Some Came Running (98 page)

Still, she wished he had trusted her enough to know she would not throw a tantrum, and in another mood than the one she knew now it would have angered her that he hadn’t. But for the past three or four months, Agnes had been steadily acquiring a warmth for her husband that she could not remember having had since they were first married. And now on top of all that other warmth, there had suddenly come this. He had returned from Springfield this trip without having had a woman. She could only think of it as a sort of inevitable, foreordained culminating point. She had always known it would happen. Someday. And it filled her with such a suddenly shy, brimming affection for him that she was doubly glad now she had never mentioned the mortgages, had shown her faith in him by letting him work it out himself.

When she had first broken him off from Geneve Lowe last year, she had known beforehand it was going to take him a long time to get over it. It always had before. So she had been prepared. He had hardly spoken a word to her for over two months, but she had accepted it without a word. She had even suffered for him, and what he was going through. Then, as he began very slowly to come around and she had seen no signs of any new alliance forming, hope had begun to grow in her. Maybe this time was the one.

It was that fear of another affair, more than anything else, which had worried her about his trips to Springfield. The last four or five times he had been up there, he had had some woman or other. She was sure of that. What had worried her was that it might be the same woman every time. She had even been almost willing to accept that; at least, it would not be some woman she knew and saw almost every day, some woman here in Parkman who could lord it over her. And then, when she had been about ready to accept it, here he was home again without having had a girlfriend this time! Was it any wonder she felt warm and good toward him?

Obviously, it couldn’t have been the same woman in Springfield all the time, but different women; either that or else he had broken it off all by himself.

Agnes did not really care if he had an occasional stray woman when he was out of town. Or rather, she knew enough to know there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Of course, it cost him; it always cost him; just as it always cost every man; you just couldn’t feel as warm toward a man when you knew he was having other women, too; and if you could, you didn’t let yourself. But all men picked up floozies. That was just the way men were. The husbands of all her friends were the same way. Not one was actually faithful to his wife. So she was willing—even at a considerable expense in pride—to accept this.

And yet here, just as she was ready to accept it, here he was home all by his little self without having had the woman—a woman—this time.

A long-held, growing love in her for him swelled at the thought. At last, he was growing into an adult. At last, he was learning that sex wasn’t really very important at all. At last, she had managed to teach him. And maybe, as he matured, he was learning where real love lay. She had always hoped he would.

She didn’t feel triumphant at all; she felt very humble. There was so much love for him in her that it exuded out of her, as if there weren’t room to contain it all. Maybe that body was getting thick, and maybe that heart was getting old, and maybe she wasn’t a pert young thing anymore. Like Geneve Lowe. Having a baby hardly helped, and you couldn’t be like them—like Geneve—and have Dawnie, too, she thought, and it was a good bargain. But you didn’t live and worry and sweat with a particular man for all those years without there being a tie between you that other people didn’t have. And you didn’t have that kind of love for him unless you
had
shared his life with him. Maybe, at last, he was learning it. And that it was all there for him. If he wanted it.

Almost unable to contain her feelings in silence, Agnes went across the living room to the hall door, where she could see him through the bedroom door where he was still unpacking his bag. Her armpits in the sleeveless summer print damp with sweat in the hot still August air, she leaned against the living room doorjamb and stood looking at her husband. Frank looked up and gave her a wan smile. He looked very tired.

“Would you like for me to help you?” she said. She had been sitting at her secretary looking through Dawn’s copy of
The Kinsey Report,
when she had heard the Buick drive in the driveway. Dawnie had announced it when she bought it two months ago but this was the first time she herself had looked at it. She had been hoping to find out something useful about infidelity and what causes men to do it, but this stuff was all junk; and said nothing about what was right or wrong, or anything else about men that she hadn’t already known; and not only that, acted as though sex were important! She had barely had time to get it in the lock drawer of her secretary before he had come in, carrying his bags, and now she would have to find some way to get it back upstairs before Dawnie got home tonight.

Frank was looking at her a little surprised from beside his bed where he had the bag and briefcase spread out.

“You look so tired,” she said.

Frank continued to stare at her with surprise, still standing half bent over above the bag. “Uh, no,” he said after a moment, and smiled wanly. “I can manage it okay. Thanks, though.”

“You just looked so dog-tired,” Agnes said.

“Well, I—” he began and stared at her strangely. “Well, if you really want to.”

“Of course, I do,” Agnes said, her voice threatening to quaver, and came on in. “You just sit down there on the other bed.”

“Well,” Frank said, “all right,” and did as he was told. “A bunch of us fellows went out last night, you know?” he said, as she went about putting the rest of his things away, “and did a lot of drinkin. You know how those parties are. Once they get started, you can’t hardly stop ’em.” He sighed tiredly.

“I certainly do know,” Agnes said. She finished with the bag and put it on the floor of the closet. “I won’t try to do anything with your briefcase,” she said, “I don’t know where anything in it goes.”

“There’s nothing in there comes out except those two dirty shirts,” Frank said, and she took them out, “all the rest of it goes back down to the office. And then this morning when I got up, I felt so rotten and was late for an appointment anyway, so I didn’t even try to get any breakfast. And then when we got the work all done around eleven, I was so anxious to get home, I didn’t even stop for lunch. I haven’t had a thing to eat all day.”

“You mean nothing!” Agnes exclaimed.

“Not a damn thing,” Frank said.

“But you ought to eat!” she said. “Would you like for me to cook you a steak?”

Once again, he looked a little surprised. “Well, sure. In fact, I’d love it. If you feel up to it?”

“Of course, I do,” she said, and then smiled, allowing a little of the tremendous warmth she had suppressed to seep out. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Someday he would know, would really realize, she thought. But maybe he did already? She smiled again.

From the bed, he looked up at her for a moment—unbelievingly and insecure and embarrassed, she thought with amusement, such children they were—and then immediately he got blankfaced. “Okay. Fine,” he said in his Rotary Club voice. “But I got some news for you first. Good news.”

“Come on out in the kitchen and tell it to me while I fix the food,” she said.

“No, let me tell you first. Then we’ll have a sort of a little celebration party.”

“All right,” she said and sat down on the other bed, his bed, and listened with a growing astonishment and admiration, while he told her the whole story of the bypass deal. Agnes had known it must be a pretty fair-sized deal, but she had had no idea it was of this magnitude; and she had never once thought of it being the highway bypass. Neither had anyone else apparently. Nobody had seen the possibilities in it. Except Frank. Her husband. She had done right after all to stay by him all these years, she thought excitedly. Why, they were going to make more money than they could even use, more money than any family in Parkman except the Wernzes and the Scotts, and as he told it she could already see where someday it would become a legend in Parkman.

When he came to the part about the mortgages of the house and the store, Frank hesitated almost guiltily, before he told her.

“It’s all right,” she smiled at him. “I’ve known about them all along.”

It was Frank’s turn to be astonished. She enjoyed his surprise complacently.

“You have?”

“Ever since you first got them,” she said.

“And all the rest of it? The whole deal?”

“Oh no! Just the mortgages. Not the bypass. I never would have guessed that!” she said.

“And you never said anything about it and didn’t get mad?”

“Why should I have? I trusted you. I figured you knew what you were doing. I would have done the same thing, if I had been you.”

“You would?” Frank said. “Our home? Well. But how did you know about it?”

Agnes shrugged and smiled. She could not remember ever having loved him quite so much. “Oh, I just figured it out. Wives always know things about their husbands, I guess.”

“Well, you know they’re both canceled now, don’t you?” Frank said. “I didn’t have them long. Clark’s father-in-law gave them back to me—for an interest, of course.”

“I was never worried,” Agnes smiled. “And now, if you’re all through telling me about it,” she smiled, “what do you say I get you out to the kitchen and feed you that steak? Before you faint.”

“Sure,” he said, staring at her strangely, “I’d love that steak.” He got up off the bed. “Maybe we can have ourselves our own little private party. And have a couple drinks and a good meal. And talk?” he said, making it almost a question. “And just. Sort of. Generally celebrate.”

“Fine!” she smiled, unleashing even more of the warmth in her than she had released before. “I’d love to have a drink or two. Do you realize we stand to make more money out of what you’ve just accomplished than we’ve ever even thought of having? We ought to celebrate!” she said gaily. Such a child.

“I know,” Frank said. “But somehow I always knew we’d do it. Uh, but what about Dawnie?” he said suddenly. “Won’t she be home soon? It’s almost five.”

“What would that matter?” Agnes could not resist saying. “But as a matter of fact, Dawn won’t be home all evening. She and Wally Dennis have gone to Terre Haute swimming and to see a show.”

“Oh,” Frank said. “Well.” He still looked unsure.

“And so we can have the whole house to ourselves,” Agnes said. “And I’ll cook you the best steak you ever had.”

“Well, I could sure eat a steak,” he said.

“I’ll pick you out the biggest one of the lot,” Agnes smiled at him. “And cook it just exactly like you like it.”

“Well, a good steak would sure fix me up,” he said.

They were both standing now, between the beds.

“They’re the best steaks I’ve bought in I can’t remember when,” Agnes smiled.

“I love steaks,” Frank said, almost desperately.

For a moment, she wondered how much longer it could keep going on. She had said just about everything about the steaks that she could think of. Of course, it had been quite a while. Almost two years. But my God! you’d think he’d know! she thought while still continuing to smile gaily.

But just then, as she was irritably about half ready to go on out to the kitchen, Frank uttered a strangled, desperate cry that sounded like “Oh, Agnes!” and took hold of her upper arms and then went on, as she did not pull away, and put his arms around her. And there was real desperation in his grasp as he clung to her in silence.

His briefcase was still lying open on his bed, but there wasn’t anything on hers, and she suffered him to pull her down there. Staring at the so-familiar ceiling, she shut her eyes and concentrated on savoring it as he fondled her—enjoying not so much the touch upon her body as his enjoyment of the touch. That was all she ever had enjoyed, really. After a moment, she put her hand up on the back of his neck tenderly and got up from the bed and went to close the venetian blinds and then, in the deepened dimness of the room, she took off her clothes.

From the bed, Frank watched her. A waft of breeze through the open window breathed upon the closed venetian blinds and moved them inward, then let them fall. And still he stared at her. Then he, too, got up and began to take off his clothes and the habit of long years standing took over, moving and controlling both of them, almost without conscious thought.

And lying beside her afterwards, after all the storm-toss and silent noise in his ears, already half asleep and emotionally tattered, Frank could not help thinking what a really ridiculously trivial molehill sex was for everybody to make such a damned big mountain out of. And it was a great relief to him to be able to feel that way, after yesterday. Take the imagination out of it, and the emotion, and what did you have? A very simple thing, really. A simple, commonplace, and comfortable physical act. And that was the way it ought to be, too. You did it, and then you forgot about it. Half-sleeping, he flung his arm out gently and laid it across the bosom of his wife. Maybe she didn’t care much for sex, or even come close to understanding it, like he did; but that was all right, and maybe it was even better. For both of them. What did it matter if he couldn’t give her pleasure. It was funny, he mused, how habit had just sort of taken over. And he was glad it had. He had been so embarrassed and full of guilt he did not think he could have done it on his own. But old habit, it had just took right over. Idly, he wondered how many times he had slept with his wife in all these years? four thousand? five thousand? six thousand? Feeling somehow safe, Frank realized suddenly that this was the first time in a long time—since the last time he had slept with Agnes, in fact—that he had really had that peaceful, comfortable after-sex feeling without a driving restlessness of guilt gnawing at him, too. But why had she suddenly wanted him back today of all days, and after so long? He knew her too well to imagine it was the bypass. Well, whatever it was, he was glad of it. He wasn’t the one who had ever wanted them to be estranged, he thought. Glad they were back together, relaxed, his arm resting on the comforting bosom of his wife and all his former distress of a few minutes ago forgotten, he slept, glad to be back home.