ten minutes while I scrub up … we can get going.”
Debby smiled and squeezed his arm.
“Terrific,” she said. “But if I faint, you’ve got to promise to bring me around.”
Peter laughed, turned James Thomas over to the Recovery Room nurse, and sat down at the little table to finish his tally of the drugs he had used during surgery and the amount of blood lost. As he wrote, he looked over at Debby, who was talking to another patient. God, she was beautiful … long and lean … and she had asked him out. He reached his hand into his pocket, ran his thumb and forefinger over the syringe. Then he got up, motioned to her that he’d be down in a minute, and hurried on down the hall to the locker room.
9
“God, I’m sorry,” Debby said as they left the theater.
But for Peter Cross, there was nothing at all to forgive. They had come into the theater too late for the first feature, but The Premature Burial had been exciting. Not that it was really any good. He agreed with Debby completely, the production was not much better than an old B-movie. But the scenes in the casket, the look on Mil-land’s face as they shoveled him into the earth, had contained real moments of genius, Peter thought. More important, seeing the images made his own impressions all the more vivid. He took from the scenes what he wanted, automatically and unconsciously filtering out the rest. The experience had been thrilling from beginning to end. And her presence there beside him … that, too, had been thrilling, though he didn’t know if he could tell her any of this.
They found themselves on the corner of 86th and Lexington, staring through the hazy, drizzling rain at the traffic lights and the pink marquee of the shop across the street.
“Well,” Peter said, “I’m famished. How about you? Would you like to get something to eat?”
“Yes,” she said, “I would. I’m hungry too.”
They crossed the street and Peter started to go in the coffee shop but suddenly changed his mind. He knew a little French place on Third Avenue. He hadn’t ever been there, but he had heard Dr. Beauregard talking about it one day. It was a crazy impulse, not like him at all. Ordinarily he paid very little attention to food, but tonight was different.
“Look,” he said suddenly. “Let’s get a cab. I know a much better place.”
“Sure, Peter,” she said happily.
He stepped out into the street to hail the Checker, and she took his arm.
The place was called Ça Va, and they found themselves a table in the back, beneath some hanging blue flowers. She smiled and took off her coat.
They ordered quiche and white wine, and Peter found himself talking. It happened suddenly. Right in the midst of his wondering if he could talk, he simply began, and he found that she was listening, really listening. The impact of this was too much for him, and he talked on.
“You know,” he said, “it wasn’t really bad. I mean they tried hard to capture the whole ambience. You were right, I did enjoy the sets and the costumes. They had things right. And that scene where he was buried, that was well done. It was fun for me.”
“See,” she said, “life isn’t all chemicals and gases and dying patients.”
Peter went on as if he hadn’t heard her.
“But they missed the point with Poe, you know. I’ve never seen a production that really got the point at all.”
“What is the point?” she said. “I thought it was simply to scare the hell out of you.”
“Do you really think so?” Peter said.
Debby was aware of him staring at her. There was such intensity in his eyes, and a glittering intelligence. But more than that she saw something else—a hunger which ran so deep that it frightened her, and turned her on. She knew he wanted her, but at the same time he seemed to be pulling away by challenging her.
“Maybe there is more there,” she said, running her hand through her hair and smiling at him.
He smiled back.
Now he seemed positively
Debby smiled and squeezed his arm.
“Terrific,” she said. “But if I faint, you’ve got to promise to bring me around.”
Peter laughed, turned James Thomas over to the Recovery Room nurse, and sat down at the little table to finish his tally of the drugs he had used during surgery and the amount of blood lost. As he wrote, he looked over at Debby, who was talking to another patient. God, she was beautiful … long and lean … and she had asked him out. He reached his hand into his pocket, ran his thumb and forefinger over the syringe. Then he got up, motioned to her that he’d be down in a minute, and hurried on down the hall to the locker room.
9
“God, I’m sorry,” Debby said as they left the theater.
But for Peter Cross, there was nothing at all to forgive. They had come into the theater too late for the first feature, but The Premature Burial had been exciting. Not that it was really any good. He agreed with Debby completely, the production was not much better than an old B-movie. But the scenes in the casket, the look on Mil-land’s face as they shoveled him into the earth, had contained real moments of genius, Peter thought. More important, seeing the images made his own impressions all the more vivid. He took from the scenes what he wanted, automatically and unconsciously filtering out the rest. The experience had been thrilling from beginning to end. And her presence there beside him … that, too, had been thrilling, though he didn’t know if he could tell her any of this.
They found themselves on the corner of 86th and Lexington, staring through the hazy, drizzling rain at the traffic lights and the pink marquee of the shop across the street.
“Well,” Peter said, “I’m famished. How about you? Would you like to get something to eat?”
“Yes,” she said, “I would. I’m hungry too.”
They crossed the street and Peter started to go in the coffee shop but suddenly changed his mind. He knew a little French place on Third Avenue. He hadn’t ever been there, but he had heard Dr. Beauregard talking about it one day. It was a crazy impulse, not like him at all. Ordinarily he paid very little attention to food, but tonight was different.
“Look,” he said suddenly. “Let’s get a cab. I know a much better place.”
“Sure, Peter,” she said happily.
He stepped out into the street to hail the Checker, and she took his arm.
The place was called Ça Va, and they found themselves a table in the back, beneath some hanging blue flowers. She smiled and took off her coat.
They ordered quiche and white wine, and Peter found himself talking. It happened suddenly. Right in the midst of his wondering if he could talk, he simply began, and he found that she was listening, really listening. The impact of this was too much for him, and he talked on.
“You know,” he said, “it wasn’t really bad. I mean they tried hard to capture the whole ambience. You were right, I did enjoy the sets and the costumes. They had things right. And that scene where he was buried, that was well done. It was fun for me.”
“See,” she said, “life isn’t all chemicals and gases and dying patients.”
Peter went on as if he hadn’t heard her.
“But they missed the point with Poe, you know. I’ve never seen a production that really got the point at all.”
“What is the point?” she said. “I thought it was simply to scare the hell out of you.”
“Do you really think so?” Peter said.
Debby was aware of him staring at her. There was such intensity in his eyes, and a glittering intelligence. But more than that she saw something else—a hunger which ran so deep that it frightened her, and turned her on. She knew he wanted her, but at the same time he seemed to be pulling away by challenging her.
“Maybe there is more there,” she said, running her hand through her hair and smiling at him.
He smiled back.
Now he seemed positively
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