Maybe it was.
Maybe the whole world held together only when you kept your attention centered on it and believed in it. If you let discrepancies creep in, you began to doubt and it began to go to pieces. Maybe this had happened to Cynthia because he had doubted her reality. If he just closed his eyes and believed in her alive and well, then she would be —
He tried it. He shut out the rest of the world and concentrated on Cynthia — Cynthia alive and well, with that little quirk to her mouth she had when she was laughing at something he had said — Cynthia, waking up in the morning, sleepy-eyed and beautiful — Cynthia in a tailored suit and a pert little hat, ready to start out with him anywhere. Cynthia —
He opened his eyes and looked at the bed. There she still lay, unchanged and deathly. He let himself go for a while, then blew his nose and went in to put some water on his face.
VIII
The house buzzer sounded. Randall went to the hall door and jiggled the street-door release without using the apartment phone — he did not want to speak to anyone just then, certainly not to whoever it was that Joe had found to deliver the groceries.
After a reasonable interval there was a soft knock at the door. He opened it, saying, “Bring ’em in,” then stopped suddenly.
Hoag stood just outside the door.
Neither of them spoke at first. Randall was astounded; Hoag seemed diffident and waiting for Randall to commence matters. At last he said shyly, “I had to come, Mr. Randall. May I…come in?”
Randall stared at him, really at a loss for words. The brass of the man — the sheer gall!
“I came because I had to prove to you that I would not willingly harm Mrs. Randall,” he said simply. “If I have done so unknowingly, I want to do what I can to make restitution.”
“It’s too late for restitution!”
“But, Mr. Randall — why do you think that I have done anything to your wife? I don’t see how I could have — not yesterday morning.” He stopped and looked hopelessly at Randall’s stony face. “You wouldn’t shoot a dog without a fair trial — would you?”
Randall chewed his lip in an agony of indecision. Listening to him, the man seemed so damned decent — He threw the door open wide. “Come in,” he said gruffly.
“Thank you, Mr. Randall.” Hoag came in diffidently. Randall started to close the door.
“Your name Randall?” Another man, a stranger, stood in the door, loaded with bundles.
“Yes,” Randall admitted, fishing in his pocket for change. “How did you get in?”
“Came in with him,” the man said, pointing at Hoag, “but I got off at the wrong floor. The beer is cold, chief,” he added ingratiatingly. “Right off the ice.”
“Thanks.” Randall added a dime to the half dollar and closed the door on him. He picked the bundles up from the floor and started for the kitchen. He would have some of that beer now, he decided; there was never a time when he needed it more. After putting the packages down in the kitchen he took out one of the cans, fumbled in the drawer for an opener, and prepared to open it.
A movement caught his eye — Hoag, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other. Randall had not invited him to sit down; he was still standing. “Sit down!”
“Thank you.” Hoag sat down.
Randall turned back to his beer. But the incident had reminded him of the other’s presence; he found himself caught in the habit of good manners; it was almost impossible for him to pour himself a beer and offer none to a guest, no matter how unwelcome.
He hesitated just a moment, then thought, Shucks, it can’t hurt either Cynthia or me to let him have a can of beer. “Do you drink beer?”
“Yes, thank you.” As a matter of fact Hoag rarely drank beer, preferring to reserve his palate for the subtleties of wines, but at the moment he would probably have said yes to synthetic gin, or ditch water, if Randall had offered it.