18. Russell Hastings

She walked away from him into the room, moving slowly, because it was more graceful; all her movements were studied.

Russ Hastings said, shutting the door, “You’re gorgeous.”

“What’s on your mind? I’m not sure I should have let you in.”

“I think I’d like a drink. I don’t mind fixing it myself-have one with me?”

“Why not?”

He went to the bar and watched her settle on one of the sectional pieces, drawing her lovely long legs up under her with a trim display of swelling calves and shapely ankles.

He mixed two drinks, heavy on the Scotch, and said to her, “I have been thinking about you all week. I decided Wednesday that I was in love with you, and Thursday that I wasn’t. Today I’m somewhere in the middle. Maybe I’m not in love with you, but what the hell does it matter? Whatever you want to call it, maybe it’s a way to ease loneliness. I need somebody-I guess that’s all it amounts to.”

He brought the drink across to her. “Very grave,” he judged. “Very self-possessed and cool and competent and bemused by my foolishness. Very beautiful, above all. The trouble is, you see, in my vague fantasies it’s far too easy to see you making a warm, serene home.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Only a little.” He tasted his drink, standing above her. “That piano record makes the room feel emptier, doesn’t it? It’s a good night for blues.”

“I’m sorry you’re so depressed,” she said evenly. “Is it something you want to talk about?”

“Excuse me. I thought I already had.”

“Oh,” she said. “That. I’m ignoring your little speech-hadn’t you noticed?”

“Then I’ll repeat it. I’ve decided I’ve fallen in love with-”

“Horse shit,” she said, smiling up at him. “You’ve decided. Sure you have. A strange bedfellow is better than none-that’s about the extent of it, isn’t it?”

He took his drink to a chair facing her and sat back, taking a long pull and feeling the heat of the whiskey travel his throat and chest. “I suppose you get this sort of thing from drunks all the time. You must have learned to shut your ears off-build a shell of indifference, it’s no good anybody trying to push themselves against it. That right? Okay, let’s see if I can bust it down. What do you do if I ask you flat-out to marry me?”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Proposing marriage to me.”

His grin turned sheepish. “Who knows?”

“Don’t you ever commit yourself to anything, Russ?”

He recoiled. “I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“I hate helping you pour salt in your own wounds, that’s all.”

He took another swallow and slid way down in his chair until he was sitting on the back of his neck. “Marry me. Just like that. How about it?”

“No.”

“No pause for thought? No moment to consider how I could take you away from all this?” He waved his arm around.

She laughed. “You’re funny when you’re drunk.”

He scowled. “I’m not sure it’s altogether a joke.”

“Let’s pretend it was.”

“Looking at you now, I’m absolutely certain of it. I do love you.”

“And how would you feel tomorrow or next week? I recommend a cold bath and aspirin. Anyhow, this dewy-eyed love business repels me. I suppose most women have some sort of atavistic mating instinct for a warm cave and children, but that got washed out of me a long time ago. Domesticity isn’t my thing. A life sentence of dirty dishes and diapers and orthodontists’ bills? Hah.”

“You’re a cruel and heartless wench, verily.”

“You don’t know me at all, Russ-and you’re not going to. Nobody likes a whore for long.”

“Ouch.”

“I’ve got too many fingerprints on me, and they all belong to men who know there’s nothing any of them asks that I won’t give them. Nothing. You understand?”

“Is that your biggest artillery? Because if it is, you’ve just fired a blank. I’m not scared off. This is the age of enlightenment and Aquarius.”

In a rich Kentucky twang she said, “Hawss shee-yit.”

He said, “I was sitting in a bar watching my drink sweat, and suddenly I said to the glass, ‘And here I sit alone with you.’ So I came up here. I haven’t got a lot of money on me. I suppose you wouldn’t be impressed by my wallet. What would you charge to marry me?”

“You’ve beaten that joke to death, Russ.”

He felt a little dizzy; he sat up straighter. It took him a moment to marshal his thoughts. Finally he spoke with slow care. “I am getting very old,” he said. “The world I grew up in seems to have disappeared someplace while I wasn’t looking. I grew up equipped with a sense of how things ought to be. Standards-things that ought to matter, right and wrong. There used to be a point to things, you know? But now everything seems to be beside the point, somehow-I don’t even know what the point is anymore. Look, I’m thinking of tossing it all up and going out West, live in the country someplace and raise dairy cows. How’d you like that?”

“I’d hate it. I’m an indoor girl. I like soft pillows and air-conditioners, and I never enjoyed getting dirt in my hair.”

“You sound just like my ex-wife,” he mused. “What was her name? Lorelei.”

“You told me her name was Diane.”

“So I did.”

“Lorelei was the woman who lured men to their deaths.”

“The same,” he said, “the very same.” He blinked at her and waved his half-empty glass extravagantly before he brought it to his mouth.

“Do you always get romantic and maudlin when you’re drunk?”

“My darling, I am always romantic and maudlin. It shows more when I’m drunk, that’s all.”

The stereo rejected and switched itself off. After that the room was thick with silence until he roused himself groggily and peered at her. “I guess this is what they call a pregnant silence.”

She gave him a distant smile; the telephone rang, and she went to it. He watched irritation and resignation chase each other across her face while she spoke and listened; she hung up, and her eyes looked harder than before. She disappeared into the bedroom for a moment and returned carrying a pair of shoes; she sat down and crossed her legs, arched one stockinged foot, and put a shoe on, sliding her forefinger around inside the heel like a shoehorn.

He said, “I find that whole series of movements insanely erotic. You don’t suppose I’m a foot fetishist?”

“There are worse things.”

He said, “You’re throwing me out.”

“Stay if you want. I have to go out. I may not be back for a while.”

He said in a sour way, “Then you’re not going to abandon all this and fly away thither with me.”

“You give me an almost uncontrollable urge to snicker, Russ.”

He nodded wisely. “All my life I’ve been a figure of ridicule and scorn.”

“Oh, crap. You’re all right, Russ, you’re fine, all you need is a good stiff belt across the mouth to get you straightened out. Once you’ve broken loose from self-pity, you’ll quit floundering around.”

He said, “You’re just full up to here with cynicism, aren’t you? Only I suppose you call it realism. I never want to get that way myself, thank you.”

She glanced at him with a bittersweet sort of smile. “Nobody wants to get that way,” she said. “But we all do. You will, too.”

“What for? Look, I am thinking about moving out West.”

“Then do it. Good luck.”

“Come with me, Carol.”

He heard the small crisp snap of her purse, and he felt suddenly alone and forlorn. She came to him, bent down, and touched his cheek with a light, pecking kiss. “I hope you find a nice fluffy homey girl and have “steen babies and spend the rest of your life cuddling calves and fixing barbed-wire fences and hoisting beers at the corner saloon with the hands.” She went toward the door.

“God damn it,” he roared. “I’m flying to Arizona tomorrow morning.”

“Forever?”

“I’ll be back Monday,” he said in a small voice.

“And you’ll stay,” she said. “This is where it’s at, baby. All you have to do is make things matter.” And she left.