Read Online Gentleman's Agreement by Laura Z. Hobson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Z. Hobson
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it had borne with it. He swallowed, and it made a hard, audible sound in the silent room. He heard it and contemplated the tip of his cigarette. He thought, I guess I’m in love with her.
He lay, still warmed with sleep, freed from the incessant striving of the evening, relaxed as a man basking under a summer sun on an unpeopled beach. He heard again her voice on the telephone that afternoon, open, eager. All the complex wariness he’d felt that first time was gone. The doubts were gone. That was good. These seven years had made him too critical of people. Minute analysis of himself was bad enough; minute analysis of others was a preposterous nonsense, an unspoken effrontery. She was on no witness stand under cross-examination, with him the prosecutor; she had nothing to prove, with him the dissenter.
Did she want to marry some other Bill Pawling, but more “liberal” in his ideas? Or could she marry some man who could never give her the beautiful apartment, the expensive vacations? She could, but after a while would she feel cheated?
Oh, quit being a self-appointed bastard of a judge and jury and God. He turned out the light. Illogically, he remembered Belle’s visit a week before. Sleep was invading his mind again, like a slow infiltration into resisting terrain. He felt the cold December night in the room, the realm of warmth under the blankets.
A sound came to him, thin, miserable. For one instant he thought he was dreaming again about Betty and the baby. Then he jerked free of his blankets. That had been a real sound.
Swiftly he went through the dark apartment. His mother had called aloud in the night and then there had been a long silence and now she was calling again.
“Mom, what?” The switch clicked under his finger. “You’re sick.”
She moved her head. Her face rigid with pain, her hand bluish across her breast, the fingers digging into her left arm —fear assaulted him, and the memory of himself as a small boy wondering what he could do to bear it if his mother ever died.
“Heart?” he said. “Does it seem your heart?”
She moved her head again. He stooped over her, his arm cradling her, not knowing whether to raise her or lower her from the propped-up pillows.
“Better,” she whispered. “Wait.”
He left her as she was. He took the glass of water on the table, held it to her lips, knew enormous relief that she could sip from it. He pressed her shoulder as if to reassure her that this was nothing, hearts were nothing, age and death and pain were nothing.
“Mom, are you all right? Is it easier?”
“It’s passing.” She looked at him. Regret was in her eyes, apology in her voice.
“I’ll get a doctor.” Doctor? What doctor? In all this city he didn’t know the name of one doctor. “I’ll phone Minify or Kathy and ask.” He started for the door, stopped, turned. “Can I leave you? Are you really better?”
“Wait another minute.” Her right hand fell away from her breast, and her breathing sounded more ordinary. The attack must be over. She had never been really sick in her life and now she was sick, struggling with this first onslaught of deep sickness. He sat on the edge of her bed. He would get a maid for the work; they would move where there was no flight of stairs to strain her.
“Now,” she said. She moved, sat forward, and then carefully lay down again. “Angina,” she said. “I’d never realized the pain was so sharp.” As if it were a startling idea, he remembered his father had been a doctor; she and the girls and he himself knew far more than the usual layman about symptoms and disease.
“I’m going to phone Minify,” he said. “He’ll know a heart man.”
“What time is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He went to the window, closed it, and then went to the fireplace. “Let’s have a fire.” He struck a match. The wood, dried and ready, crackled.
“It’s nice,” she said. “You didn’t hear the first time I called.”
“I thought
He lay, still warmed with sleep, freed from the incessant striving of the evening, relaxed as a man basking under a summer sun on an unpeopled beach. He heard again her voice on the telephone that afternoon, open, eager. All the complex wariness he’d felt that first time was gone. The doubts were gone. That was good. These seven years had made him too critical of people. Minute analysis of himself was bad enough; minute analysis of others was a preposterous nonsense, an unspoken effrontery. She was on no witness stand under cross-examination, with him the prosecutor; she had nothing to prove, with him the dissenter.
Did she want to marry some other Bill Pawling, but more “liberal” in his ideas? Or could she marry some man who could never give her the beautiful apartment, the expensive vacations? She could, but after a while would she feel cheated?
Oh, quit being a self-appointed bastard of a judge and jury and God. He turned out the light. Illogically, he remembered Belle’s visit a week before. Sleep was invading his mind again, like a slow infiltration into resisting terrain. He felt the cold December night in the room, the realm of warmth under the blankets.
A sound came to him, thin, miserable. For one instant he thought he was dreaming again about Betty and the baby. Then he jerked free of his blankets. That had been a real sound.
Swiftly he went through the dark apartment. His mother had called aloud in the night and then there had been a long silence and now she was calling again.
“Mom, what?” The switch clicked under his finger. “You’re sick.”
She moved her head. Her face rigid with pain, her hand bluish across her breast, the fingers digging into her left arm —fear assaulted him, and the memory of himself as a small boy wondering what he could do to bear it if his mother ever died.
“Heart?” he said. “Does it seem your heart?”
She moved her head again. He stooped over her, his arm cradling her, not knowing whether to raise her or lower her from the propped-up pillows.
“Better,” she whispered. “Wait.”
He left her as she was. He took the glass of water on the table, held it to her lips, knew enormous relief that she could sip from it. He pressed her shoulder as if to reassure her that this was nothing, hearts were nothing, age and death and pain were nothing.
“Mom, are you all right? Is it easier?”
“It’s passing.” She looked at him. Regret was in her eyes, apology in her voice.
“I’ll get a doctor.” Doctor? What doctor? In all this city he didn’t know the name of one doctor. “I’ll phone Minify or Kathy and ask.” He started for the door, stopped, turned. “Can I leave you? Are you really better?”
“Wait another minute.” Her right hand fell away from her breast, and her breathing sounded more ordinary. The attack must be over. She had never been really sick in her life and now she was sick, struggling with this first onslaught of deep sickness. He sat on the edge of her bed. He would get a maid for the work; they would move where there was no flight of stairs to strain her.
“Now,” she said. She moved, sat forward, and then carefully lay down again. “Angina,” she said. “I’d never realized the pain was so sharp.” As if it were a startling idea, he remembered his father had been a doctor; she and the girls and he himself knew far more than the usual layman about symptoms and disease.
“I’m going to phone Minify,” he said. “He’ll know a heart man.”
“What time is it?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He went to the window, closed it, and then went to the fireplace. “Let’s have a fire.” He struck a match. The wood, dried and ready, crackled.
“It’s nice,” she said. “You didn’t hear the first time I called.”
“I thought
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