chapter nineteen

Therese could not find out what kind of car he had, because the cars were locked in separate garages, and though she had a view of the garages from the sunroom, she did not see him come out that morning. Neither did they see him at lunchtime.

Mrs. French insisted that they come into her room for a cordial, when she heard they were leaving. “You must have a stirrup cup,” Mrs. French said to Carol. “Why I haven’t even got your address yet!”

Therese remembered that they had promised to exchange flower bulbs. She remembered a long conversation in the car one day about bulbs that had cemented their friendship. Carol was incredibly patient to the last. One would never have guessed, seeing Carol sitting on Mrs. French’s sofa with the little glass Mrs. French kept filling, that she was in a hurry to get away. Mrs. French kissed them both on the cheek when they said good-by.

From Denver, they took a highway northward toward Wyoming. They stopped for coffee at the kind of place they always liked, an ordinary restaurant with a counter and a juke box. They put nickels into the juke box, but it was not the same as before. Therese knew it would not be the same for the rest of the trip, though Carol talked of going to Washington even yet, and perhaps up into Canada. Therese could feel that Carol’s goal was New York.

They spent the first night in a tourist camp that was built like a circle of tepees. While they were undressing, Carol looked up at the ceiling where the tepee poles came to a point, and said boredly, “The trouble some idiots go to,” and for some reason it struck Therese as hysterically funny. She laughed until Carol got tired of it and threatened to make her drink a tumbler of brandy, if she didn’t stop. And Therese was still smiling, standing by the window with a brandy in her hand, waiting for Carol to come out of the shower, when she saw a car drive up beside the large office tepee and stop. After a moment, the man who had gone into the office came out and looked around in the dark area within the circle of tepees, and it was his prowling step that arrested her attention. She was suddenly sure without seeing his face or even his figure very clearly that he was the detective.

“Carol!” she called.

Carol pushed the shower curtain aside and glanced at her and stopped drying herself. “Is it—”

“I don’t know, but I think so,” she said, and saw the anger spread slowly over Carol’s face and stiffen it, and it shocked Therese to sobriety, as if she had just realized an insult, to herself or to Carol.

“Chr-rist!” Carol said, and flung the towel at the floor. She drew on her robe and tied the belt of it. “Well—what’s he doing?”

“I think he’s stopping here.” Therese stood back at the edge of the window. “His car’s still in front of the office, anyway. If we turn out the light, I’ll be able to see a lot better.”

Carol groaned. “Oh, don’t. I couldn’t. It bores me,” she said with the utmost boredom and disgust.

And Therese smiled, twistedly, and checked another insane impulse to laugh, because Carol would have been furious if she had laughed. Then she saw the car roll under the garage door of a tepee across the circle. “Yes, he’s stopping here. It’s a black two-door sedan.”

Carol sat down on the bed with a sigh. She smiled at Therese, a quick smile of fatigue and boredom, of resignation and helplessness and anger. “Take your shower. And then get dressed again.”

“But I don’t know if it’s him at all.”

“That’s just the hell of it, darling.”

Therese took a shower and lay down in her clothes beside Carol. Carol had turned out the light. She was smoking cigarettes in the dark, and said nothing to her until finally she touched her arm and said, “Let’s go.” It was three thirty when they drove out of the tourist camp. They had paid their bill in advance. There was no light anywhere, and unless the detective was watching them with his light out, no one had observed them.

“What do you want to do, sleep again somewhere?” Carol asked her.

“No. Do you?”

“No. Let’s see how much distance we can make.” She pressed the pedal to the floor. The road was clear and smooth as far as the headlights swept.

As dawn was breaking, a highway patrolman stopped them for speeding, and Carol had to pay a twenty-two dollar fine in a town called Central City, Nebraska. They lost thirty miles by having to follow the patrolman back to the little town, but Carol went through with it without a word, unlike herself, unlike the time she had argued and cajoled the patrolman out of an arrest for speeding, and a New Jersey speed cop at that.

“Irritating,” Carol said when they got back into the car, and that was all she said, for hours.

Therese offered to drive, but Carol said she wanted to. And the flat Nebraska prairie spread out before them, yellow with wheat stubble, brown-splotched with bare earth and stone, deceptively warm looking in the white winter sun. Because they went a little slower now, Therese had a panicky sensation of not moving at all, as if the earth drifted under them and they stood still. She watched the road behind them for another patrol car, for the detective’s car, and for the nameless, shapeless thing she felt pursuing them from Colorado Springs. She watched the land and the sky for the meaningless events that her mind insisted on attaching significance to, the buzzard that banked slowly in the sky, the direction of a tangle of weeds that bounced over a rutted field before the wind, and whether a chimney had smoke or not. Around eight o’clock, an irresistible sleepiness weighted her eyelids and clouded her head, so she felt scarcely any surprise when she saw a car behind them like the car she watched for, a two-door sedan of dark color.

“There’s a car like that behind us,” she said. “It’s got a yellow license plate.”

Carol said nothing for a minute, but she glanced in the mirror and blew her breath out through pursed lips. “I doubt it. If it is, he’s a better man than I thought.” She was slowing down. “If I let him pass, do you think you can recognize him?”

“Yes.” Couldn’t she recognize the blurriest glimpse of him by now?

Carol slowed almost to a stop and took the road map and laid it across the wheel and looked at it. The other car approached, and it was him inside, and went by.

“Yes,” Therese said. The man hadn’t glanced at her.

Carol pressed the gas pedal down. “You’re sure, are you?”

“Positive.” Therese watched the speedometer go up to sixty-five and over. “What are you going to do?”

“Speak to him.”

Carol slacked her speed as they closed the distance. They drew alongside of the detective’s car, and he turned to look at them, the wide straight mouth unchanging, the eyes like round gray dots, expressionless as the mouth. Carol waved her hand downward. The man’s car slowed.

“Roll your window down,” Carol said to Therese.

The detective’s car pulled over into the sandy shoulder of the road and stopped.

Carol stopped her car with its rear wheels on the highway, and spoke across Therese. “Do you like our company or what?” she asked.

The man got out of his car and closed his door. Some three yards of ground separated the cars, and the detective crossed half of it and stood. His dead little eyes had darkish rims around their gray irises, like a doll’s blank and steady eyes. He was not young. His face looked worn by the weathers he had driven it through, and the shadow of his beard deepened the bent creases on either side of his mouth.

“I’m doing my job, Mrs. Aird,” he said.

“That’s pretty obvious. It’s nasty work, isn’t it?”

The detective tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail and lighted it in the gusty wind with a slowness that suggested a stage performance. “At least it’s nearly over.”

“Then why don’t you leave us alone,” Carol said, her voice as tense as the arm that supported her on the steering wheel.

“Because I have orders to follow you on this trip. But if you’re going back to New York, I won’t have to any more. I advise you to go back, Mrs. Aird. Are you going back now?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Because I’ve got some information—information that I’d say was in your interest to go back and take care of.”

“Thanks,” Carol said cynically. “Thanks so much for telling me. It’s not in my plans to go back just yet. But I can give you my itinerary, so you can leave us alone and catch up on your sleep.”

The detective looked at her with a false and meaningless smile, not like a person at all, but like a machine wound up and set on a course. “I think you’ll go back to New York. I’m giving you sound advice. Your child is at stake. I suppose you know that, don’t you?”

“My child is my property!”

A crease twitched in his cheek. “A human being is not property, Mrs. Aird.”

Carol raised her voice. “Are you going to tag along the rest of the way?”

“Are you going back to New York?”

“No.”

“I think you will,” the detective said, and he turned away slowly toward his car.

Carol stepped on the starter. She reached for Therese’s hand and squeezed it for a moment in reassurance, and then the car shot forward. Therese sat up with her elbows on her knees and her hands pressed to her forehead, yielding to a shame and shock she had never known before, that she had repressed before the detective.

“Carol!”

Carol was crying, silently. Therese looked at the downward curve of her lips that was not like Carol at all, but rather like a small girl’s twisted grimace of crying. She stared incredulously at the tear that rolled over Carol’s cheekbone.

“Get me a cigarette,” Carol said.

When Therese handed it to her, lighted, she had wiped the tear away, and it was over. Carol drove for a minute, slowly, smoking the cigarette.

“Crawl in the back and get the gun,” Carol said.

Therese did not move for a moment.

Carol glanced at her. “Will you?”

Therese slid agilely in her slacks over the back seat, and dragged the navy-blue suitcase onto the seat. She opened the clasps and got out the sweater with the gun.

“Just hand it to me,” Carol said calmly. “I want it in the side pocket.” She reached her hand over her shoulder, and Therese put the white handle of the gun into it, and crawled back into the front seat.

The detective was still following them, half a mile behind them, back of the horse and farm wagon that had turned into the highway from a dirt road. Carol held Therese’s hand and drove with her left hand. Therese looked down at the faintly freckled fingers that dug their strong cool tips into her palm.

“I’m going to talk to him again,” Carol said, and pressed the gas pedal down steadily. “If you want to get out, I’ll put you off at the next gas station or something and come back for you.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Therese said. Carol was going to demand the detective’s records, and Therese had a vision of Carol hurt, of his pulling a gun with an expert’s oily speed and firing it before Carol could even pull the trigger. But those things didn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, she thought, and she set her teeth. She kneaded Carol’s hand in her fingers.

“All right. And don’t worry. I just want to talk to him.” She swung the car suddenly into a smaller road off the highway to the left. The road went up between sloping fields, and turned and went through woods. Carol drove fast, though the road was bad. “He’s coming on, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

There was one farmhouse set in the rolling hills, and then nothing but scrubby, rocky land and the road that kept disappearing around the curves before them. Where the road clung to a sloping hill, Carol went round a curve and stopped the car carelessly, half in the road.

She reached for the side pocket and pulled the gun out. She opened something on it, and Therese saw the bullets inside. Then Carol looked through the windshield, and let her hands with the gun fall in her lap. “I’d better not, better not,” she said quickly, and dropped the gun back in the side pocket. Then she pulled the car up, and straightened it by the side of the hill. “Stay in the car,” she said to Therese, and got out.

Therese heard the detective’s car. Carol walked slowly toward the sound, and then the detective’s car came around the curve, not fast, but his brakes shrieked, and Carol stepped to the side of the road. Therese opened the door slightly, and leaned on the window sill.

The man got out of his car. “Now what?” he said, raising his voice in the wind.

“What do you think?” Carol came a little closer to him. “I’d like everything you’ve got about me—dictaphone tapes and whatever.”

The detective’s brows hardly rose over the pale dots of his eyes. He leaned against the front fender of his car, smirking with his wide thin mouth. He glanced at Therese and back at Carol. “Everything’s sent away. I haven’t a thing but a few notes. About times and places.”

“All right, I’d like to have them.”

“You mean, you want to buy them?”

“I didn’t say that, I said I’d like to have them. Do you prefer to sell them?”

“I’m not one you can buy off,” he said.

“What’re you doing this for anyway, if not money?” Carol asked impatiently. “Why not make a little more? What’ll you take for what you’ve got?”

He folded his arms. “I told you everything’s sent away. You’d be wasting your money.”

“I don’t think you mailed the dictaphone records yet from Colorado Springs,” Carol said.

“No?” he asked sarcastically.

“No. I’ll give you whatever you ask for them.”

He looked Carol up and down, glanced at Therese, and again his mouth widened.

“Get them—tapes, records or whatever they are,” Carol said, and the man moved.

He walked around his car to the luggage compartment, and Therese heard his keys jingle as he opened it. Therese got out of the car, unable to sit there any longer. She walked to within a few feet of Carol and stopped. The detective was reaching for something in a big suitcase. When he straightened up, the raised lid of the compartment knocked his hat off. He stepped on the brim to hold it from the wind. He had something in one hand now, too small to see.

“There’s two,” he said. “I guess they’re worth five hundred. They’d be worth more if there weren’t more of them in New York.”

“You’re a fine salesman. I don’t believe you,” Carol said.

“Why? They’re in a hurry for them in New York.” He picked up his hat, and closed the luggage compartment. “But they’ve got enough now. I told you you’d better go back to New York, Mrs. Aird.” He ground his cigarette out in the dirt, twisting his toe in front of him. “Are you going back to New York now?”

“I don’t change my mind,” Carol said.

The detective shrugged. “I’m not on any side. The sooner you go back to New York, the sooner we can call it quits.”

“We can call it quits right now. After you give me those, you can take off and keep going in the same direction.”

The detective had slowly extended his hand in a fist, like the fist in a guessing game in which there might be nothing. “Are you willing to give me five hundred for these?” he asked.

Carol looked at his hand, then opened her shoulder strap bag. She took out her billfold, and then her checkbook.

“I prefer cash,” he said.

“I haven’t got it.”

He shrugged again. “All right, I’ll take a check.”

Carol wrote it, resting it on the fender of his car.

Now as he bent over, watching Carol, Therese could see the little black object in his hand. Therese came closer. The man was spelling his name. When Carol gave him the check, he dropped the two little boxes in her hand.

“How long have you been collecting them?” Carol asked.

“Play them and see.”

“I didn’t come out here to joke!” Carol said, and her voice broke.

He smiled, folding the check. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. What you’ve gotten from me isn’t all of it. There’s plenty in New York.”

Carol fastened her bag, and turned toward her car, not even looking at Therese. Then she stopped and faced the detective again. “If they’ve got all they want, you can knock off now, can’t you? Have I got your promise to do that?”

He was standing with his hand on his car door, watching her. “I’m still on the job, Mrs. Aird—still working for my office. Unless you want to catch a plane for home now. Or for some other place. Give me the slip. I’ll have to tell my office something—not having the last few days at Colorado Springs—something more exciting than this.”

“Oh, let them invent something exciting!”

The detective’s smile showed a little of his teeth. He got back into his car. He shoved his gear, put his head out to see behind him, and backed the car in a quick turn. He drove off toward the highway.

The sound of his motor faded fast. Carol walked slowly toward the car, got in and sat staring through the windshield at the dry rise of earth a few yards ahead. Her face was as blank as if she had fainted.

Therese was beside her. She put her arm around Carol’s shoulder. She squeezed the cloth shoulder of the coat, and felt as useless as any stranger.

“Oh, I think it’s mostly bluff,” Carol said suddenly.

But it had made Carol’s face gray, had taken the energy out of her voice.

Carol opened her hand and looked at the two little round boxes. “Here’s as good a place as any.” She got out of the car, and Therese followed her. Carol opened a box and took out the coil of tape that looked like celluloid. “Tiny, isn’t it. I suppose it burns. Let’s burn it.”

Therese struck the match in the shelter of the car. The tape burned fast, and Therese dropped it on the ground, and then the wind blew it out. Carol said not to bother, they could throw both of them in a river. Carol was sitting in the car, smoking a cigarette.

“What time is it?” Carol asked.

“Twenty to twelve.” She got back in the car, and Carol started immediately, back down the road toward the highway.

“I’m going to call Abby in Omaha, and then my lawyer.”

Therese looked at the road map. Omaha was the next big town, if they made a slight turn south. Carol looked tired, and Therese felt her anger, still unappeased, in the silence she kept. The car jolted over a rut, and Therese heard the bump and clink of the can of beer that rolled somewhere under the front seat, the beer they had not been able to open that first day. She was hungry, had been sickly hungry for hours.

“How about my driving?”

“All right,” Carol said tiredly, relaxing as if she surrendered. She slowed the car quickly.

Therese slid across her, under the wheel. “And how about stopping for a breakfast?”

“I couldn’t eat.”

“Or a drink.”

“Let’s get it in Omaha.”

Therese sent the speedometer up to sixty-five, and held it just under seventy. It was Highway 30. Then two seventy-five into Omaha, and the road was not first class. “You don’t believe him about dictaphone records in New York, do you?”

“Don’t talk about it!—I’m sick of it!”

Therese squeezed the wheel, then deliberately relaxed. She sensed a tremendous sorrow hanging over them, ahead of them, that was just beginning to reveal the edge of itself, that they were driving into. She remembered the detective’s face and the barely legible expression that she realized now was malice. It was malice she had seen in his smile, even as he said he was on no side, and she could feel in him a desire that was actually personal to separate them, because he knew they were together. She had seen just now what she had only sensed before, that the whole world was ready to be their enemy, and suddenly what she and Carol had together seemed no longer love or anything happy but a monster between them, with each of them caught in a fist.

“I’m thinking of that check,” Carol said.

It fell like another stone inside her. “Do you think they’re going over the house?” Therese asked.

“Possibly. Just possibly.”

“I don’t think they’d find it. It’s way under the runner.” But there was the letter in the book. A curious pride lifted her spirit for an instant, and vanished. It was a beautiful letter, and she would rather they found it than the check, though as to incrimination they would probably have the same weight, and they would make the one as dirty as the other. The letter she had never given, and the check she had never cashed. It was more likely they would find the letter, certainly. Therese could not bring herself to tell Carol of the letter, whether from plain cowardice or a desire to spare Carol any more now, she didn’t know. She saw a bridge ahead. “There’s a river,” she said. “How about here?”

“Good enough.” Carol handed her the little boxes. She had put the half-burned tape back in its box.

Therese got out and flung them over the metal rail, and did not watch. She looked at the young man in overalls walking onto the bridge from the other side, hating the senseless antagonism in herself against him.

Carol telephoned from a hotel in Omaha. Abby was not at home, and Carol left a message that she would call at six o’clock that evening, when Abby was expected. Carol said it was of no use to call her lawyer now, because he would be out to lunch until after two by their time. Carol wanted to wash up, and then have a drink.

They had Old Fashioneds in the bar of the hotel, in complete silence. Therese asked for a second when Carol did, but Carol said she should eat something instead. The waiter told Carol that food was not served in the bar.

“She wants something to eat,” Carol said firmly.

“The dining room is across the lobby, madame, and there’s a coffee shop—”

“Carol, I can wait,” Therese said.

“Will you please bring me the menu? She prefers to eat here,” Carol said with a glance at the waiter.

The waiter hesitated, then said, “Yes, madame,” and went to get the menu.

While Therese ate scrambled eggs and sausage, Carol had her third drink. Finally, Carol said in a tone of hopelessness, “Darling, can I ask you to forgive me?”

The tone hurt Therese more than the question. “I love you, Carol.”

“But do you see what it means?”

“Yes.” But that moment of defeat in the car, she thought, that had been only a moment, as this time now was only a situation. “I don’t see why it should mean this forever. I don’t see how this can destroy anything,” she said earnestly.

Carol took her hand down from her face and sat back, and now in spite of the tiredness she looked as Therese always thought of her—the eyes that could be tender and hard at once as they tested her, the intelligent red lips strong and soft, though the upper lip trembled the least bit now.

“Do you?” Therese asked, and she realized suddenly it was a question as big as the one Carol had asked her without words in the room in Waterloo. In fact, the same question.

“No. I think you’re right,” Carol said. “You make me realize it.”

Carol went to telephone. It was three o’clock. Therese got the check, then sat there waiting, wondering when it was going to be over, whether the reassuring word would come from Carol’s lawyer or from Abby, or whether it was going to get worse before it got better. Carol was gone about half an hour.

“My lawyer hasn’t heard anything,” she said. “And I didn’t tell him anything. I can’t. I’ll have to write it.”

“I thought you would.”

“Oh, you did,” Carol said with her first smile that day. “What do you say we get a room here? I don’t feel like traveling any more.”

Carol had her lunch sent up to their room. They both lay down to take a nap, but when Therese awakened at a quarter to five, Carol was gone. Therese glanced around the room, noticing Carol’s black gloves on the dressing table, and her moccasins side by side near the armchair. Therese sighed, tremulously, unrefreshed by her sleep. She opened the window and looked down. It was the seventh or eighth floor, she couldn’t remember which. A streetcar crawled past the front of the hotel, and people on the sidewalk moved in every direction, with legs on either side of them, and it crossed her mind to jump. She looked off at the drab little skyline of gray buildings and closed her eyes on it. Then she turned around and Carol was in the room, standing by the door, watching her.

“Where have you been?” Therese asked.

“Writing that damned letter.”

Carol crossed the room and caught Therese in her arms. Therese felt Carol’s nails through the back of her jacket.

When Carol went to the telephone, Therese left the room and wandered down the hall toward the elevators. She went down to the lobby and sat there reading an article on weevils in the Corngrower’s Gazette, and wondered if Abby knew all that about corn weevils. She watched the clock, and after twenty-five minutes went upstairs again.

Carol was lying on the bed, smoking a cigarette. Therese waited for her to speak.

“Darling, I’ve got to go to New York,” Carol said.

Therese had been sure of that. She came to the foot of the bed. “What else did Abby say?”

“She saw the fellow named Bob Haversham again.” Carol raised herself on her elbow. “But he certainly doesn’t know as much as I do at this point. Nobody seems to know anything, except that trouble’s brewing. Nothing much can happen until I get there. But I’ve got to be there.”

“Of course.” Bob Haversham was the friend of Abby’s who worked in Harge’s firm in Newark, not a close friend either of Abby’s or Harge’s, just a link, a slim link between the two of them, the one person who might know something of what Harge was doing, if he could recognize a detective, or overhear part of a telephone call, in Harge’s office. It was worth almost nothing, Therese felt.

“Abby’s going to get the check,” Carol said, sitting up on the bed, reaching for her moccasins.

“Has she got a key?”

“I wish she had. She’s got to get it from Florence. But that’ll be all right. I told her to tell Florence I wanted a couple of things sent to me.”

“Can you tell her to get a letter, too? I left a letter to you in a book in my room. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t know you were going to have Abby go there.”

Carol gave her a frowning glance. “Anything else?”

“No. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

Carol sighed, and stood up. “Oh, let’s not worry any more. I doubt if they’ll bother about the house, but I’ll tell Abby about the letter anyway. Where is it?”

“In the Oxford Book of English Verse. I think I left it on top of the bureau.” She watched Carol glance around the room, looking anywhere but at her.

“I don’t want to stay here tonight after all,” Carol said.

Half an hour later, they were in the car going eastward. Carol wanted to reach Des Moines that night. After a silence of more than an hour, Carol suddenly stopped the car at the edge of the road, bent her head, and said, “Damn!”

She could see the darkish sinks under Carol’s eyes in the glare of passing cars. Carol hadn’t slept at all last night. “Let’s go back to that last town,” Therese said. “It’s still about seventy-five miles to Des Moines.”

“Do you want to go to Arizona?” Carol asked her, as if all they had to do was turn around.

“Oh, Carol—why talk about it?” A feeling of despair came over her suddenly. Her hands were shaking as she lighted a cigarette. She gave the cigarette to Carol, and lighted one for herself.

“Because I want to talk about it. Can you take another three weeks off?”

“Of course.” Of course, of course. What else mattered except being with Carol, anywhere, anyhow? There was the Harkevy show in March, Harkevy might recommend her for a job somewhere else, but the jobs were uncertain and Carol was not.

“I shouldn’t have to stay in New York more than a week at most, because the divorce is all set, Fred, my lawyer, said so today. So why don’t we have a few more weeks in Arizona? Or New Mexico? I don’t want to hang around New York the rest of the winter.” Carol drove slowly. Her eyes were different now. They had come alive, like her voice.

“Of course I’d like to. Anywhere.”

“All right. Come on. Let’s get to Des Moines. How about you driving a while?”

They changed places. It was a little before midnight when they got to Des Moines and found a hotel room.

“Why should you go back to New York at all?” Carol asked her. “You could keep the car and wait for me somewhere like Tucson or Santa Fe, and I could fly back.”

“And leave you?” Therese turned from the mirror where she was brushing her hair.

Carol smiled. “What do you mean, leave me?”

It had taken Therese by surprise, and now she saw an expression on Carol’s face, even though Carol looked at her intently, that made her feel shut off, as if Carol had thrust her away in a back corner of her mind to make room for something more important. “Just leave you now, I meant,” Therese said, turning back to the mirror. “No, it might be a good idea. It’s quicker for you.”

“I thought you might prefer staying somewhere in the West. Unless you want to do something in New York those few days,” Carol’s voice was casual.

“I don’t.” She dreaded the cold days in Manhattan, when Carol would be too busy to see her. And she thought of the detective. If Carol flew, she wouldn’t be haunted by his trailing her. She tried to imagine it already, Carol arriving in the East alone, to face something she didn’t yet know, something impossible to prepare for. She imagined herself in Santa Fe, waiting for a telephone call, waiting for a letter from Carol. But to be two thousand miles away from Carol, she could not imagine that so easily. “Only a week, Carol?” she asked, drawing the comb along her part again, flicking the long, fine hair to one side. She had gained weight, but her face was thinner, she noticed suddenly, and it pleased her. She looked older.

In the mirror, she saw Carol come up behind her, and there was no answer but the pleasure of Carol’s arms sliding around her, that made it impossible to think, and Therese twisted away more suddenly than she meant to, and stood by the corner of the dressing table looking at Carol, bewildered for a moment by the elusiveness of what they talked about, time and space, and the four feet that separated them now and the two thousand miles. She gave her hair another stroke. “Only about a week?”

“That’s what I said,” Carol replied with a smile in her eyes, but Therese heard the same hardness in it as in her own question, as if they exchanged challenges. “If you mind keeping the car, I can have it driven East.”

“I don’t mind keeping it.”

“And don’t worry about the detective. I’ll wire Harge that I’m on my way.”

“I won’t worry about that.” How could Carol be so cold about it, Therese wondered, thinking of everything else but their leaving each other? She put the hairbrush down on the dressing table.

“Therese, do you think I’m going to enjoy it?”

And Therese thought of the detectives, the divorce, the hostility, all Carol had to face. Carol touched her cheek, pressed both palms hard against her cheeks so her mouth opened like a fish’s, and Therese had to smile. Therese stood by the dressing table and watched her, watching every move of her hands, of her feet as she peeled off her stockings and stepped into her moccasins again. There were no words, she thought, after this point. What else did they need to explain, or ask, or promise in words? They did not even need to see each other’s eyes. Therese watched her pick up the telephone, and then she lay face down on the bed, while Carol made her plane reservation for tomorrow, one ticket, one way, tomorrow at eleven A.M.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” Carol asked her.

“I don’t know. I might go back to Sioux Falls.”

“South Dakota?” Carol smiled at her. “You wouldn’t prefer Santa Fe? It’s warmer.”

“I’ll wait and see it with you.”

“Not Colorado Springs?”

“No!” Therese laughed, and got up. She took her toothbrush into the bathroom. “I might even take a job somewhere for a week.”

“What kind of a job?”

“Any kind. Just to keep me from thinking of you, you know.”

“I want you to think of me. Not a job in a department store.”

“No.” Therese stood by the bathroom door, watching Carol take off her slip and put her robe on.

“You’re not worrying about money again, are you?”

Therese slid her hands into her robe pockets and crossed her feet. “If I’m broke, I don’t care. I’ll start worrying when it’s used up.”

“I’m going to give you a couple of hundred tomorrow for the car.” Carol pulled Therese’s nose as she passed by. “And you’re not to use that car to pick up any strangers.” Carol went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Therese came in after her. “I thought I was using this john.”

“I’m using it, but I’ll let you come in.”

“Oh, thanks.” Therese took off her robe as Carol did.

“Well?” Carol said.

“Well?” Therese stepped under the shower.

“Of all the nerve.” Carol got under it, too, and twisted Therese’s arm behind her, but Therese only giggled.

Therese wanted to embrace her, kiss her, but her free arm reached out convulsively and dragged Carol’s head against her, under the stream of water, and there was the horrible sound of a foot slipping.

“Stop it, we’ll fall!” Carol shouted. “For Christ’s sake, can’t two people take a shower in peace?”