Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (214 page)

Mrs.
Andrews
stood
up
too
and
put
her
hand
on
her
husband's shoulder.
"I
think
you
should
stay
out
of
this,
Harry,"
she
said.
"It wasn't
any
business
of
yours,
anyway,
and
it
happened
so
long
ago."

"I'm
not
getting
into
anything,"
said
Andrews,
his
voice
rising
to
a shout.
"It's
getting
into
me.
Can't
you
see
that?"

"I
see
that
I've
got
to
get
you
away
from
here,"
she
said.
"Maybe
if you
slept
someplace
else
for
a
few
nights,
you
wouldn't
dream
about him
any
more.
Let's
go
to
the
country
tomorrow.
Let's
go
to
the
Lime Rock
Lodge."

Andrews
stood
for
a
long
while
without
answering
her.
"Why
can't we
go
and
visit
the
Crowleys?"
he
said
finally.
"They
live
in
the
country.
Bob
has
a
pistol
and
we
could
do
a
little
target-shooting."

"What
do
you
want
to
shoot
a
pistol
for?"
she
asked
quickly.
"I should
think
you'd
want
to
get
away
from
that."

"Yeh,"
he
said,
"sure,"
and
there
was
a
far-off
look
in
his
eyes. "Sure."

When
they
drove
into
the
driveway
of
the
Crowleys'
house,
several miles
north
of
New
Milford,
late
the
next
afternoon,
Andrews
was whistling
"Bye-Bye,
Blackbird."
Mrs.
Andrews
sighed
contentedly
and then,
as
her
husband
stopped
the
car,
she
began
looking
around wildly.
"My
bag!"
she
cried.
"Did
I
forget
to
bring
my
bag?"
He laughed
his
old,
normal
laugh
for
the
first
time
in
many
days
as
he found
the
bag
and
handed
it
to
her,
and
then,
for
the
first
time
in many
days,
he
leaned
over
and
kissed
her.

The
Crowleys
came
out
of
the
house
and
engulfed
their
guests
in questions
and
exclamations.
"How
you
been?"
said
Bob
Crowley
to Andrews,
heartily
putting
an
arm
around
his
shoulder.

"Never
better,"
said
Andrews,
"never
better.
Boy,
is
it
good
to
be here!"

They
were
swept
into
the
house
to
a
shakerful
of
Bob
Crowley's
icy Martinis.
Mrs.
Andrews
stole
a
happy
glance
over
the
edge
of
her
glass at
her
husband's
relaxed
face.

When
Mrs.
Andrews
awoke
the
next
morning,
her
husband
lay rigidly
on
his
back
in
the
bed
next
to
hers,
staring
at
the
ceiling.
"Oh, God,"
said
Mrs.
Andrews.

Andrews
didn't
move
his
head.
"One
Henry
Andrews,
an
architect,"
he
said
suddenly
in
a
mocking
tone.
"One
Henry
Andrews,
an architect."

"What's
the
matter,
Harry?"
she
asked.
"Why
don't
you
go
back
to sleep?
It's
only
eight
o'clock."

"That's
what
he
calls
me!"
shouted
Andrews.
"
'One
Henry
Andrews,
an
architect,'
he
keeps
saying
in
his
nasty
little
sneering
voice. 'One
Henry
Andrews,
an
architect.'
"

"Please
don't
yell!"
said
Mrs.
Andrews.
"You'll
wake
the
whole house.
It's
early.
People
want
to
sleep."