Heart Troubles (16 page)

She was twenty-nine, but could have passed, perhaps, for twenty-three or twenty-four. That is, she hoped so. She was slender, and her skin was very smooth. She was evenly and flawlessly tanned from two weeks of lying, first on her stomach, then on her back, in the Las Vegas sun. Her hair was light brown but the sun, aided by a chemical preparation, had bleached it to a reddish-streaked blonde. A stickler for perfection of detail in women's faces might have found her nose a little too small and her mouth a little too wide, but would have quarreled with little else. She knew how to use her face, how to compose it in a brooding, sulky look. Her mouth seemed to pout as she smoked. Her face had a finality, a definiteness that made men turn to look at her.

“Been here long?” the young man asked her.

“Two weeks,” she said, not looking at him.

“For the usual reason?”

She looked at him now. “What usual reason?”

“For a divorce?”

She gave him her inviting-rebuking look again. “My, aren't we curious!” she said. She looked at him a moment longer, then looked away. It was not the perfect reply, she knew. What had been called for was some witty, some offhand and less mocking remark. But people frequently caught her off guard. Something was said that called for an amusing or sophisticated reply, and inevitably the thing she chose to say emerged sounding not amusing, but silly. Not sophisticated, but surly. She tried to make it a point to answer such remarks only with silence, but often she forgot. The trouble was—and she was aware of this just as she was aware of everything else about herself—that she was not clever or even particularly bright. It was the single flaw in an otherwise perfectly concocted human being. Being reminded of this made her expression even more petulant, and she started wishing that the young man would go away, handsome though he definitely was. Rising and falling moods were another problem. Trying to make her voice sound gay, she said, “Where are you from?”

“Nowhere in particular,” he said.

“Nowhere? You must be from somewhere.”

“Well, I'm from L.A. And I'm from here, too. Lots of places.”

“Do you work here at the hotel?”

“No,” the young man answered.

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I come here to swim.”

She smiled. “Why here?”

“More pretty girls lie on this terrace than any other,” he said.

There it was again: a remark that called for a bright, or at least an adroit, reply. And once again her mind was empty, like a television screen gone suddenly dead with no images or words. And while she groped, mentally, for dials that would produce sounds and meanings, the light, or whatever it was, in her head receded and drew in until it was only the smallest, almost invisible, white dot. She looked up at the sun, and then, walking toward her along the edge of the pool, threading his way between seated, reclining, and standing figures, she saw her salvation coming: Mr. Whatsisname, the man she had met the night before.

“Well, hello!” she said.

The man stopped and looked down at her. His expression was puzzled, almost startled. Then, recognizing her, he smiled. “Hi,” he said. “How're you today?” His voice had a pleasant drawl.

“Just wonderful!”

“It's—ah—Lydia, isn't it?”

“That's right. How cute of you to remember!”

“How could I forget?” he said, smiling.

“Well,” she said, “I've got a confession to make. I've forgotten your name.”

“Sid Thurman.”

“Oh, of course!” She paused. Then she said, “How are you feeling today?”

“Pretty good, pretty good,” he said. “All things considered.”

The girl laughed. “Well, we both certainly were
not
having our lucky day, were we? I haven't
dared
figure out how much I lost!”

“No more roulette for me,” he said. “Craps. That's safer.” He stood over her for a moment, smiling down. “Well,” he said finally, “perhaps I'll see you again. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” she said. She lay watching him walk away, toward the far end of the pool, a graying, heavy-set man in blue shantung trousers and a vivid orange sports shirt.

The blond young man, who had been lying with his face buried in a well created by his arms, as if asleep, looked up now. “Well, well,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘well, well'?” she asked.

“Sid Thurman.”

“Well? Who's he?”

“Are you kidding?”

She looked at him. “No, who is he?”

“Just one of the richest men in Las Vegas.”

The girl appeared suddenly interested. “Is that so?” she asked. “Really?”

“Sure. He's got oil wells pumping all over Fort Worth.”

“
Really?
What's he doing here?”

“He lives here part of the time. Not here at this hotel, but he's got a house down the road. Spends a couple of months here every year.”

“Well, for heaven's sake.” The girl sat up suddenly and tucked her legs underneath her, tailor-fashion. “He never gave the impression—you know—of being wealthy. Of course he did lose a lot of money at roulette. I was with him last night. Not
with
him, really, but—you know—we were sort of standing together, in the casino. He lost—oh, I don't know how much. Maybe three hundred dollars.” She laughed. “I should have guessed it. When he lost that much money, I mean, he didn't seem to care. Just sort of laughed it off!” She laughed again, tossing her head back. “Well, well! Isn't that interesting? I thought he was awfully nice. He bought me five stingers. Ooooh, what a head I had this morning!”

The young man looked up at her and grinned broadly. “Five stingers,” he said. “That's a lot.”

“I hardly ever, barely drink,” the girl said. “I'm just not used to it.”

“Ah,” he said, “I bet you're used to it.”

“I'm not,” she said sharply, her face turning to a pout. “No, I'm not used to it.” She looked away from him once more. From this seated position she could see farther. She could see across the pool, over the tops of pink and white umbrellas, over the red-tiled roof of the low, sprawling hotel, to a single, fat, absolutely motionless palm tree that seemed to shimmer, almost to steam, in the hot, still desert air. Studying its leaden, drooping green leaves, she felt her own spirits sink leadenly also, her morale drooping like the leaves. She remembered her hangover this morning, traces of which still persisted; she remembered the arduous, elaborate steps it had taken for her to rise from the bed, to open her eyes before the mirror. She had taken the B-l capsules, but they hadn't seemed to help. Recovering from a hangover was getting to be more of a job. It required first those shaky, painful steps toward the bathroom; then acknowledging her face in the mirror, greeting it, as it were, to assure herself that the face, the girl, was still there. Then it took a long shower, first hot, then cold. Then room service for coffee, then aspirin, then more coffee. And then, though it tasted wretched, a cigarette. Then dressing, then fixing hair, face, putting on lipstick. Then a trip to the pool, a brief, cold immersion in the water and an hour in the sun. Then, finally, normality returned, and confidence, which was always helped by the arrival of a slim, handsome, blond young man, standing there holding his yellow towel and saying, “Can I spread out here?” In the two weeks she had been at Las Vegas, the mornings had been getting worse, not better. She didn't understand it. She had always, or so she thought, been able to hold her liquor, to drink with the best of them. But something had changed. Perhaps she was drinking more, or perhaps it was the boredom, the emptiness and bleakness of each day as it dawned, stretching dismally ahead of her. Like a prisoner, she had begun to tick off the days until she could go, until she would have her divorce. Until she would be free. Even the word “free” was beginning to lose its meaning for her. Free of what? Free of Tom. But even Tom was hard for her to think of now, and so being free of him—free of someone who already seemed to have vanished to have diminished like the receding image on the television screen—seemed meaningless. They had been married for four and a half years. “I guess we both just had the four-and-a-half year itch,” she had said to friends laughingly. The words, their marriage, the four and a half quarrelsome, confused years—nothing, actually, seemed to have any pertinence to her as she sat beside the pool. And she felt herself sinking into a great, deep chasm of despair. “What time is it?” she asked.

The young man looked at his watch. “Eleven-ten,” he said.

“I'd better go,” she said. She began picking up her things.

“Perhaps I'll see you around,” the young man said.

“Maybe.” She gathered her things and stood up. “Good-by,” she said.

“So long, Lydia.”

Walking back toward the hotel she realized that she did not even know his name.

She stopped at the desk. “Are there any messages for me?” she asked.

The room clerk consulted the row of mailboxes. “No, Mrs. Emerson,” he said. And then he said, “Oh, yes—I forgot. Mrs. Morris says she can see you at eleven-thirty.”

“Oh,” Lydia said. “Thank you.” She walked down the hall to her room and let herself in with the key. The room was dark, with the slats on the Venetian blinds tilted upward. She turned on the overhead light. She had forgotten, too, about the plans she had made yesterday morning, about seeing Mrs. Morris. And remembering this made her remember the diminishing sheaf of traveler's checks folded in the pocket of her suitcase. She knew how many checks were left; she would not count them again. If she did, she would only feel bluer. She stood, irresolute, in the middle of the room. Then she went to her closet, opened the door, and studied what she saw there. She decided on a simple, yellow cotton sundress, which she could wear with the yellow shoes.

By eleven-thirty she was dressed and ready. She left the room and walked back down the corridor to the door marked
MANAGER
. She knocked on it.

“Come in,” a woman's voice called.

Lydia opened the door. “Mrs. Morris?” she asked politely.

“That's right.”

“I'm Mrs. Emerson.”

“Come on in.” The other woman stood up. Mrs. Morris was a large woman, perhaps forty-five, with silver-blonde hair that was arranged carefully all around her head like soft wax. She was wearing black slacks and a bright red silk blouse. Silver bracelets dangled heavily from both her wrists and she was smoking a crimson-tipped cigarette. “Sit down, honey,” Mrs. Morris said.

Lydia sat down gingerly on the chair in front of the desk.

“What can I do for you?” the other woman asked.

Lydia cleared her throat politely. “Well,” she began, “I'm sort of at loose ends here—getting my divorce and all. And I thought—well, I thought I really have nothing to do with myself all day—and I thought just
possibly
there might be something I could do here at the hotel.”

The other woman stared at her. “In other words,” she said, “you're looking for a job.”

“Well—yes,” Lydia said.

“What can you do?”

“Well—” Lydia began.

“Never mind,” the other woman said, interrupting her with a wave of her hand. “I know. You can type. You can be a receptionist. Look,” she said, “I don't need typists, I don't need receptionists.”

“Well—” Lydia tried to speak again.

“Listen, honey,” the other woman said, “level with me. What's happened? Are you broke? Can't you pay your bill?”

Lydia sat up straight. “It's not that—”

“What's the matter with junior? Your husband? Won't he send you any dough?”

“Now just a minute,” Lydia said. “You don't seem to understand—”

“Just a minute yourself!” the other woman said. “Listen to me, honey. There's a million like you. They come in here every day. So don't give me that sweet and innocent ‘I-thought-I-could-help-out' stuff!”

Lydia stood up abruptly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“Sit down!” the woman bellowed.

Lydia felt the tears coming. “No!” she said. “I won't be spoken to that way! I'm a guest here and—”

“Sit down.” And suddenly the other woman's voice became sugary and cajoling. “Look, honey,” she said, “I didn't say we couldn't talk, did I?”

“Obviously you have nothing for me,” Lydia said.

“I said,” the other woman said slowly, “that I didn't need typists and I didn't need receptionists. That's all I said, honey, so don't go flying off the handle.”

“Well, what do you need?”

Mrs. Morris turned in her swivel chair and looked at the opposite wall. “I saw you with Sid Thurman last night.”

“Yes, I was with him—” Lydia said.

“Look,” the other woman said, “you're better-looking than most. You've got a little class. Thurman seemed to think you were okay. I could use you—” and she punctuated the sentence with a long pull on her cigarette—“I could use you in the casino. As a hostess. Six nights a week. A hundred dollars a week.”

“That's not what I had in mind,” Lydia said.

The woman turned sharply on her. “Sure it's not!” she said savagely. “But it's all you're going to get from me! So think it over. Let me know.”

“I—” Lydia began. But she couldn't finish. She turned and ran out of the office and down the corridor to her room. She let herself in, then locked the door from the inside. She turned, striking her thigh hard on the protruding metal arm of a chair, and threw herself across the bed, sobbing—sobbing both from the pain of the bruise and from humiliation.

At twelve-thirty she was still lying on the bed, still softly sobbing. Then she stopped sobbing and didn't move.