“Joan! Please hold onto something. Doctor might show up any second.”
“Oh, pooh, he wouldn’t dare. Never again.” Joan turned and touched the latch switch. “Now he can’t, so quit fretting.”
“You mustn’t lock the door. Hospital baths are never locked.”
“This isn’t a hospital and I’ll lock my bathroom door whenever I like and if Dr. Garcia finds out I’ve locked it the only way he can—by trying to walk in—and dares to mention it, I’ll scream my head off to Jake Salomon and there’ll be a change in doctors. Winnie dear, I wasn’t a cranky old man more years than I care to think about without learning how to get my own way. I just have to use different weapons now. Want to peel off that uniform and hang it in the dressing room? I not only may splash you but this end is going to fill up with steam.”
“No, Joan—lukewarm tub. You heard him.”
“I heard him and it’s going to be the temperature 1 like and that’s another thing he’ll never know and you know that I’m lively as a frog and not the weak kitten he insists on thinking I am; a hot tub won’t hurt me. If you want to get your uniform clammy, that’s your business. Better yet, climb into the tub with me. It’s big, and short as I am now, I might slide under and drown, alone.”
“I shouldn’t,” Winnie said slowly.
“Isn’t that a horrid thought? Patient faints in tub and drowns before nurse can reach her. Not good enough for flash news but they might mention it on the late-late-late early news.”
“Joan! You’re teasing me.” (You sure are, Boss. Erase and correct again—Both tart and butch.) (Fiddlesticks, Eunice. That’s a big enough tub for all three of us.)
Winnie bit her lip and slowly unfastened her smock. Joan turned away and started filling the tub, adjusted the temperature, and avoided watching her.
11
An hour later Joan was seated in an easy chair, with her feet on a stool. To the nightgown had been added a filmy negligee and a pair of high-heeled boudoir pumps. Her hair had been arranged, her face had been most carefully made up, and she was lavishly scented with a cologne labeled “April Mist” but which deserved the title of “Criminal Assault.” Her toenails were trimmed, not to Eunice’s satisfaction but well enough for the time being. Best of all, she was enjoying the euphoria of a woman who is utterly clean, scented and powdered, and dressed attractively.
Beds had been switched, the room no longer held any flavor of sickroom, and Joan found that this greatly increased her feeling of well-being. Eunice’s stenodesk had been restored to its usual spot beyond Johann’s baby grand piano, Joan having learned that it was in her study where it had last been used, and had told Cunningham to have it brought in. It did not fit the room—but it fitted her notion of what the room should be; it was homey, it belonged.
She was alone, Winnie having gone to invite Mr. Salomon to dine with his hostess-ward. Joan sighed with satisfaction. (Feel better, hon? I do.) (Heavens, yes. But why did you lose your nerve?) (Oh, piffle, Eunice! I never intended to seduce her.) (Liar. Hypocrite. Dirty old man. You had her all set. Then you went chicken. I’ve met men like you before, dearie—talk a good game, then lose their nerve in the clutch. Cowardly Casanovas. Pfui!)
(Nonsense! You don’t shoot ducks on water. If I ever make a real pass at her—I’m not saying I will but I admit she’s a cuddlesome little bundle—) (She is indeed!) (Oh, shut up! If I ever do, I’ll give her a sporting chance—not grab her when she dasn’t scream.) (‘Sporting chance’ my tired back. Listen to your big sister, Joan—sex isn’t a sport, it’s a way to be happy. There is nothing more exasperating to a woman than to be ready to give in—then have the matter dropped. You’ll find out. You’ll cry in your pillow and hate every man alive. Till the next time, that is.)
(Eunice? You’ve never had that sort of turn-down, have you? I don’t believe it.) (Happens to every woman, Joan. Men are sissies, if we women weren’t so willing, if we didn’t just plain lead ‘em by the hand, the race would die out.)