Roadwork - Stephen King [60]
"Oh, not long."
The lunch crowd had thinned, and his waiter appeared almost at once. "Would you like to order now, sir?"
"Yes. Two Andyburgers. Milk for the lady. Another double for myself. " He glanced at Mary, but her face showed nothing. That was bad. If she had spoken, he would have canceled the double. He hoped he wouldn't have to go to the bathroom, because he wasn't sure he could walk straight. That would be a wonderful tidbit to carry back to the old folks at home. Carry me back to Ol' Virginnie. He almost giggled.
"Well, you're not drunk, but you're on your way," she said, and unfolded her napkin on her lap.
"That's pretty good," he said. "Did you rehearse it?"
"Bart, let's not fight."
"No," he agreed.
She toyed with her water glass; he picked at his coaster.
"Well?" she said finally.
"Well what?"
"You seemed to have something in mind when you called. Now that you're full of Dutch courage, what is it?"
"Your cold is better," he said idiotically, and tore a hole in his coaster without meaning to. He couldn't tell her what was on the top of his mind: how she seemed to have changed, how she seemed suddenly sophisticated and dangerous, like a cruising secretary who has bartered for a later lunch hour and who would refuse any offer of a drink unless it came from a man inside a four-hundred-dollar suit. And who could tell just by glancing at the cut of the fabric.
"Bart, what are we going to do?"
"I'll see a psychiatrist if you want me to," he said, lowering his voice.
"When?"
"Pretty soon."
"You can make an appointment this afternoon if you want to. "
"I don't know any shr-any."
"There's the Yellow Pages."
"That seems like a half-assed sort of way to pick a brainpeeker."
She only looked at him and he looked away, uncomfortable.
"You're angry with me, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yeah, well, I'm not working. Fifty dollars an hour seems sort of high for an unemployed fellow."
"What do you think I'm living on?" she asked sharply. "My folks' charity. And as you'll recall, they're both retired."
"As I recall, your father's got enough shares in SOI and Beechcraft to keep the three of you on easy street well into the next century."
"Bart, that's not so." She sounded startled and hurt.
"Bullshit it's not. They were in Jamaica last winter, Miami the year before that, at the Fountainbleau no less, and Honolulu the year before that. Nobody does that on a retired engineer's salary. So don't give me that poorbox routine, Mary-"
"Stop it, Bart. The green's showing."
"Not to mention a Cadillac Gran DeVille and a Bonneville station wagon. Not bad. Which one do they use when they go to pick up their food stamps?"
"Stop it! " she hissed at him, her lips drawn back a bit from her small white teeth, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Lunch is coming."
The temperature between them cooled a little as the waiter set their Andyburgers and French fries before them, added minuscule dishes of green peas and baby onions, then retired. They ate without speaking for a while, both concentrating on not drooling down their chins or in their laps. I wonder how many marriages the Andyburger has saved? he wondered. Simply by its one providential attribute-when you're eating one you have to shut up.
She put hers down half-eaten, blotted her mouth with her napkin, and said, "They're as good as I remember. Bart, do you have any sensible idea at all about what to do?"
"Of course I do," he said, stung. But he didn't know what his idea was. If he'd gotten in another double, he might have.
"Do you want a divorce?"
"No," he said. Something positive seemed to be called for.
"Do you want me to come back?"
"Do you want to?"
"I don't know," she said. "Shall I tell you something, Bart? I'm worried about myself for the first time in twenty years. I'm fending for myself." She started to take a bite of her Andyburger, then set it down again. "Did you know I almost didn't marry you? Had that thought ever crossed your mind?"
The surprise on his face seemed to satisfy