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Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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vari-ous boxes that he took out under other names. Carter asked Magran outright if he thought Gawill might have been taking money from Palmer, and Magran had answered in his solemn, conservative way, “There is a possibility. That money went somewhere.”
David Sullivan on the other hand—he visited Carter once during that month, his third or fourth visit to the prison—seemed overconfident of Gawill’s complicity and also overconfident that he could pin it on him. Sullivan said he was talking often with Magran, that they were working “together” on the material they were gathering to present to the Supreme Court. But Sullivan was a corporation lawyer, not a criminal lawyer, and not in Carter’s pay. Carter had a faint but disquieting suspicion that Gawill was right, and Sullivan was trying to make a good impression on him and counteract any resentment Carter might feel because he was seeing so much of Hazel.
Easter came and went in that month. Carter had seen Magran on Easter Sunday. He had had a good shot of morphine just before the interview (Carter now gave the shots to himself, holding the needle between his fingers and pushing it with his palm), and the morphine and the businesslike tone of the interview had helped to lift Carter’s vague gloom because Hazel was not coming that day. Later, lying on his bed in the ward, he had been able to smile as he thought of what Hazel might be doing at that moment, sunning herself with a tall drink by her host’s swimming pool, laughing and talking with Sullivan and the Fennors, and perhaps in the background good music would be playing on a stereo hi-fi. Then they would sit down at a long table with a crisp white linen cloth on it and thick napkins, and every item of food would be superb. And perhaps Sullivan would be paying Hazel compliments and giving her affectionate, even amorous looks across the table? Well, Carter didn’t mind that. Hazel liked flattery.
The night of Easter Sunday he could not sleep, despite all the morphine. Time after time, he staggered up in answer to some moan or a mumbled call for Pete. He felt very humble that night. He felt in fact like nothing at all, and somehow like no one, as if something, some mysterious Parcaean scissors, had cut his tie even to Hazel. He could conjure her up as distinctly as ever in his memory, but he felt nothing when he did. It was as if they were no longer married and had never been married, as if she did not love him and had never loved him, and it seemed unbelievable, like a fantasy, that he had thought, only the day before, Nothing can really hurt me, because Hazel belongs to me and she loves me.
Back in his bed, Carter had visions of Sullivan and Hazel lying in bed together, perhaps sleeping now after having made love. No, Sullivan would have tiptoed back to his room, of course, in the Fennors’ house. Carter turned in his bed. He didn’t really believe that. Or did he? If he didn’t believe it, why did he think of it? Or if he didn’t really fear it, why did he think of it? Of course he feared it. He had admitted that long ago, hadn’t he? Yes.
Carter turned over in bed and forced the ugly thoughts away. He had to arrive at a “right attitude” or else. One had to have hope, and at the same time not take things too seriously. His thumbs— Well, some people got their hands taken off in prison machinery. It was difficult to arrive at a right attitude, when the letters Hazel had written and made him write also to congressmen and civil rights organizations had resulted in nothing but brief acknowledgments or politely sympathetic replies. He thought of Magran’s new witness, Joseph Dowdy, and wondered what kind of man he was. Then Carter remembered the prosecution’s witness, and he suddenly grew tense. Louise McVay. She was a bank teller, and she remembered Carter coming into the First National Bank of Fremont with a $1,200 check on Triumph made out to Wallace Palmer and signed over by Palmer to
David Sullivan on the other hand—he visited Carter once during that month, his third or fourth visit to the prison—seemed overconfident of Gawill’s complicity and also overconfident that he could pin it on him. Sullivan said he was talking often with Magran, that they were working “together” on the material they were gathering to present to the Supreme Court. But Sullivan was a corporation lawyer, not a criminal lawyer, and not in Carter’s pay. Carter had a faint but disquieting suspicion that Gawill was right, and Sullivan was trying to make a good impression on him and counteract any resentment Carter might feel because he was seeing so much of Hazel.
Easter came and went in that month. Carter had seen Magran on Easter Sunday. He had had a good shot of morphine just before the interview (Carter now gave the shots to himself, holding the needle between his fingers and pushing it with his palm), and the morphine and the businesslike tone of the interview had helped to lift Carter’s vague gloom because Hazel was not coming that day. Later, lying on his bed in the ward, he had been able to smile as he thought of what Hazel might be doing at that moment, sunning herself with a tall drink by her host’s swimming pool, laughing and talking with Sullivan and the Fennors, and perhaps in the background good music would be playing on a stereo hi-fi. Then they would sit down at a long table with a crisp white linen cloth on it and thick napkins, and every item of food would be superb. And perhaps Sullivan would be paying Hazel compliments and giving her affectionate, even amorous looks across the table? Well, Carter didn’t mind that. Hazel liked flattery.
The night of Easter Sunday he could not sleep, despite all the morphine. Time after time, he staggered up in answer to some moan or a mumbled call for Pete. He felt very humble that night. He felt in fact like nothing at all, and somehow like no one, as if something, some mysterious Parcaean scissors, had cut his tie even to Hazel. He could conjure her up as distinctly as ever in his memory, but he felt nothing when he did. It was as if they were no longer married and had never been married, as if she did not love him and had never loved him, and it seemed unbelievable, like a fantasy, that he had thought, only the day before, Nothing can really hurt me, because Hazel belongs to me and she loves me.
Back in his bed, Carter had visions of Sullivan and Hazel lying in bed together, perhaps sleeping now after having made love. No, Sullivan would have tiptoed back to his room, of course, in the Fennors’ house. Carter turned in his bed. He didn’t really believe that. Or did he? If he didn’t believe it, why did he think of it? Or if he didn’t really fear it, why did he think of it? Of course he feared it. He had admitted that long ago, hadn’t he? Yes.
Carter turned over in bed and forced the ugly thoughts away. He had to arrive at a “right attitude” or else. One had to have hope, and at the same time not take things too seriously. His thumbs— Well, some people got their hands taken off in prison machinery. It was difficult to arrive at a right attitude, when the letters Hazel had written and made him write also to congressmen and civil rights organizations had resulted in nothing but brief acknowledgments or politely sympathetic replies. He thought of Magran’s new witness, Joseph Dowdy, and wondered what kind of man he was. Then Carter remembered the prosecution’s witness, and he suddenly grew tense. Louise McVay. She was a bank teller, and she remembered Carter coming into the First National Bank of Fremont with a $1,200 check on Triumph made out to Wallace Palmer and signed over by Palmer to
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