(Did he want to hear about it?)
(Wouldn’t you want to?)
(Yes, but no two men are alike and some husbands get headaches from horns.)
(Some do. Maybe most of them, Joan. I was always careful of Joe’s feelings. Sometimes I strayed and carefully kept it from him—I never told him about Jake.)
(Why not? I would think that Joe would approve of Jake for you if he approved of anyone. Jake respects Joe very highly—you know it, too; you heard him.)
(Yes. But Jake is rich and Joe is dirt poor. Perhaps Joe could have accepted Jake—I now think he could have. But I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t risk hurting him. But Anton and Fred—well, they are just mobile guards; Joe treated them as friends and equals, and secretly—I think—felt a little superior to them, since he is an artist and they are just stiffs. I knew they wouldn’t trouble Joe’s mind . . . and I was right; he was delighted for me. Happy that I was happy. Can’t explain it, Joan; you get an instinct for it. But a man’s pride is a fragile thing and it is all the armor he has; they are far more vulnerable than we are. You have to be oh so careful in handling them. Or they droop.)
(I know, Eunice. Literally droop in some cases. Did I tell you that my second wife made me psychically impotent for almost a year?)
(Oh, you poor darling!)
(Got over it. Not through a shrink. Through the warm and generous help of a lady who didn’t assume that it was my fault. And I was never troubled again until I was too feeble for any sort of proper physical functioning.)
(I’m glad you found her; I wish I could thank her. Joan I wasn’t born knowing this about men; I found out the hard way. Twin, I made some bad mistakes in. high school. Look—males are so much bigger and more muscular than we are, I didn’t dream that they could be so fragile. Until I hurt one boy’s pride so badly he dropped out of school, and I’ve tried never to hurt any boy, or man, since. I was stupid, Boss. But I did learn.)
(Eunice, how long has it been since I last told you I love you?)
(Oh, at least twenty minutes.)
(Too long. I love you.)
Finchley’s voice interrupted her reverie. “We’re about to park, Miss Eunice.”
“What’s this ‘Miss Eunice’ nonsense? We’re not in public.”
“Seemed like a good compromise.”
“It does, huh? Why just dabble your toes? Why not go whole hawg and call me ‘Miss Smith?’ and I won’t kiss you good-night.”
“Very well—Miss.”
“Oh, Tom, don’t tease me. It’s been a perfect day; don’t remind me that I must be ‘Miss Smith’ again. You know I’ll kiss you good-night if you’ll let me . . . or the real Eunice wouldn’t speak to me. Hugo, make him behave!”
“I’ll fix his clock, Eunice. Tom, you call her ‘Eunice,’ real nice.”
“I’m sorry, Eunice.”
“That makes me feel better, Tom. Are you going to be able to park this wagon close enough that you can come with me?”
“Sure thing, Eunice—but keep quiet right now, please; I’ve got to work close with the traffic computer to get us in.”
20
“Good evening, Chief.” Joan rested her hand on O’Neil’s forearm, stepped lightly down.
“Good evening, Miss. Message from Mr. Salomon. His respects to you and regrets he will not be back for dinner. Twenty-one o’clock, he hopes.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Then I shan’t dine downstairs; please tell Cunningham or Della that I want trays in my lounge for Winnie and me. No service.”
“Two trays and no service, Miss—right.”
“And tell Dabrowski that I want him to drive me tomorrow.”
“He’s gone home, Miss. But he knows he has the duty. He’ll be ready.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand what I said, Chief. I want to tell him, now, that I want him to drive me tomorrow. Ten, possibly—not earlier. So after you phone the pantry, call Dabrowski and give him that message from me. Leave the call in until you reach him. And phone me at once when Mr. Salomon’s car returns, no matter what hour. Don’t consult him; do it. Before Rockford unbuttons.”