Dusk and Other Stories - James Salter [14]
They arrived at the apartment and the two women immediately went into the kitchen and began cooking. What did she think of him? She’d only had a glimpse, she said, but she liked him very much, his beautiful bald head, his dressing gown. She had begun to plan what she would do with the apartment which had too much blue in it. The man—Warren was his name—was silent all evening. He’d lost his job, her friend explained in the kitchen. Money was no problem, but he was depressed. “He’s had a shock,” she said. “He likes you.” And in fact he’d asked if he could see her again.
“Why don’t you come for tea, tomorrow?” he said.
“I could do that,” she said. “Of course. I’ll be in the neighborhood,” she added.
The next day she arrived at four with a bag filled with books, at least a hundred dollars worth which she’d bought as a present. He was in pajamas. There was no tea. He hardly seemed to know who she was or why she was there. She said she remembered she had to meet someone and left the books. Going down in the elevator she felt suddenly sick to her stomach.
“Well,” said Frank, “there might be a chance of getting the settlement overturned, Mrs. Christie, but it would mean a lot of expense.”
“I see.” Her voice was smaller. “Couldn’t you do it as one of those things where you got a percentage?”
“Not on this kind of case,” he said.
It was dusk. He offered her a drink. She worked her lips, in contemplation, one against the other. “Well, then, what can I do?”
Her life had been made up of disappointments, she told him, looking into her glass, most of them the result of foolishly falling in love. Going out with an older man just because he was wearing a white suit in Nashville which was where she was from. Agreeing to marry George Christie while they were sailing off the coast of Maine. “I don’t know where to get the money,” she said, “or how.”
She glanced up. She found him looking at her, without haste. The lights were coming on in buildings surrounding the park, in the streets, on homeward bound cars. They talked as evening fell. They went out to dinner.
At Christmas that year Alan and his wife broke up. “You’re kidding,” Frank said. He’d moved into a new place with thick towels and fine carpets. In the foyer was a Biedermeier desk, black, tan, and gold. Across the street was a private school.
Alan was staring out the window which was as cold as the side of a ship. “I don’t know what to do,” he said in despair. “I don’t want to get divorced. I don’t want to lose my daughter.” Her name was Camille. She was two.
“I know how you feel,” Frank said.
“If you had a kid, you’d know.”
“Have you seen this?” Frank asked. He held up the alumni magazine. It was the fifteenth anniversary of their graduation. “Know any of these guys?”
Five members of the class had been cited for achievement. Alan recognized two or three of them. “Cummings,” he said, “he was a zero—elected to Congress. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do.”
“Just don’t let her take the apartment,” Frank said.
Of course, it wasn’t that easy. It was easy when it was someone else. Nan Christie had decided to get married. She brought it up one evening.
“I just don’t think so,” he finally said.
“You love me, don’t you?”
“This isn’t a good time to ask.”
They lay silently. She was staring at something across the room. She was making him feel uncomfortable. “It wouldn’t work. It’s the attraction of opposites,” he said.
“We’re not opposites.”
“I don’t mean just you and me. Women fall in love when they get to know you. Men are just the opposite. When they finally know you they’re ready to leave.”
She got up without saying anything and began gathering her clothes. He watched her dress in silence. There was nothing interesting about it. The funny thing was that he had meant to go on with her.
“I’ll get you a cab,” he said.
“I used to think that you were intelligent,” she said, half to herself. Exhausted, he was searching for a number. “I don’t want a cab. I’m going to walk.”
“Across the park?”
“Yes.” She had an instant glimpse of herself in the next day’s paper. She