“Not as such, possibly,” Horace admitted stiffly. “Nevertheless, they are based on carefully researched studies, and may therefore be taken as realistic depictions of composite actuality.”
“In that case, reality has got problems,” Corrigan said.
“Not you, by any chance?”
“If I have, I can live with them. So where’s the problem?”
“You’re happy to be out on your own like that, to be different?” As if it weren’t already obvious. An ability to accept the fact had evidently not connected in Horace’s associative net.
“What’s more important, would you say?” Corrigan replied. “Conformity or contentment?”
“Invalid comparison,” Horace pronounced. “Your contentment is something that only you know about. What you do is different. It’s external. It affects other people, and hence what they do.” There was a short delay, giving an effective impression of Horace weighing its words. “Therefore, the answer to which is more important depends on how seriously you take the consequences.”
Corrigan caught the pause and stopped halfway through buttoning his shirt. “Horace,” he said, looking away from the mirror. “Something’s happened. What is it?”
Horace’s voice became formal, sounding like a lawyer serving notice of a suit. “I have to inform you that Mrs. Corrigan is not staying with her sister in Philadelphia for the weekend, as you were informed. She will not be returning, and has instructed that her whereabouts not be revealed. It is her intention to initiate proceedings, and you will be hearing from her attorney in due course.” There was a pause, Corrigan saying nothing while he knotted his tie and digested what he had heard. Then, reverting to its normal self, Horace added, “She left this message.”
Corrigan slowly finished buttoning his shirt cuffs as Muriel’s twangy Tennessee voice filled the room. “Well, I guess by now you know the situation—not that I can see you taking it as any big deal. But then I don’t think we ever had much of that deep kind of stuff that they talk about, either way. I never could figure out that world you live in, someplace inside your head. All I know is that I’m in this one out here, and you’re never gonna be part of it. . . . But then, some of that has to be my fault too, for hitchin’ up with somebody who I knew hadn’t finished havin’ his head an’ all that straightened out in the first place. Sorry I couldna been more help in fixin’ that like we hoped—but them shrinks did tell us up front that it was a long way from a sure thing.
“Hell, Joe, no, I’m not the one who should have to be sorry about anything. I tried hard, dammit, you know that? But do you know how hard it can be tryin’ to make it with a guy who’s—I gotta say this, you understand me, Joe—like, a failure. As in socially, for instance. There’s things that people aim at in life, things they try to be that make everyone feel together, like they’re part of the same planet. And then there’s that job of yours, where you don’t care about being a success or have any ambition to try something better. But none o’ that ever meant anythin’ to you, Joe. . . . Hell, you probably don’t even know what I’m talkin’ about.”
There was a heavy sigh. “Well, this isn’t really coming out the way I wanted it to, so I’ll wrap it up. Don’t try getting in touch or anythin’ like that, because there really isn’t any point. I talked to a lawyer, and he’ll be in touch soon. . . . I guess that’s it. This seemed the best way to break it—without too much talkin’ an’ stuff. We never did talk the same language, anyhow. So . . . ‘Bye. I hope things work out.”
By this time Corrigan had finished dressing. He checked the other closet, then the vanity. There were odds and ends, cheaper jewelry, clothes that she had grown tired of. The things that she valued more were mostly gone—far more than she would have taken for a weekend in Philadelphia.
But he had never doubted what he would find. His movements were automatic, filling the void while the meaning sank in. His feelings about it had not yet emerged from beneath a curious detachment. Yes, there was the sudden surprise. But along with it . . . not bitterness, nor anger at rejection, but—even now, poking enticingly out of hiding like an ankle glimpsed below heavy Victorian folds—an intensified version of the relief that he had experienced on awakening.