Woman (2 page)

     
"That
isn't true"
he interrupted firmly. "The
therapist I'm going to recommend is highly qualified. She's been in practice —
"

     "A
woman?
"she said; she sounded
repulsed.
"That wouldn't work."

     
"Ganine
—
"

     "I don't
want
her! I want
you!"
She sounded like a petulant
child now.

     
"I
don't have a practice any longer,"
he said,
"You must understand—"

     "
I don't know who I am anymore,"
she
said as though he hadn't spoken. "I look at my face in the mirror and I
can't—"

     She broke off, glancing to
the side as footsteps approached in the corridor. In a few moments, Liz Harper
appeared, carrying tied together bakery boxes and her purse. She gave Ganine a
look of cold curiosity as she brushed by her and entered the apartment. David
stepped aside to let her pass. "Hi," he murmured.

     "We don't have much
time, David," she told him.

     "I know," he
nodded. "Miss Woodbury was — "

     He broke off as Liz headed
for the kitchen where she put the bakery boxes and purse on the table and
turned on the oven.

     "Look, Ganine,"
David said. "I really can't talk to you now." He started to turn.
"Let me get you the name of a—"

     
"Can
I see you tomorrow?"
she interrupted.

     He turned back, struggling
to sound patient; she was clearly very disturbed. "I can't help you
personally," he told her. "All I can do is recommend—"

     Again, she interrupted.
"But you help so
many
people,"
she said in a pained voice.

     "On the
radio,
Ganine," he said.
"Not—"

     "David,
there isn't much time."
Liz's voice
was curt.

     "All right," he
answered. "I'll put the name and telephone number of this therapist in
your mailbox tomorrow morning," he told Ganine.

     Her voice was trembling now.
"Please help me, Doctor Harper,"
she pleaded.

     "Ganine, I'm not
unsympathetic." he said, "I simply can't—"

     He stopped, hearing the
rapid click of Liz's high heels as she crossed the living room floor. Looking
around, he saw how rigid her expression was.

     She pushed by David.
"I'm sorry but my husband can't talk to you right now," she told
Ganine, "you'll have to excuse us."

     David winced as she closed
the door in Ganine's face, then turned back toward the kitchen, gesturing as
though to tell him:
See how simple it is.

     "She was terribly
disturbed, Liz." There was an edge of disapproval in his voice.

     "Aren't we all,"
she said coldly. "Are you sure we have enough ice?"

     David looked at her,
frowning.

     "Well,
do
we?" she demanded.

     "Yes, Liz,
yes."

     Ignoring the bite in his
tone, Liz started toward the bedroom. "I'm going to take a shower and get
dressed for tonight," she told him. "Will you make sure to put that
tray of hors d'ouvres in the oven when it's hot enough. Not the microwave, the
oven,"
she added.

     He nodded, "I
will."

     
"Thank
you," she said, moving toward the bedroom. Abruptly, she
turned and moved to the bar. Returning to the kitchen, David stopped to watch
her opening the door under the bar and taking out a bottle of white wine and a
bottle of Vodka. "I hope to hell we have enough," she said.

     "We're not going to be
here that
long,
Liz," he
answered. "And we'll probably be doing our heavy drinking at the
banquet."

     "We're still going to
need—O
h
!"She had
stopped moving suddenly, pressing her right hand against her forehead.

     "What's wrong?" he
asked. He moved toward her in concern.

     "My
head,"
she said, teeth clenching in
a pained grimace.

     "A headache?" he
asked.

     "What else?" she
said tensely. She hissed, eyes closing.

     "It just hit you?"
he asked sympathetically.

     "Yes, David,
yes.
It just hit me. No, that's not
exactly right. It's been threatening all day." She pressed both hands to
her head. "God
damn
it!
On today of all days."

     "Maybe it'll let up if
you take a pain pill," David suggested. "You have some, don't
you?"

     
"Oh.
. .shit"
she said, infuriated.

     Taking down her hands, she
started toward the bedroom again, her expression taut and angry.

     "Maybe you
should—" he began.

     
"Cancel,
sure. That's a
great
idea." she snapped.

     "I was going to say
maybe you should lie down for a while—"

     "There isn't
time
David," she told him in a tense
voice, "Just get those goddamn appetizers in the oven," she added as
she walked into the bedroom.

     "Right." he said.

     He stood in the living room
without moving. Perfect timing, he thought. Well, it was not that much of a
surprise. Liz's headaches had been more and more frequent since she'd become
the producer of
Country Boy.
Stress, he thought. The number one cause of headaches in the world? Most
likely. Maybe the cause of most ailments in modern society. And Liz was a woman
in a man's world. The age-old problem. Where was thatLincoln ? Somewhere in the
wings, he hoped. Or else there'd be a lot more headaches for a lot more women
for a lot more time.

He started into the bedroom to take his tuxedo out of its
garment bag. He assumed it would still fit. It had been a long time since he'd
worn it.

5:59  P.M.

David came outof the bedroom, wearing his tuxedo trousers,
his white, studded shirt and bow tie, black socks and patent leather shoes. He
carried his jacket which he hung in the entry closet. He'd put it on later.

     He turned on all the lamps
and glanced around the living room. Neat enough, he told himself. Liz wouldn't
think so but then she never did. She kept saying they should move to a more
spacious apartment. Especially, now, considering her position as the producer
of a top-ranked sitcom at NBC.

     "You'd better make sure
those appetizers come out all right," he heard her calling from the
dressing room. Where she is doubtless working toward perfecting her
award-winning appearance, he thought with a smile. "I will," he
called back.

     "They may need another
few minutes in the oven."

     "Why didn't we just
microwave them?" he asked. "A lot simpler than—"

     
"They
come out better in the oven,"
she cut him off.

     "Yes, ma'am," he
muttered.

     "Did you
hear
me?" she asked, her tone
aggravated.

     "I heard," he
answered.

     "Then
answer."

     "Yes' ma'am, lady
producer," he said.

     "Ha. Ha," she
said. "Make sure the ice bucket is full."

     He nodded.
"Right."
The ice bucket was
full. "Ice is fine!" he called.

     "Good." she said.

     "How's your
headache?" he asked, heading for the kitchen.

     "Not a hell of a lot
better." Her voice was tight.

     "I'm sorry," he
said.

     "So am I," she
answered.

     "Did you take a
Darvocet?"

     "Half of one," she
told him. "I can hardly afford to fall asleep at the show."

     "No," he muttered.

     
"What?"
she asked.

     "I said, no, you can't
afford to fall asleep at the show."

     "That's all I'd
need," she said.

     He went into the kitchen and
opened the oven door. The heat was on the warm setting. Reaching into the oven
he picked up one of the crab-stuffed cakes and put it in his mouth, making
puffing noises at the heat of it. He chewed it then. Good, he thought.

     "They're
fine!"
he called.

     "Well, take them out of
the oven then!" she said impatiently.

     God, I hope you win the
goddamn Emmy tonight, he thought. It's going to be a miserable weekend if you
don't.

     He put on an oven mitt and
lifted out the pan of hors d'ouvres, setting them on the counter.

     He was starting to transfer
them to a serving platter when the doorbell rang.

     
"Oh,
yeah," Liz said in the dressing room, "You can bet your
life that's Charlie. Always the first. What time is it?"

     "A few minutes past
six," he answered. "You want me to let him in?"

     "Unless you want
me
to let him in wearing my brassiere and
panties."

     "I'm sure he wouldn't
mind," he said to himself.