Read Online The Cry of the Owl by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
Ads: Link
and she was with Ralph, but she wanted to wish him a happy marriage anniversary No. 3, which she knew had passed weeks ago, but better late than never.
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks, Nickie.”
“Remember our second?” she asked.
He remembered the second all right. “I prefer to remember the first.”
“Sen-ti-men-tal. Want to talk to Ralph?
Ralph!
”
Robert wanted to hang up. But wouldn’t that be petulant? Cowardly? He hung on, looked up at the ceiling, and waited. Distant voices murmured and bubbled, like a seething pot, somewhere in Manhattan. Then there was a
click-buzz
. She had hung up, or someone had hung up for her.
Robert fixed a Scotch and water. Yes, he remembered the second anniversary. They had asked eight or ten friends over, and Robert had brought home a lot of red roses and peonies for the house, and he’d had a slim gold bracelet for Nickie. And then nobody turned up. People had been due at eight for cocktails and a buffet, but at a quarter past nine nobody had arrived, and Robert had said, “Holy cow, do you think we asked people for the wrong date?” Then Nickie, her hands on her hips, had said, “Nobody’s turning up, dearie, this is a party just for you and me. So sit down at the other end of thisbeautiful table and let me tell you a thing or two.” She hadn’t even had a drink before the first ones she made after he arrived. Robert could always tell which drink was her first and her second and her third. And she hadn’t been drunk when she planned the evening ten days before—or at least in between she’d been sober. The invitations were her responsibility. That evening she had talked steadily for at least an hour, drowning out his interruptions by simply raising her voice. She laid every smallest fault of his before him, down to his sometimes leaving his razor on the rim of the basin instead of putting it back into the medicine cabinet; down to the fact he’d forgotten, weeks before, to pick up a dress of hers at the cleaner’s; down to the mole on his cheek, the celebrated mole that was not quite an eighth of an inch in diameter (he had measured it once in the bathroom with his little steel ruler), that Nickie had first called distinguished, then ugly, and finally cancerous, and why didn’t he have it removed? Robert remembered that he had made himself a second drink during her harangue, a good stiff one, since the wisest thing to show under the circumstances was patience, and the liquor acted as a sedative. His patience that evening had so infuriated her, in fact, that she later lurched against him, bumped herself into him in the bedroom when he was undressing for the night, saying, “Don’t you want to hit me, darling? Come on, hit me, Bobbie!” Curiously, that was one of the times he’d felt least like hitting her, so he’d been able to give a quiet “No” in answer. Then she called him abnormal. “You’ll do something violent one day. Mark my words.” And a little later that night, “Wasn’t it a good joke, Bobbie?” when they were lying in bed, pressing his cheek with her hand, not affectionately but to anger him and keep him from sleeping. “Wasn’t it a funnyjoke, darling?” She had followed him into the living room when he tried to sleep on the sofa there. At last, she had fallen asleep in the bedroom about five in the morning and had waked up when Robert got up to go to work. She had a bad hangover, and as always with a hangover she was remorseful, took his hands and kissed them and said she’d been awful, and would he forgive her, and she promised never, never to act like that again, and he’d been an angel, and she didn’t mean anything she’d said about his faults, which were such little faults, after all.
He heard the hooting of a river-patrol siren. Either someone was lost on the rapids or a boat was in danger, he supposed. The siren went on and on, melancholic, urgent, despondent. Robert tried to imagine being turned over and over on the
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks, Nickie.”
“Remember our second?” she asked.
He remembered the second all right. “I prefer to remember the first.”
“Sen-ti-men-tal. Want to talk to Ralph?
Ralph!
”
Robert wanted to hang up. But wouldn’t that be petulant? Cowardly? He hung on, looked up at the ceiling, and waited. Distant voices murmured and bubbled, like a seething pot, somewhere in Manhattan. Then there was a
click-buzz
. She had hung up, or someone had hung up for her.
Robert fixed a Scotch and water. Yes, he remembered the second anniversary. They had asked eight or ten friends over, and Robert had brought home a lot of red roses and peonies for the house, and he’d had a slim gold bracelet for Nickie. And then nobody turned up. People had been due at eight for cocktails and a buffet, but at a quarter past nine nobody had arrived, and Robert had said, “Holy cow, do you think we asked people for the wrong date?” Then Nickie, her hands on her hips, had said, “Nobody’s turning up, dearie, this is a party just for you and me. So sit down at the other end of thisbeautiful table and let me tell you a thing or two.” She hadn’t even had a drink before the first ones she made after he arrived. Robert could always tell which drink was her first and her second and her third. And she hadn’t been drunk when she planned the evening ten days before—or at least in between she’d been sober. The invitations were her responsibility. That evening she had talked steadily for at least an hour, drowning out his interruptions by simply raising her voice. She laid every smallest fault of his before him, down to his sometimes leaving his razor on the rim of the basin instead of putting it back into the medicine cabinet; down to the fact he’d forgotten, weeks before, to pick up a dress of hers at the cleaner’s; down to the mole on his cheek, the celebrated mole that was not quite an eighth of an inch in diameter (he had measured it once in the bathroom with his little steel ruler), that Nickie had first called distinguished, then ugly, and finally cancerous, and why didn’t he have it removed? Robert remembered that he had made himself a second drink during her harangue, a good stiff one, since the wisest thing to show under the circumstances was patience, and the liquor acted as a sedative. His patience that evening had so infuriated her, in fact, that she later lurched against him, bumped herself into him in the bedroom when he was undressing for the night, saying, “Don’t you want to hit me, darling? Come on, hit me, Bobbie!” Curiously, that was one of the times he’d felt least like hitting her, so he’d been able to give a quiet “No” in answer. Then she called him abnormal. “You’ll do something violent one day. Mark my words.” And a little later that night, “Wasn’t it a good joke, Bobbie?” when they were lying in bed, pressing his cheek with her hand, not affectionately but to anger him and keep him from sleeping. “Wasn’t it a funnyjoke, darling?” She had followed him into the living room when he tried to sleep on the sofa there. At last, she had fallen asleep in the bedroom about five in the morning and had waked up when Robert got up to go to work. She had a bad hangover, and as always with a hangover she was remorseful, took his hands and kissed them and said she’d been awful, and would he forgive her, and she promised never, never to act like that again, and he’d been an angel, and she didn’t mean anything she’d said about his faults, which were such little faults, after all.
He heard the hooting of a river-patrol siren. Either someone was lost on the rapids or a boat was in danger, he supposed. The siren went on and on, melancholic, urgent, despondent. Robert tried to imagine being turned over and over on the
Similar Books
