He Who Hesitates

7

He had walked over to her table across the bar, and she had looked up at him briefly and then gone back to her drink. She was drinking something in a small stemmed glass, a whiskey sour or something, he figured. She looked up at him with disinterest, and then turned back to her drink with disinterest, as if she were equally bored with everything and everyone in the world.

"I'm sorry I stole your table," Roger said, and smiled.

"Forget it," she told him.

He stood by the table, waiting for her to ask him to have a seat, but the girl just kept looking at the open top of her glass, where some white foam was clinging to the inside, a kind of empty despair on her face, a sadness that made her look even more plain than she actually was.

"Well," he said, "I just wanted to apologize," and he started to move away from the table, thinking she wasn't interested after all, didn't want him to sit with her. And then, all at once he realized that the girl probably wasn't used to approaches from men, didn't know how to handle ' a man coming to her table and flirting with her. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to the table again, and said, "Mind if I sit down?"

"Suit yourself," the girl said.

"Thanks."

He sat.

The table was silent again.

"I don't know why you bothered asking," the girl said, looking up briefly from her drink.

"I thought you just sat wherever you pleased."

She lowered her eyes. Her hand came out, her fingers began toying with the stem of the cherry in her glass.

"That was really a mistake," he said. "I really didn't know if anyone was sitting there."

"Mmm, yeah, well," the girl said.

"Would you like another drink?"

"Are you having one?"

"Just a beer. I don't care much for hard liquor."

"I don't, either," the girl said. "Unless it's something sweet. Like this."

"What is that, anyway?" Roger asked.

"A whiskey sour."

"That's what I thought it was." He paused. "How come a whiskey sour is sweet?"

"I ask them to go easy on the lemon."

"Oh."

"Yeah," the girl said.

"Well, would you like another one?"

The girl shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

Roger signaled the waiter. When he came to the table, Roger said, "I'll have a glass of beer, and the lady would like another whiskey sour."

"Easy on the lemon," the girl said to Roger, not the waiter.

"Easy on the lemon," Roger said to the waiter.

"Right," the waiter said, and walked away.

"My name's Roger Broome," Roger said to her. "What's yours?"

"Molly Nolan."

"Irish," he said, almost to himself.

"Yes. What's Broom?"

"English, I think. Or Scotch. Or maybe both mixed," Roger said.

"B-R-O-O-M?"

"No, with an E"

"Oh," she said, as though the "E" made a difference. The table was still again.

"You come here often?" Roger asked.

"First time," Molly said.

"Me, too."

"You live in the neighborhood?"

"No," Roger said. "I'm from upstate."

"I'm from Sacramento," Molly said. "California."

"No kidding?"

"That's right," she said, and smiled. She isn't even pretty when she smiles, Roger thought. Her teeth are too long for her mouth and her lower lip has marks on it from her bite.

"You're a long way from home," he said.

"Don't I know it," she answered.

The waiter came to the table with their drinks. They were silent while he put them down. When he walked away, Roger lifted his glass and extended it toward her.

"Well," he said, "here's to strangers in the city."

"Well, I'm not really a stranger," she said. "I've been here a week already." But she drank to his toast anyway.

"What brought you here?" he asked.

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Opportunity."

"Is there?"

"Not so far. I haven't been able to get a job yet."

"What kind of work are you looking for?"

"Secretarial. I went to a business school on the Coast. I take very good shorthand, and I type sixty words a minute."

"You ought to be able to get a job easy," Roger said.

"You think so?" she asked.

"Sure."

"I'm not very pretty," she said flatly.

"What?"

"I'm not very pretty," she said again. She was staring at the fresh whiskey sour, her fingers toying again with the cherry. "Men want their secretaries to be pretty." She shrugged. "That's what I've found, anyway."

"I don't see what difference it makes," Roger said.

"It makes a lot of difference."

"Well, I guess it depends on how you look at it. I don't have a secretary, but I certainly wouldn't mind hiring someone who looked like you. There's nothing wrong with your looks, Molly."

"Well, thanks," she said, and laughed in embarrassment, without really believing him.

"How'd your folks feel about you coming all the way East?" he asked.

"I don't have any folks."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"They both died when I was nineteen. My father died of cancer, and then my mother died six months afterwards. Everybody says it was of a broken heart. Do you think people can die of a broken heart?"

"I don't know," Roger said. "I suppose it's possible."

"Maybe," Molly said, and shrugged. "Anyway, I'm all alone in the world."

"You must have relatives," Roger said.

"I think my mother had a brother in Arizona, but he doesn't even know I exist."

"How come?"

"Oh, my father had an argument with him long before I was born, about a deed or something he said belonged to my mother, I don't know, something to do with land in Arizona. Anyway, my uncle hauled my father into court, and it was a big mess, and my father lost, and everybody stopped speaking to each other right then and there. I don't even know his name. My uncle's, I mean. He doesn't know mine, either."

"That's a shame," Roger said.

"Who cares? I mean, who needs relatives?"

"Well, it's nice to have a family."

"Mmm, yeah, well," Molly said.

They were silent. Roger sipped at his beer.

"Yep, I've been all alone since I was nineteen," Molly said.

"How old are you now?" he asked.

"Thirty-three," she answered unflinchingly. "Decided it was time for a change, figured I'd come East and look around for a better job. So far, I haven't found a goddamn thing."

"You'll find something," Roger assured her.

"I hope so. I'm running out of money. I was staying downtown when I got here last week, but it was costing me twenty dollars a day, so I moved a little further uptown last Friday, and even that was costing me twelve dollars a day. So yesterday I moved to a real dive, but at least I'll be able to hold out a little longer, you know? This city can kill you if you don't watch out. I mean, I left California with two hundred and fifty dollars and a suitcase full of clothes, and that was it. I figured I'd be able to land something pretty quick, but so far…" She shrugged. "Well, maybe tomorrow."

"Where'd you say you were staying?" Roger asked.

"The Orquidea, that's a hotel on Ainsley. There's a lot of Spanish people there, but who the hell cares, it's very inexpensive."

"How much are you paying?" Roger asked.

"Seven dollars a night. That's very inexpensive."

"It certainly is."

"It's a nice room, too. I always judge a hotel by how fast they are on room service, and whether or not they get your phone messages right. Not that I've gotten any phone messages since I checked in - after all, it was only yesterday - but I did order a sandwich and a glass of milk from room service last night, and they brought it right up. The service was really very good."

"That's important," Roger said. "Good service."

"Oh, sure it is," Molly said. She paused and then asked, "Where are you staying?"

"Oh, in a furnished room on… uh… South Twelfth, I guess it is."

"Is it nice?"

"No, no, it's pretty crumby. But it's only for a few nights. And I didn't want to spend too much money."

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"Tomorrow, I guess. Tomorrow morning."

"Mmm," she said, and smiled weakly.

"Yep, tomorrow morning," he repeated.

"Mmm."

"How's your drink?" he asked.

"Fine, thank you."

"Not too sour, is it?"

"No, it's just right." She smiled again, lifted her glass, and sipped at it. A little foam clung to her lip, and she licked it away. "Do you like this city?" she asked.

"I don't know it too good," he said.

"Neither do I." She paused. "I don't know a soul here."

"Neither do I," he said.

"Neither do I," she said, and then realized she was repeating herself, and laughed. "I must sound like a poor little orphan child, huh? No parents, no relatives, no friends. Wow."

"Well, I'm sure you have friends back in… what was it… Sacramento?"

"Yeah, Sacramento. I had a very good friend there, Doris Pizer is her name, she's Jewish. A very nice girl, though. In fact, one of the reasons I came here was because of Doris. She went to Hawaii."

"Oh, yeah? Is that right?"

"Mmm," Molly said, nodding. She lifted her drink again, took a quick sip at it, put it down, and then said, "She left last month. She wanted me to go with her, but I'll tell you the truth, heat has never really appealed to me. I went down to Palm Springs once for a weekend, and I swear to God I almost dropped dead from the heat."

"Is it very hot in Hawaii?"

"Oh, sure it is." Molly nodded. "She got a job with one of the big pineapple companies. Dole, I think, who knows?" She shrugged. "I could have got a job there, too, but the heat, no thanks." She shook her head. "I figured I'd be better off here. It gets cold as hell here in the winter, I know, but anything's better than the heat. Besides, this is a pretty exciting city. Don't you think so?"

"Yes."

"It's a pretty exciting city," Molly said.

"Yes."

"You never know what's going to happen here, that's the feeling I get. I mean, who knew I was going to meet you tonight, for example? Did you know?"

"No, I didn't."

"Neither did I. That's what I mean. This is a very exciting city."

"Yes."

"So, you know," she said, picking up her drink and draining the glass this time, "when Doris left I really didn't have anything to keep me there any longer. In Sacramento, I mean. It's a nice place, and all that, but it takes me a while to make friends, and with Doris gone, I figured this was as good a time as any for me to pick up and explore the country a little myself, you know? What the hell, this is a big country. I was born in Tacoma, Washington, and then we moved to Sacramento when I was eighteen, my parents died when I was nineteen, and I was stuck in Sacramento from then on. So it was a good thing Doris went to Hawaii, if you know what I mean, because it goosed me into action." She giggled and said, "Well, I don't exactly mean goosed."

"I know what you mean," Roger said. "Would you like another drink?"

"I'll fall flat on my face."

"It's up to you," Roger said.

"No, I don't think so. Are you having another one?"

"I will, if you will."

"You're trying to get me drunk," Molly said, and winked.

"No, I don't believe in getting girls drunk," Roger said.

"I was only teasing."

"Well, I don't get girls drunk.", "No, I don't think you do," Molly said, seriously.

"I don't."

"I don't think you have to."

Roger ignored her meaning. "So if you want another drink," he said.

"Yes, thank you, I will have another drink," she said.

"Waiter," he called. The waiter came to the table. "Another beer, and another whiskey sour," Roger said.

"Light on the lemon," Molly said.

"Light on the lemon," Roger said to the waiter. He liked the way she told him what she wanted and not the waiter. Somehow, this was very flattering, and very pleasing, almost as if the waiter didn't exist at all. He watched as the waiter walked back to the bar and placed the order. He turned to Molly then and said, "How's she doing out there? Doris."

"Oh, fine. I heard from her only last week. I still haven't answered. She doesn't even know I'm here."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I decided very suddenly, and her letter arrived the day before I left, so I didn't get a chance to answer it. I've been so busy running around trying to find a job since I got here…"

"She's probably wondering why you haven't written."

"It's only been a week," Molly said. "Since I'm here, is all."

"Still. If she's a good friend…"

"Yes, she is."

"You ought to let her know where you are."

"I will. I'll write to her when I get back to the hotel tonight." Molly smiled. "You make me feel guilty."

"I didn't mean to make you feel guilty," Roger said. "I just thought since Doris seemed to mean so much to you-"

"Yes, I understand, it's all right," Molly said, and.smiled again.

The waiter brought their drinks, and left them alone once more. The crowd in the bar was thinning. No one paid them the slightest attention. They were strangers in a city as large as the universe.

"How much are you paying for your room?" Molly asked.

"What? Oh… uh… four dollars. A night."

"That's really inexpensive," Molly said.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, it is."

"Is it a nice room?"

"It's okay."

"Where's the loo? Down the hall?"

"The what?"

"The loo." She looked at his puzzled expression. "The toilet."

"Oh. Yes. Down the hall."

"That's not so bad. If it's a nice-sized room, I mean."

"It's pretty fair-sized. A nice lady runs it, I've got to tell you, though…"

"Yes?"

"I saw a rat there."

"Rats I can do without."

"You and me both."

"What'd you do?"

"I killed it," Roger said flatly.

"I'm even afraid of mice," Molly said. "I could never find the courage to kill a rat."

"Well, it was pretty horrible," Roger said. "This area's infested with them, though, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if there was more rats than people in this area."

"Please," she said, wincing. "I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"Oh, you very rarely see them," he said. "You might hear one of them, but you rarely see them. This one must have been an old guy, otherwise he wouldn't have been so slow. You should have been there. He got up on his hind legs when I backed him in the corner, and he-"

"Please," she said. "Don't." And shuddered.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

"That's all right." She picked up her drink and took a swallow. "I'll never be able to sleep tonight," she said, and very quickly added, "Alone."

Roger did not say anything.

"I'll be scared to death," she said, and shuddered again, and again took a swallow of her drink. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, scaring a girl half to death?"

"I'm sorry," Roger said.

"That's all right," Molly answered, and finished her drink, and then giggled. "How large is your room?" she asked.

"Fair-sized."

"Well, how large is that?"

"I don't really know. I'm not too good on sizes."

"I'm very good on sizes." Molly paused and smiled tentatively, as though embarrassed by what she was about to say and do. She picked up her empty glass and tried to drain a few more drops from it, and then put it down on the table and said, very casually, "I'd like to see that room of yours. It sounds really inexpensive. If it's a good-sized room, I might move from where I am. That is, if it's really as inexpensive as you say it is."

"Yes, it's only four dollars."

"I'd like to see the room," she said, and raised her eyes from her glass for only a moment, and then lowered them again.

"I could take you there," Roger said.

"Would you?"

"Sure."

"Just for a minute. Just to see what it's like."

"Sure."

"I'd appreciate that," Molly said. Her eyes were still lowered. She was blushing furiously.

"I'll get your coat," Roger said, and stood up.

As he helped her into it, she glanced up over her shoulder and said, "How did you kill it? The rat, I mean."

"I squeezed it in my hands," Roger said.

The headwaiter was leading the detective and the woman to a table as Roger checked his coat. The woman was wearing a pale blue dress, a jumper he supposed you called it, over a long-sleeved white blouse. She smiled up at the headwaiter as he pulled out the chair for her, and then sat, and immediately put both hands across the table to cover the detective's hands as he sat opposite her. "Thank you," Roger said to the hatcheck girl, and put the ticket she handed him into his jacket pocket. The headwaiter was coming toward the front of the restaurant again. He looked French. Roger hoped this wasn't a French restaurant.

"Bon jour, monsieur," the headwaiter said, and Roger thought Oh boy. "How many will you be, sir?"

"I'm alone," Roger said.

"Out, monsieur, this way, please."

Roger followed the headwaiter into the restaurant. For a moment, he thought he was being led to the other end of the room, but the headwaiter was simply making a wide detour around a serving tray near one of the tables. He stopped at a table some five feet away from the detective and the woman.

"Voild, monsieur," the headwaiter said, and held out a chair.

"How about the table over there?" Roger said. "Near the wall."

"Monsieur?" the headwaiter said, turning, his eyebrows raised.

"That table," Roger said, and pointed to the table immediately adjacent to the detective's.

"Out, monsieur, certainement," the headwaiter said, and shoved the chair back under the table with an air of annoyed efficiency. He led Roger to the table against the wall, turned it out at an angle so that Roger could seat himself on the cushioned bench behind it, and then moved it back to its original position. "Would monsieur care for a cocktail?"

"No," Roger said. "Thank you."

"Would you like to see a menu now, sir?"

"Yes," Roger said. "Yes, I would."

The headwaiter snapped his fingers. "La carte pour monsieur," he said to one of the table waiters and then made a brief bow and disappeared. The table waiter brought a menu to Roger and he thanked him and opened it.

"Well, what do you think?" the detective said.

The woman did not answer. Roger, his head buried in the menu, wondered why the woman did not answer.

"I suppose so," the detective said.

Again, the woman did not answer. Roger kept looking at the menu, not wanting to seem as if he were eavesdropping.

"Well, sure, you always do," the detective said.

The funny thing, Roger thought, without looking up from the menu, was that the detective was doing all the talking. But more than that, he seemed to be holding a conversation, saying things that sounded as if they were answers to something the woman had said each time, only the woman hadn't said a single word.

"Here are the drinks," the detective said, and Roger put down his menu and looked up as a waiter in a red jacket brought what looked like two whiskey-sodas to the table. The detective picked up his glass and held it in the air and the woman clinked her glass against his, but neither of the two said a word. The woman took a short sip of her drink and then put it down. Glancing briefly at their table, Roger saw that she was wearing a wedding band and an engagement ring. The woman, then, was the detective's wife.

The detective took a long swallow of his drink, and then put the glass down. "Good," he said.

His wife nodded and said nothing. Roger turned away and picked up the menu again.

"Did Fanny finally get there?" the detective asked.

Again, there was a long pause. Roger frowned behind his menu, waiting.

"Did she give you any reason?" the detective said.

Another pause.

"What kind of excuse is that?" the detective said.

Roger put down his menu and turned.

The woman's elbows were on the table, her hands were poised in front of and a trifle below her face. Her fingers were long and slender. The nails were manicured and polished a bright red. As she moved her hands in a fluid, swift series of gestures, the nails danced like tiny flames.

For a moment, Roger didn't know what she was doing. Was she kidding, was that it?

And then he saw her face behind the hands.

Her face was more lovely than he realized, the black hair combed sleekly back from the woman's forehead, the black eyebrows arched high over deep brown eyes, no, one eyebrow was dropping now, dipping low over her left eye in a sinister frown, the woman's mouth was curling into a sneer, her nostrils were dilating, her hands moved differently now, they moved in the exaggerated slick oiliness of a silent movie villain, the woman's fingers touched her upper lip, twirled an imaginary mustache, the detective laughed, the mask of villainy dropped from her face, her eyes sparkled with humor, the white teeth flashed behind her lips, the smile broke on her face like the sound of bells, and all the while her long slender fingers moved, the detective watching her hands, and then shifting his attention to her face again, the entire face in constant motion, her mouth and her eyes augmenting the music of her hands, the sound of her hands, her face open and honest and naive, the face of a little girl, mugging, exaggerating, acting, explaining. Why, she's talking with her face and her hands! Roger thought, and suddenly realized the woman was a deaf-mute.

He turned away because he didn't want her to think he was staring at her handicap.

But the detective was laughing. His wife had apparently finished her story about Fanny, whoever that was, and now the detective was laughing fit to bust, sputtering and choking and damn near slapping the table top, so that Roger himself was forced to smile and even the waiter, who had padded up the table to take Roger's order, smiled with him.

"I'd just like some eggs," Roger said.

"Oui, monsieur, how would you like your eggs?"

"Gee, I don't know," Roger said.

"Would monsieur care for an omelette, perhaps?"

"Oh, yes," Roger said. "Yes, that's good. What kind of omelettes do you have?"

"Cheese, mushroom, onion, jell-"

"Mushroom," Roger said. "That sounds good. A mushroom omelette. And some coffee. With it, please."

"Oui, monsieur," the waiter said. "Any salad?"

"No. No, thanks."

"Oui, monsieur," the waiter said, and moved away from the table.

"… began talking to Meyer at first and Meyer listened for a few minutes and then asked the priest if he would mind telling this to me instead. I was pretty surprised when he came over to my desk, because we don't usually get priests up there, honey - not that it isn't a very religious place, and holy and all that."

He grinned at his wife, and she returned the grin. God she's beautiful, Roger thought.

"Anyway, I introduced myself, and it turns out the pries is Italian, too, so we went through the Are you Italian, too? routine for a couple of minutes, and we traced my ancestry back to the old country, it turned out the priest wasn't born anywhere near my parents, but anyway he gits down at the desk and he's got a slight dilemma, so I say, What's the dilemma, Father, meanwhile thinking my own dilemma is I haven't been inside a church since I was a kid, suppose he asks me to say five Hail Marys?

"The priest tells me that he had a woman in the confessional this morning, and the woman confessed to the usual number of minor sins and then, unexpectedly, said she had bought a gun which was in her purse at the moment, right there in the confession box, and she was going to take it to the shop where her husband worked and wait for him to come out on his lunch hour when she would shoot him dead. She was telling this to the priest because she expected to shoot herself immediately afterwards, and she wanted the priest's absolution in advance.

"Well, honey, the priest didn't know what to tell her. He could see she was very upset, and that she wouldn't sit still for a lecture on what a big sin murder was. She hadn't come there to ask the priest's permission, you understand, all she wanted was his forgiveness. She wanted to be blessed in advance for knocking off her husband, and then for taking her own life. Well, the priest took a chance and told the woman it would be nice if they prayed together a little, and then while they were praying he sneaked in a little subliminal commercial about how sinful it was to kill, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the fifth commandment, and then he explained how she was about to commit a double mortal sin by first putting her husband on ice and then doing a job on herself, didn't she have any children? No, the woman said.

"Well, the priest wasn't too happy to learn she was childless because children are usually a good thing to play on. So he very quickly said Haven't you got parents or brothers or sisters who'll be worrying about you, and the woman said Yes she had parents but she didn't give a damn what they thought and then said Forgive me, Father, because she'd just cursed in the confessional box, no less church. The priest forgave her and they continued to pray together for a little while, with the priest furiously wondering what he could do to stop this woman from polishing off hubby as he came out of his shop with his lunch box under his arm.

"That was why he'd come up to the office, hon. He told me that a priest, of course, is sworn to keep the sanctity of the confessional, which is exactly what was causing his dilemma. Had the woman confessed to anything, or hadn't she? How can a person confess to a sin that hasn't been committed yet? Was the thought the same thing as the act? If so, the world was full of thoughtful sinners. If not, then the woman hadn't done anything and her confession wasn't a confession at all. And if it wasn't a confession, then what sanctity was the priest protecting? If it wasn't a bona fide confession, then why wasn't it perfectly all right for him to go to the police and tell them all about the woman's plans?

"It's perfectly all right, Father, I said to him, Now what's the woman's name, and where does her husband work? Well, I couldn't get to him quite that fast. He wanted to discuss all the philosophical and metaphysical aspects of the difference between contemplated sin and committed sin, while all the while the clock on the wall was ticking away, and lunchtime was getting closer and closer, and that poor woman's husband was also getting closer and closer to a couple of holes in the head. I finally convinced him by saying I thought he had come to the police for the same reason the woman had gone to him, and when he said What reason was that? I told him I thought he wanted to be absolved. What do you mean absolved? he said. I told him he wanted to be absolved of possibly causing the death of two people by remaining silent when he wasn't even positive of the doctrine involved, the same way the woman wanted to be absolved. I told him I thought both of them wanted those deaths to be stopped and that was why the woman had gone to him, and that was why he had come to me, so what was the woman's name, and where did her husband work? This was a quarter to twelve. He finally told me, and I had a patrol car sent out to pick her up. We can't book her for anything since she hasn't committed a crime or even attempted one, and there's no such thing as suspicion of anything in this city. But we can hold her for a while until she cools off, and maybe scare her a little… Oh, wait a minute."

Roger, who was listening intently, almost turned to the detective and nodded in anticipation.

"We have got her on something, haven't we? Or maybe, anyway."

The woman raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

"The gun," the detective said. "If she hasn't got a permit for it, we can charge her with that. Or at least we can scare her with threatening to charge her. We'll see how it goes. Boy." He shook his head. "The thing about it, though, is I'm still not sure whether the priest copped out or not. Did she confess, or didn't she? It bothers me, hon. What do you think?"

The woman's hands began to speak again. Roger did not know what she was saying. Occasionally, he glanced at her as the wonderfully fluid fingers moved in front of her face. He had never been loved by a beautiful woman in his life - except, of course, his mother.

The waiter brought his omelette.

Silently, he ate.

Beside him, the detective and his wife finished their drinks, and then ordered lunch.