what a waste."
"—as a sort of nurse."
He whistled. "Hey, now, that's more like it. She can nurse me any old time! Let's see, now; how about starting with a bed bath, and then a rubdown, and—"
"Behave," Nora said.
"Behave? What the hell for!" He looked up at Jill with a whimsical smile. "Or must we keep the conversation very, very nice, because you are a very, very nice girl? Nothing above the neck—I mean below the neck? On second thought, I like it better the first way. Give me a cigarette, Nora."
Nora recalled herself. "I brought you a carton, but I left them—Jill, you keep him company."
She had forgotten his cigarettes, talking to Jill; but she could buy a carton downstairs. It was the first time she had forgotten, and she felt ashamed.
She heard him laughing as she returned along the hall. It was good for Kit—to see someone with whom he could talk without perpetual tension of desire, taut between them even when they were at opposite ends of the room.
She heard Jill say in a scandalized tone, "Oh, shame on you!" as she pushed open the door.
"Watch out," said Kit loudly, "here comes my wife. You came back too soon, Nora; in another five minutes I'd have had her in bed. All that work for nothing."
"Oh, don't!" Jill pleaded, her face reddening. "What will Nora think?"
"Unfortunately, honey bun, Nora knows what to think." Kit sighed. "Do I look dangerous, Jill? The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Plenty weak." He took her hand and patted it, big-brother fashion. Nora winced, wondering; had Kit really got to the point where he could laugh, or was this a very subtle way of stirring sexual sympathy?
"I wanted to see you blush," Kit said. "Nora's lost the trick, after seeing so much life in the raw." He took the cigarettes.
"Let me get you—"
"For Christ's sake, my hands aren't incapacitated!" Kit snapped, and tore a pack open, rummaging in the stand for a lighter. "Nora? Jill?"
Nora took one; Jill refused.
"Now tell me about the buried city of Mack's."
"I'm afraid I can't," Jill murmured, "Mack has to put everything into words of one syllable for me."
"Oh, he'll make a fossil hunter out of you, if I know Mack. You'll be tagging along on the next trip with a camera, and all the little MacLellans will learn their ABCs off the walls of King Tut's tomb. I remember one time he dragged us all back into the hills hunting arrowheads—" Kit leaned back on his pillows, absent-mindedly blowing a double smoke-ring. Nora listened, watching him, wishing suddenly that Mack could have come along.
He was still spinning his tale when a loud bell interrupted him, and he flinched. "Hell, I never learn to jump when the thing goes off! I'm afraid that means you have to go."
"Arabian nights," said Jill, smiling at him. "All the best stories break off in the middle, Mr. Ellersen—or do I still say Major?"
"You do not. What you say is Kit. I never let a girl call me names after I've made a pass at her... come up and see me when my wife isn't around, gorgeous."
Nora bent for a kiss, but Jill's eyes seemed to burn through her shoulder blades. What had Kit said to her? Under her mouth Kit's lips were closed; Nora knew, rationally, this was wise, but she could not endure it. She pressed her mouth to his, and Kit went rigid as his lips parted and they blended into the dizzy, hot warmth of the kiss.
Suddenly, shockingly, his hands bit into her shoulders and he pushed her away. A harsh voice behind them said, "Visiting hours are over, Mrs. Ellersen. Didn't you hear the bell? I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
Fighting for self-control, Nora accepted her coat from Jill under the glare of the nurse.
Like a jail. Like a damned jail. Prisoners may embrace their wives at meeting and parting. Passionate or prolonged embraces will not be tolerated...
The cold air beat like ice into her hot face. She got into the car, waited impatiently for Jill to settle herself, then thrust the accelerator savagely to the floor.
She drove fast, the accumulated tension spending itself; thrusting in and out of traffic lanes, making turns with an absolute disregard for safety. She did not speak to Jill until they drew up before a solid row of old houses—converted into apartments long ago—and came around on the sidewalk to open the door for her.
"I have to stop and pick up a few things here. But I won't be long."
The December sunlight came into the vestibule with them, making it grimmer by contrast when she closed the door. Jill's light steps behind her made echoes in the stairwell. Nora, seeing light under the door, put her keys away and knocked, and a young woman in a pink house-dress opened the door and stepped back in surprise.
"I didn't expect you today, doctor. Will you be wanting supper?"
&
nbsp; Familiar, warm, the apartment closed around Nora; the smell of cinnamon and starched curtains and cedar polish, the streaks of light falling on dark wood, the flame-and-silk glow of the Chinese painting on the wall. Reluctantly Nora shook her head.
"Thanks, Gerda, but don't bother. I just came to get a few things from my desk. You might make us some coffee, if it wouldn't be too much bother. Any messages?"
"Mail's on your desk. You might call Miss Barbieri and check up." Gerda went through the door at the back, and Nora began to move restlessly around the room.
"Take off your coat, Jill, you'll be cold when you go out. Would you like a drink?"
Jill fingered her sweater button. "No, thanks. I mean—really, I'd rather have coffee."
Nora went through into the shiny kitchen. Coffee would be better, she supposed, with that long drive ahead. Though, in this cold weather, alcohol would be burned up as fast as it was consumed. "I'll do that, Gerda," she said, put cups and sugar on a tray, then shrugged and took, from a top shelf, an unopened bottle of whisky.
A crawling tension still seemed to creep, like a live thing, down her back. Kit's mouth... Jill, damn her, watching. With furious effort she switched off the picture in her mind, and went into the living room. Jill was standing at the far end, examining the framed silk painting.
"Coffee, Jill. Sure you wouldn't care for a drink?" Nora twisted the seal open, and while Jill sugared her coffee, poured herself a drink. She drank it quickly, feeling it sting and burn in her throat; the warmth hit her stomach, and the crawling tension melted and let go.
Nora smiled wryly; that could be dangerous, if a drink hits me that quick and helps that much. Firmly she put the cap back on the bottle and picked up her coffee cup, smiling at Jill—why treat a stranger to her moods?
"I saw you admiring my Chinese painting."
"Is it Chinese? It's beautiful."
"I was born in China. I thought Mack might have mentioned it."
"No, he didn't. I know he was, though."
"My father was a correspondent for one of the news services—that was long before the Reds took over, of course. We lived there until I was eleven."
From somewhere a big Siamese cat materialized, and, ghosting gray across the carpet, rubbed against Nora's shoes.
"Bad animal, Archy, where were you hiding?"
He twisted himself blissfully around her nylon legs, and Nora picked him up, rubbing his sleek head. "I had a Chinese nurse, a converted Christian who for some reason went and had herself baptized Mary Jesus. Poor old Mary Jee, they wouldn't let her come back to the States with us, I suppose she's dead now. She was all the mother I had—my own mother died when I was just a baby. Mack's mother was a medical missionary in Pekin—I was about nine, and Mack about twelve, when they married."
A stir of old guilt touched her with a scorpion tail as the coffee cancelled the effect of the drink. The last glimmer of sunset at the window, filtered to glints of brightness and shadow, made patterns on Jill's upturned peach-face as she curled into the sofa cushions. She had taken off her boots at the door, and her shoes had come off with them; her feet looked tiny and bare in her nylons.
I wonder where Pammy is? Married? Half a dozen kids, probably, a nice suburban housewife? I ought to ask Jill. Send her a Christmas card, maybe. She put down her cup with a little crash and the cat jumped off her lap.
"Archy. Archy, be good!" she coaxed.
"Archy as in archy and mehitabel?"
"No. Short for Archimedes. That cat would move the world, if he could find a place to stand while he was doing it."
Jill stretched a wheedling hand to the cat, who stalked aloofly past her. Jill said "Darn," and pulled uneasily at her blouse. "There goes my slip strap."
"On my dressing table—through there—there's a tray of pins." Nora pointed. "Help yourself. I'll just collect the things I came for."
She selected the things she wanted from her desk, packed them into the old leather briefcase, and followed Jill into the bedroom. "Did you get it fixed?"
Jill turned shyly away. "It keeps slipping down in back."
"Here, I'll get it." Jill's blouse was unbuttoned to her waist, the brown tips of her breasts lifting the thin creamy lace of her slip. As Norma put her hand on the soft bare shoulder and turned her around, she felt the surge of an emotion she had thought long buried. Jill looked so little, so helpless, someone to protect and shelter. A rush of anger crested in her as she thought of Mack. How dared he?
She fished for the erring strap, repairing it with brisk efficiency.
"Oooh, your hands are cold!" Jill squealed, and Nora, abashed, took them away. As Jill buttoned her blouse, Nora picked up her coat and held it, then touched her lightly on the cheek. She realized, a moment later, that she had almost kissed her.
"I think my brother is a very lucky man," she said softly, "and I hope he knows it."
Outside in the darkening hallway she paused, the sudden warmth she had felt for Jill evaporating sharply.
"Don't let me forget to pick up your pregnancy test."
Jill laid a light hand on Nora's arm. "Nora, I—I don't want the test report. Please. I'll pay for it, but don't pick it up, please don't tell me. I—don't want to know yet."
"For heaven's sake, why not?"
The girl bit her Up. "I think I'd rather—just wait and see."
Nora frowned, impatient, confused and a little annoyed. "Suit yourself," she said, rather more sharply than usual, "that's what I suggested in the first place, remember. Come on, it's going to be dark before we get back."
CHAPTER 4
The old farmhouse was filled with creaks and rustles; a bitter wind, fogged with snow, hurled itself angrily at the shutters, making faces on the dark pane. Nora, bundled into corduroy slacks, was curled up between the coal range and the kitchen table. It was the only warm place in the house.
The door banged, and Nora jumped, then settled back, relieved. Her first night, a tree slapping on the roof had gotten her out of bed three times. But the banging went on, and finally she caught the sound of a voice. She jumped up and hurried to the door.
It opened into a whirl of white flakes, and Mack's face appeared against the night behind them.
"Nora, I know it's awfully late—"
"But I'm glad to see you. I thought it was a patient."
She drew him inside and slammed out the wind. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"No, but I did want to talk to you.'
She gestured to him to throw his snowy mackinaw on a settle. "Come into the kitchen. This old barn is colder than Alaska—no wonder Byrd got pneumonia. Through here." She noted for the first time the slight hesitation—not quite a limp—in his step. Her subconscious monitor remarked, imperfect articulation of the patella, but she shut it off impatiently. Mack stood over the range, spreading his hands to the penetrating warmth.
"Is that coffee I smell?"
"Want some?"
"Foolish question." He eased himself into a chair, relaxing with a sigh. "Coffee always was your remedy for most human ills. I'll bet you prescribe it for half your patients."
"I'd starve if I did," she said tartly, pouring him a cup, "unless I could package it as a new miracle drug. Still like it black?"
He nodded, laying his hand on his left knee. "I saw you taking this in."
"Army?"
"No, I came through Korea without a scratch—no thanks to the Reds. This was just a few months ago—pile of granite blocks fell over and smashed the kneecap. It still goes stiff when I'm tired."
Nora sat down with her own coffee, wondering if this would be a professional call after all. But physical tiredness, or even pain, didn't bring that look to a man's eyes.
"You didn't come out in a blizzard just for the pleasure of my company, did you?"
He smiled shyly. "Well, I might have, at that. After all these years. And I felt bad not to have the time to see old Kit. It's a rough deal for both of you."
Nora moved her hand, restlessly. The la
st thing she wanted was sympathy from Mack; it would probably break her up.
He was looking at her with kindly pity. "You're tough, Nora," he said, "too tough, maybe. I never would let you be a girl, would I? I don't remember ever seeing you cry, except when Dad died."
"Don't," Nora said, and looked helplessly at Mack, remembering the other time she had cried.
"Your Dad used to say you were a better man than I was. That doesn't give me the right to run to you with all my problems, but—Nora," he burst out suddenly, "for God's sake, will you look after Jill when I'm gone?"
Nora stared at him, startled more by the tone than the words.
"Mack, Jill's not a child. She may not want to be looked after." And furthermore, the kind of looking after she wants is your job, not mine.
"Oh, she's over the age of consent, I guess. But—Nora —under that poise—hell, Jill's just a—a scared little kid!"
Nora wanted to ask; what do you expect? Where's the wedding ring? But Jill had come to her professionally, and in confidence.
"Nora, Jill and I have been together four months, and in all that time—do you realize, she's never told me one damn thing about herself? Oh, little things—she likes strawberries, she sang in a woman's choir at college, she used to live in Mayfield—that stuff. But anything about her past, about her family—my God, she might have dropped down from outer space the day before I met her!"
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