hear anymore.” Was there no legal term for this? Was there no social convention that could relieve the torturer’s suffering? None. If this mock hearing did, in fact, set her free, she would still carry the mark of a strong, intelligent woman like the brand of Cain on her forehead.
Evelyn looked up to find herself already approaching the house. She must have all but run those eight blocks back, absorbed first in bewilderment, then in fury. She walked into the house and up to her room, which she confronted with indignation and defiance. “Well?” she wanted to demand. “Well?” Well what? There was nothing here to confront but the indifferent furniture. She looked around her desperately to find some place to put her fury down. Nothing here could receive it. Nothing but herself. “I must do something.” There was nothing to do. At once, and for the first time, Evelyn realized precisely what that meant. She had done all there was to do. Arthur Williams did not want to see her again until the Friday before the hearing. “But I must do something.” Evelyn sat down in the chair and stared. Gradually the rage died away, and she was quiet and a little sick.
There was work to do. She had one volume of Yeats with her. She would begin with that. Tomorrow she would go to the public library. Wednesday she would go to the University. With the books she needed, she would set up a schedule. Already she was conscious of measuring out the vital supply, rationing the hours that would keep her alive. Why did she feel so trapped? At any other time, six weeks would have seemed a gift. Now, because she had no choice, they were a sentence. “Nonsense!” She got up to get her book and felt again the sudden dizziness. It was the heat, the altitude. How lovely it would be to lie down on the bed, to sleep awhile, but she mustn’t do that. She had already discovered how long an evening could be. Sleep was too precious an escape to be squandered.
When Evelyn met Virginia Ritchie on the stairs going down for dinner, she felt much less critical of her than she had just twenty-four hours before. Younger, with children at home, with fewer of her own resources, she had already lived through three weeks of an isolation Evelyn found terrible in one day. She had no desire to make friends with Virginia, but she greeted her with some real gentleness and sympathy.
“Dr. Hall, I do want to apologize …”
“Please,” Evelyn said, “call me Evelyn, and don’t apologize for anything. There isn’t any need.”
“I know I behave very badly,” Virginia said, “but I find this waiting around with nothing to do just impossible. Everyone said it was best to go to Reno and get a quick divorce, but they don’t know. They haven’t any idea what it’s like just to sit and wait. And this awful town. Even if I had to wait a year at home, at least I’d be busy. I’d be with the children. …” Her voice broke a little.
“But it’s only three more weeks,” Evelyn said.
“Only three weeks,” Virginia cried softly, “I’ve been here only three weeks. For only three weeks I’ve sat in that room and thought. It’s a lifetime.”
“Haven’t you books to read?”
“Books? No, but I’ve read every magazine in the house. You know what they’re like, all about young couples who …” Again her voice failed her.
“You’re reading the wrong stories,” Evelyn said, smiling.
“That’s why I’ve stopped.”
Dinner that night was not as unfortunate as it had been the night before. Virginia was, as Frances Packer had promised, calmer and less self-consciously tragic. Walter did not have to carve and so divided his attention between his appetite and his role as host with some ease, while Frances tended the table and the gaps in the conversation. Only Ann was noticeably quiet and seemed grateful to have the meal done with, to be able to leave the house. Virginia, who had decided to go to an early movie, went with Ann and Walter, leaving
Evelyn looked up to find herself already approaching the house. She must have all but run those eight blocks back, absorbed first in bewilderment, then in fury. She walked into the house and up to her room, which she confronted with indignation and defiance. “Well?” she wanted to demand. “Well?” Well what? There was nothing here to confront but the indifferent furniture. She looked around her desperately to find some place to put her fury down. Nothing here could receive it. Nothing but herself. “I must do something.” There was nothing to do. At once, and for the first time, Evelyn realized precisely what that meant. She had done all there was to do. Arthur Williams did not want to see her again until the Friday before the hearing. “But I must do something.” Evelyn sat down in the chair and stared. Gradually the rage died away, and she was quiet and a little sick.
There was work to do. She had one volume of Yeats with her. She would begin with that. Tomorrow she would go to the public library. Wednesday she would go to the University. With the books she needed, she would set up a schedule. Already she was conscious of measuring out the vital supply, rationing the hours that would keep her alive. Why did she feel so trapped? At any other time, six weeks would have seemed a gift. Now, because she had no choice, they were a sentence. “Nonsense!” She got up to get her book and felt again the sudden dizziness. It was the heat, the altitude. How lovely it would be to lie down on the bed, to sleep awhile, but she mustn’t do that. She had already discovered how long an evening could be. Sleep was too precious an escape to be squandered.
When Evelyn met Virginia Ritchie on the stairs going down for dinner, she felt much less critical of her than she had just twenty-four hours before. Younger, with children at home, with fewer of her own resources, she had already lived through three weeks of an isolation Evelyn found terrible in one day. She had no desire to make friends with Virginia, but she greeted her with some real gentleness and sympathy.
“Dr. Hall, I do want to apologize …”
“Please,” Evelyn said, “call me Evelyn, and don’t apologize for anything. There isn’t any need.”
“I know I behave very badly,” Virginia said, “but I find this waiting around with nothing to do just impossible. Everyone said it was best to go to Reno and get a quick divorce, but they don’t know. They haven’t any idea what it’s like just to sit and wait. And this awful town. Even if I had to wait a year at home, at least I’d be busy. I’d be with the children. …” Her voice broke a little.
“But it’s only three more weeks,” Evelyn said.
“Only three weeks,” Virginia cried softly, “I’ve been here only three weeks. For only three weeks I’ve sat in that room and thought. It’s a lifetime.”
“Haven’t you books to read?”
“Books? No, but I’ve read every magazine in the house. You know what they’re like, all about young couples who …” Again her voice failed her.
“You’re reading the wrong stories,” Evelyn said, smiling.
“That’s why I’ve stopped.”
Dinner that night was not as unfortunate as it had been the night before. Virginia was, as Frances Packer had promised, calmer and less self-consciously tragic. Walter did not have to carve and so divided his attention between his appetite and his role as host with some ease, while Frances tended the table and the gaps in the conversation. Only Ann was noticeably quiet and seemed grateful to have the meal done with, to be able to leave the house. Virginia, who had decided to go to an early movie, went with Ann and Walter, leaving
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