Read Online We All Killed Grandma by Fredric Brown - Free Book Online
Authors: Fredric Brown
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keep it as a backlog. And besides, if I’m going to start a new life for myself—and I am—the sooner I get started, the better.”
“You’re better off than that, Robin. A few hundred in the bank, but over nine thousand coming.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your share of the inheritance from Grandma Tuttle. Half of my share.”
“Rod, are you crazy? We’re divorced. I haven’t any share in that.”
“Why not? Our agreement, you told me, was to split even on what money we had. Grandma Tuttle died, and I became her heir,
before
our divorce, so the inheritance—my share of it—would come under that agreement, wouldn’t it?”
“It would not, definitely. I typed that agreement from Dad’s dictation and I know what it says. It divides our property specifically as of the date thereon and does not apply to anything acquired by either of us thereafter, before or after the divorce. Besides, you haven’t got the money yet. Until the will is probated, you haven’t got it. No, definitely, I haven’t any share in that money. And I don’t want it.”
Her chin was up, her eyes were flashing. Then they softened suddenly and she put her hand on top of mine on the table. She said, “I suppose I should have guessed you’d make a Quixotic offer like that, Rod. You always were a sucker when it came to money.”
“But you’re sure—”
“I’m positive. And I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Her hand left mine, and my hand felt suddenly cold and naked.
“Was that what we quarreled about, Robin? My attitude toward money?”
She frowned a little. “It was a contributory factor. Rod, please quit trying to pin me down on that. It was a lot of little things, not any one big one. We—we just found weweren’t compatible. That’s all there is to it and I don’t want to try to analyze it any further than that. Please.”
I didn’t believe it. But I said, “All right, I’ll quit heckling you about it.” And I caught our waiter on the fly and ordered brandies.
The orchestra was starting an old one, but a good one,
To Each His Own.
I said, “We haven’t danced. Will you dance with me, Robin?”
We weaved our way through the tables to the dance floor. I put my arm about her and we danced. We fitted, her body against mine, and we moved as one. No incompatibility here, in dancing.
Then, suddenly, it was different, and she was away from me. Inches only, but it might as well have been miles. I tried to pull her back, but her rigid body resisted. Our feet moved together in perfect rhythm; we were two people dancing in time to the same music, and that was all.
The number ended; it had been the first of a set but Robin said, “I don’t want to dance any more, Rod. And the waiter just brought our brandies. Shall we go back to the table?”
We went back to the table, and I wished that I dared ask the question that I wanted to ask.
But Robin was already saying, “Rod, we shouldn’t do this again. See one another, I mean. It can’t do any good, and—it can hurt one of us.”
I wondered whether she meant herself or me. But it wasn’t the time to ask questions or to argue. Nor yet to accept her statement so flatly. I said, “Let’s not decide that now. And—all right, I won’t bother you, Robin, but little things are going to come up that I’m going to have to ask you about. I may at least phone you, mayn’t I?”
“What little things?”
“For instance, you said I sent my books to a storage company. Do you know which one?” I knew which one; I’d found a receipt among papers in my apartment, but it seemed a good question to ask, a legitimate one.
She answered it, and it bridged a gap, somehow, that I could ask and she could answer so simple a question. AndI didn’t push any further about seeing her again or even calling her. I’d give her a few days of thinking I wasn’t going to call, and then I’d think of other little questions and the first time I called to
“You’re better off than that, Robin. A few hundred in the bank, but over nine thousand coming.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your share of the inheritance from Grandma Tuttle. Half of my share.”
“Rod, are you crazy? We’re divorced. I haven’t any share in that.”
“Why not? Our agreement, you told me, was to split even on what money we had. Grandma Tuttle died, and I became her heir,
before
our divorce, so the inheritance—my share of it—would come under that agreement, wouldn’t it?”
“It would not, definitely. I typed that agreement from Dad’s dictation and I know what it says. It divides our property specifically as of the date thereon and does not apply to anything acquired by either of us thereafter, before or after the divorce. Besides, you haven’t got the money yet. Until the will is probated, you haven’t got it. No, definitely, I haven’t any share in that money. And I don’t want it.”
Her chin was up, her eyes were flashing. Then they softened suddenly and she put her hand on top of mine on the table. She said, “I suppose I should have guessed you’d make a Quixotic offer like that, Rod. You always were a sucker when it came to money.”
“But you’re sure—”
“I’m positive. And I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Her hand left mine, and my hand felt suddenly cold and naked.
“Was that what we quarreled about, Robin? My attitude toward money?”
She frowned a little. “It was a contributory factor. Rod, please quit trying to pin me down on that. It was a lot of little things, not any one big one. We—we just found weweren’t compatible. That’s all there is to it and I don’t want to try to analyze it any further than that. Please.”
I didn’t believe it. But I said, “All right, I’ll quit heckling you about it.” And I caught our waiter on the fly and ordered brandies.
The orchestra was starting an old one, but a good one,
To Each His Own.
I said, “We haven’t danced. Will you dance with me, Robin?”
We weaved our way through the tables to the dance floor. I put my arm about her and we danced. We fitted, her body against mine, and we moved as one. No incompatibility here, in dancing.
Then, suddenly, it was different, and she was away from me. Inches only, but it might as well have been miles. I tried to pull her back, but her rigid body resisted. Our feet moved together in perfect rhythm; we were two people dancing in time to the same music, and that was all.
The number ended; it had been the first of a set but Robin said, “I don’t want to dance any more, Rod. And the waiter just brought our brandies. Shall we go back to the table?”
We went back to the table, and I wished that I dared ask the question that I wanted to ask.
But Robin was already saying, “Rod, we shouldn’t do this again. See one another, I mean. It can’t do any good, and—it can hurt one of us.”
I wondered whether she meant herself or me. But it wasn’t the time to ask questions or to argue. Nor yet to accept her statement so flatly. I said, “Let’s not decide that now. And—all right, I won’t bother you, Robin, but little things are going to come up that I’m going to have to ask you about. I may at least phone you, mayn’t I?”
“What little things?”
“For instance, you said I sent my books to a storage company. Do you know which one?” I knew which one; I’d found a receipt among papers in my apartment, but it seemed a good question to ask, a legitimate one.
She answered it, and it bridged a gap, somehow, that I could ask and she could answer so simple a question. AndI didn’t push any further about seeing her again or even calling her. I’d give her a few days of thinking I wasn’t going to call, and then I’d think of other little questions and the first time I called to
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