I’m all right.’ He kept looking at her, trying for one good breath, his hands clutching his knees in rigid restraint. Oh God, what could he do? The bitch! She had planned also, planned to get married!
He saw the anxiety for him melt from her face, a flushed tension replacing it. She ripped a page from her assignment pad, scribbled on it, and passed it to him:
The pills didn’t work.
The liar! The goddamned liar! He crumpled the paper and squeezed it in his hand, fingernails biting into his palm. Think! Think! His danger was so enormous he couldn’t grasp it all at once. Ellen would receive the note – when? Three o’clock? Four? – and call Dorothy – ‘What does this mean? Why did you write this?’ – ‘Write what?’ – then Ellen would read the note and Dorothy would recognize it … Would she come to him? What explanation could he invent? Or would she see the truth – blurt out the whole story to Ellen – call her father. If she had kept the pills – if she hadn’t thrown them away, there would be proof! Attempted murder. Would she take them to a drugstore, have them analysed? There was no figuring her now. She was an unknown quantity. He’d thought he could predict every little twitch of her goddamned brain, and now …
He could feel her looking at him, waiting for some kind of reaction to the words she’d written. He tore paper from his notebook and pulled open his pen. He shielded his hand so she couldn’t see how it was shaking. He couldn’t write. He had to print, digging the point of the pen so hard that it shredded the surface of the paper. Make it sound natural!
Okay. We tried, that’s all. Now we get married as per schedule.
He handed it to her. She read it and turned to him, and her face was warm and radiant as the sunlight. He pressed a smile back at her, praying she wouldn’t notice the stiffness of it.
It still wasn’t too late. People wrote suicide notes and then stalled around before actually doing it. He looked at his watch: 9.20. The earliest Ellen could get the note would be – three o’clock. Five hours and forty minutes. No step by step planning now. It would have to be quick, positive. No trickery that counted on her doing a certain thing at a certain time. No poison. How else do people kill themselves? In five hours and forty minutes she must be dead.
TEN
At ten o’clock they left the building arm in arm, going out into the crystalline air that rang with the shouts of between-class students. Three girls in cheerleaders’ uniforms pushed by, one beating a tin pie-pan with a wooden spoon, the other two carrying a big sign advertising a baseball pep rally.
‘Does your side still hurt you?’ Dorothy asked, concerned for his grim expression.
‘A little,’ he said.
‘Do you get those twinges often?’
‘No. Don’t worry.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re not marrying an invalid.’
They stepped off the path on to the lawn. ‘When will we go?’ She pressed his hand.
‘This afternoon. Around four.’
‘Shouldn’t we go earlier?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’ll take time, and they probably close around five or so.’
‘It won’t take long. We just fill out the application for the licence and then there’s someone right on the same floor who can marry us.’
‘I’d better bring proof that I’m over eighteen.’
‘Yes.’
She turned to him, suddenly serious, remorse flushing her cheeks. Not even a good liar, he thought. ‘Are you terribly sorry the pills didn’t work?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, not terribly.’
‘You were exaggerating, weren’t you? About how things will be?’
‘Yes. We’ll make out okay. I just wanted you to try the pills. For your sake.’
She flushed more deeply. He turned away, embarrassed by her transparency. When he looked at her again, the joy of the moment had crowded out her compunctions and she was hugging her arms and smiling. ‘I can’t go to my classes! I’m cutting.’
‘Good. I am too.
He saw the anxiety for him melt from her face, a flushed tension replacing it. She ripped a page from her assignment pad, scribbled on it, and passed it to him:
The pills didn’t work.
The liar! The goddamned liar! He crumpled the paper and squeezed it in his hand, fingernails biting into his palm. Think! Think! His danger was so enormous he couldn’t grasp it all at once. Ellen would receive the note – when? Three o’clock? Four? – and call Dorothy – ‘What does this mean? Why did you write this?’ – ‘Write what?’ – then Ellen would read the note and Dorothy would recognize it … Would she come to him? What explanation could he invent? Or would she see the truth – blurt out the whole story to Ellen – call her father. If she had kept the pills – if she hadn’t thrown them away, there would be proof! Attempted murder. Would she take them to a drugstore, have them analysed? There was no figuring her now. She was an unknown quantity. He’d thought he could predict every little twitch of her goddamned brain, and now …
He could feel her looking at him, waiting for some kind of reaction to the words she’d written. He tore paper from his notebook and pulled open his pen. He shielded his hand so she couldn’t see how it was shaking. He couldn’t write. He had to print, digging the point of the pen so hard that it shredded the surface of the paper. Make it sound natural!
Okay. We tried, that’s all. Now we get married as per schedule.
He handed it to her. She read it and turned to him, and her face was warm and radiant as the sunlight. He pressed a smile back at her, praying she wouldn’t notice the stiffness of it.
It still wasn’t too late. People wrote suicide notes and then stalled around before actually doing it. He looked at his watch: 9.20. The earliest Ellen could get the note would be – three o’clock. Five hours and forty minutes. No step by step planning now. It would have to be quick, positive. No trickery that counted on her doing a certain thing at a certain time. No poison. How else do people kill themselves? In five hours and forty minutes she must be dead.
TEN
At ten o’clock they left the building arm in arm, going out into the crystalline air that rang with the shouts of between-class students. Three girls in cheerleaders’ uniforms pushed by, one beating a tin pie-pan with a wooden spoon, the other two carrying a big sign advertising a baseball pep rally.
‘Does your side still hurt you?’ Dorothy asked, concerned for his grim expression.
‘A little,’ he said.
‘Do you get those twinges often?’
‘No. Don’t worry.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re not marrying an invalid.’
They stepped off the path on to the lawn. ‘When will we go?’ She pressed his hand.
‘This afternoon. Around four.’
‘Shouldn’t we go earlier?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’ll take time, and they probably close around five or so.’
‘It won’t take long. We just fill out the application for the licence and then there’s someone right on the same floor who can marry us.’
‘I’d better bring proof that I’m over eighteen.’
‘Yes.’
She turned to him, suddenly serious, remorse flushing her cheeks. Not even a good liar, he thought. ‘Are you terribly sorry the pills didn’t work?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No, not terribly.’
‘You were exaggerating, weren’t you? About how things will be?’
‘Yes. We’ll make out okay. I just wanted you to try the pills. For your sake.’
She flushed more deeply. He turned away, embarrassed by her transparency. When he looked at her again, the joy of the moment had crowded out her compunctions and she was hugging her arms and smiling. ‘I can’t go to my classes! I’m cutting.’
‘Good. I am too.
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