It’s already fixed, I said. How do you feel?
Better, she said. Much better.
I took a ham sandwich and a bowl of soup over to the bed. The bacon and eggs from breakfast were still sitting there, looking cold and withered. I took the plate off the table and put the other food down in its place.
She looked up and smiled. You’re such a good person, Paul.
I’m not good, I said on my way back to the kitchen. Just a little confused.
Why? she said. Because of what happened?
I took my food over to a table by the window and sat down. Yeah, I said after a pause. Your. . . ah. . . your maneuvers of the past few days have been. . . ah. . . sort of obscure, to say the least
She looked down at her hands. Why did you let me in? she said finally.
I shrugged. I don’t know — did you think I wouldn’t?
I didn’t know, she replied. I didn’t know how you’d feel. .
Neither did I, I said.
Suddenly she looked up at me. I didn’t know what to do! she blurted. When I got on that plane I hoped it would crash! I wanted it to blow up and sink in the ocean!
Where’d you get a plane ticket? I said. I thought you didn’t have any money. I asked without thinking, and the minute the words came out of my mouth I regretted them.
She looked startled, then she began to cry. Somebody bought it for me, she sobbed. I didn’t have any money, I —
Never mind, I said quickly. I didn’t mean to ask anyway. I was playing journalist.
She put her face down in her hands and kept crying. I resumed eating until she quieted down, then I looked over at her again. Look, I said. Let’s start everything from right now. I’ll just assume you’ve had a bad experience and I won’t ask any more questions, okay?
She nodded, without looking up.
All I want to know, I added, is what you plan to do now. She looked like she was going to cry again and I quickly added: Just so I can help out.
She sobbed, then said, What does Fritz think?
Well, I said. He wasn’t real happy when I last saw him. Of course that was Sunday night and we were both in pretty bad shape — he might feel better by now.
She looked up. What happened — did he get in a fight?
I stared at her.
Don’t look at me that way! she screamed. I don’t remember!
I shrugged. Well —
The last thing I remember is going into that house, she said, starting to cry again. I don’t remember anything else until the next day!
She fell down on the bed and cried for a long time. I went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. I was tempted to drive her out to Yeamon’s and leave her on the road behind his house. I thought about it for a while, but decided I’d better talk to him first and find out how he felt. For all I knew he might break both her arms if she showed up out there in the dead of night with this malignant-sounding story. The little she’d said was enough to kill any hopes I’d had that it was all a mistake, and now I didn’t want to hear any more. The sooner I could get her out of here, the better. If I didn’t see Yeamon in town the next day, I would drive out to his house after work.
She finally stopped crying and went to sleep. I sat by the window and read for a few hours, sipping the rum until I got sleepy. Then I shoved her over to one side of the bed and very carefully stretched out on the other.
When I woke up the next morning Chenault was already in the kitchen. It’s my turn to do something, she said with a bright smile. You just sit there and be waited on.
She brought me a glass of orange juice, then a big omelette, and we both sat on the bed and ate. She seemed relaxed and talked about having the place cleaned up by the time I got back from work. I had meant to tell her that I was going to see Yeamon and have her off my hands by nightfall, but now the idea of saying it made me feel like an ogre. What the hell, I thought. No sense telling her — just do it.