Wake Up With a Stranger

1.

Late that Sunday afternoon the snow stopped falling, and Donna returned from the narrow, oppressive house to her apartment. It was dark when she got there, and she stood a few moments in the unlighted living room, wondering how she could survive the long night. She could not remember ever having been so tired before, and she felt in her stomach a dull and gnawing pain that reminded her that she had not eaten since the dinner the night before that she and Aaron had eaten together in celebration of the sale of the peau de soie. The dinner seemed a long time ago and scarcely credible as something that had actually happened. By a kind of strange reversal of chronology in her mind, perhaps because the present was a threat she needed for a while to evade, recent events were indistinct, and the clearest were those which were furthest away.

Crossing the dark living room, she went into the bedroom and turned on a light and undressed. After a hot shower, her second of the day, she put on pajamas and went into the kitchen. She did not want to eat, for even the thought of food was slightly sickening to her, but she knew from the gnawing pain in her stomach that she had better eat something. She heated a can of soup on the range, and sat down at the small breakfast table in a corner of the room to eat it with crackers. After she finished the soup she felt a little sustained, and the night ahead of her seemed a little less impossible.

She washed the pan and bowl and spoon she had used and returned to the living room. At a cabinet, she mixed a very strong drink, half bourbon and half seltzer, and then setting the drink on a small table beside a large brocaded chair, she went to a console phonograph, selected an album of Chopin waltzes, and put the recordings on the spindle. The first platter dropped softly to the spinning, felt-covered turntable, and the ineffably precise and delicate music came alive in the room. She sat down and drank from her glass and began to go over in her mind how she could arrange the finding of Aaron in the morning.

For it would be necessary, of course, to wait until morning. At least, if not necessary, it would be wise. It could be done naturally then, a normal gesture when he did not appear at the shop. Perhaps she could send someone from the shop, or go herself and discover him by looking into the hall through the glass of the front door, or call a neighbor or a friend or even the police to investigate his inexplicable absence. Yes, any one of these actions would seem natural, an expression of concern in which she would be supported by Gussie Ingram and everyone else at the shop, and no particular attention or suspicion could possibly attach to her because of it. It could make no difference to him if he lay untended in the hall for another night. It was only in her mind that it made a difference, and it was imperative that she stop thinking as if he were somehow alive and dead at the same time, somehow aware of his desertion and the loneliness and the cold.

And then, all at once, she thought of the cleaning woman, and she could not understand how she had failed to think of her immediately, long ago at the very beginning, when she had found the body. That she had failed to do so was certainly an indication of the extent she had been incapacitated by shock without fully realizing it. Aaron himself had spoken of the cleaning woman more than once — a Mrs. Cassidy, or a similar Irish name — and had said she had a key and came in to clean two days a week, two of them. (It was always planned that Donna should not be there the mornings she came.) Thinking back and trying to identify the days, Donna was certain that they were Monday and Friday. Tomorrow was Monday. Therefore Mrs. Cassidy, or whatever her name was, would surely come in the morning and find the body, and it would be unnecessary, after all, for Donna to take any action whatever.

This was a vast relief. It was so vast a relief, and left her so limp in the sudden release from pressure, that she became fully aware then, for the first time, how much she had been dreading the prospect of taking any action. Now she need only wait with patience and react appropriately to whatever developed.

Getting out of the chair, she turned the stack of recordings over on the spindle and set the mechanism again and went into the bedroom. In bed, she lay and listened to the waltzes, trying to remember as little as possible and to anticipate nothing at all. She knew very little about music and had little knowledge about the Chopin she was listening to, but she did know that the music made everything else seem less important for the time that she listened to it. With their help, and that of the strong drink, she went into a dreamless sleep and awakened early the next morning.

After dressing, she had coffee in the kitchen and went directly to the shop, arriving about an hour before the shop normally opened. She entered by the front door, locking it after her, and passed through the luxurious simplicity of the salon to her room at the rear. There, she began without delay to work on a half-completed sketch, and she worked, apparently with complete absorption, until she heard, after half an hour, Gussie Ingram at the rear door. She went out then and let Gussie in and returned to the room with Gussie following.

“Snow!” Gussie said bitterly. “God, how I hate the filthy stuff! To think that there are places in the world, on this very continent, where the sun is warm and the days are long and there isn’t one snotty nose or congested chest or any of this Goddamn virus stuff that the doctor always says you’ve got when he doesn’t know. Honest to God, a person must be insane to live in a hellish place like this.”

“Why do you live in it, then?”

“Because I’m insane, darling. Hadn’t you guessed? We’re all insane. If we weren’t, we’d simply swallow a bellyful of sleeping pills, or use any one of the many other pleasant and painless methods of getting out of this filthy mess for good and all instead of hanging on and on for more of the same.”

Filthy was one of her favorite words. She slumped into a chair and began to cough, covering her mouth with a pink tissue. After a while she stopped coughing and lit a cigarette and immediately began to cough again. Watching her, Donna thought that she looked tired and ill, even more tired and more ill than she usually looked. She was, in fact, quite an ugly woman, but it was a striking kind of ugliness that had its own kind of appeal. Her skin was sallow, stretched tightly over the frame of her face and emphasizing the size of a nose and mouth that were large yet lacked emphasis. The cords in her neck became prominent when she turned her head, and her body was thin to the point of emaciation, collar and hip bones threatening, it seemed, to tear through their thin coating of flesh. There was grace in her gauntness, though, an unorthodox smartness in the way she walked and gestured and wore her clothes. Donna often wondered how old she was, and was sure that she was neither young nor old nor any particular age at all, a woman arrested and fixed who would go on and on all her life without ever looking a day older, just closer to dying.

“That’s a nasty cough,” Donna said. “Wouldn’t you like to go home and take care of it?”

“No, thanks.” Gussie extended her legs and blew smoke at her feet. “Another day alone at home with my sweet thoughts is the last thing I want. I’ll gobble lozenges till quitting time and whisky till bedtime, and I’ll manage to survive for a while yet.”

“Did you have a bad Sunday?” Donna asked.

“Filthy. Utterly filthy. I thought the damn day would never end. Not you, I’ll bet. You must have gone on a real fancy kick.”

“Why?”

“Because of the peau de soie, I mean. It isn’t every day you can hang four hundred dollars’ worth of your own talent on someone like Queen Hattie Tyler. Not that the one sale in itself is so much. It’s what it means to your future, darling.”

“Well, I didn’t really go on a very fancy kick. Aaron took me out to dinner and then out to Mother’s. I spent the night and practically all of yesterday there. Do you actually think the sale to Harriet Tyler will turn into something?”

Gussie dragged on her cigarette and coughed the smoke out of her lungs. Her wide, ugly mouth stretched into a smile as she looked at Donna through the blue thinning cloud.

“I’ll be damned surprised if it doesn’t. You know why? Because you’ve got it, darling. You’ve got the feel or the touch or whatever the hell you want to call it. That little thing that the rest of us haven’t got and would give our souls to have. The job you sold Hattie was a perfect conception and a flawless execution, and you can’t say any more than that for any gown. It’ll stand out in any crowd with any comparison, and Hattie will look just like her precious William Walter’s millions because she’s got something to give to the gown as well as to get from it. I hate the bitch, but I’ll have to admit she’s stacked properly, and every slob and scarecrow who sees her in the gown will get the idea they’d look the same in one like it. Oh, don’t worry, darling, they’ll follow Hattie, and Hattie will be back. You’ve got what it takes to get what you want, and now it’ll begin coming with Hattie and the rest, and I’m damn glad of it, because I like you. That makes you exclusive, darling, whether you know it or not, for the people I like are very few. I could count the people I like on the fingers of one hand.”

“Thanks, Gussie. I like you, too. Better than anyone else, I think. You know that.”

“Sure, I know it. There’s a kind of rare and holy bond between us that’s just too precious for words, so let’s forget it. For God’s sake, I couldn’t stand any sloppy scenes this morning. You say you spent Saturday night and Sunday at your mother’s?”

“That’s right. Aaron drove me out after dinner.”

“I commend your devotion, darling. To me, it seems a filthy dull way to waste a night that should have been celebrated.”

“Aaron wasn’t feeling well, as a matter of fact. I think he wanted to get to bed early.”

“His heart again?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say it was that.”

“He never does. Just totes his little detonating pills around, in case. Probably one of these days he’ll pop off in an instant, and it’s a filthy shame because he’s a sweet guy. He’s a sweet, lonely, damned little apostate, and he’s another one of the fingers on the hand I count my friends on.”

The words invoked in Donna’s mind the image of Aaron as the words were spoken, Aaron alone and dead and damned, and she closed her eyes upon the image, trapping it behind her lids. Then, in succession, came the sound of the rear door opening and closing, the brisk swishing of galoshes outside, and the near, softer sound of Gussie’s long sighing.

“That’ll be Serena,” Gussie said. “God bless her pretty little pointed head.”

Serena was a saleslady and sometime model, Gussie’s subordinate. She was a pale blonde with a tall willowy body and almost perfect classical features that were, fortunately, only slightly blemished by vacuity.

“Oh, come off it, Gussie,” Donna said. “You know very well you consider Serena a valuable employee.”

“Of course I do,” Gussie admitted, “but I am constantly amazed by the girl’s absolutely perfect stupidity. In its way, it’s every bit as perfect as her face.”

“That’s all right. A girl with Serena’s looks doesn’t have to have brains.”

“No, darling, you’re wrong there.” Gussie shook her head and leaned forward to crush her cigarette in a tray. “A girl with Serena’s looks needs brains more than most of us. In just her face and body, without anything in addition, she has the most useful tools that a woman can have on earth, but she has to have the brains to use them effectively. It staggers the imagination to consider what things she might accomplish for herself if she were only a little clever, and it’s horribly depressing to know what a monstrous waste Serena is bound to make of them. Do you know that she’s in love? It’s the truth, so help me God, and it’s simply the filthiest kind of a shame. She’s in love with a kid who’s a bookkeeper in a department store and will be a bookkeeper in a department store forever, and they’re only waiting until he gets a lousy ten-dollar raise or something so they can be married. She is simply too stupid to understand that she could just as easily go to bed with the goddamn owner if only she knew how to use what she’s got.” Gussie stood up abruptly and moved toward the door. “Oh, well, the hell with it! It’s no skin off my tail. I’d better go get things open up front. If Queen Hattie wore that gown during the weekend, we may have an early rush for Donna Buchanan originals.”

Donna laughed, though she didn’t feel at all like laughing. The increasing pressure about Aaron and what could possibly be developing in connection with him was bad enough, and now Gussie’s chatter about Serena’s waste of her assets had made matters even worse and more depressing by reminding her of her mother, who had also wasted what she might have used.

Gussie gone, she resumed work on her sketch, but she was unable to accomplish anything that pleased her. Her feeling of guilt was developing abnormally to include much more than her legitimate responsibility, not only her evasion of a clear obligation, if not actually a betrayal of trust, but also an irrational feeling of having been instrumental, somehow, in Aaron’s death. It would have been a relief to confide in Gussie, to call her back and tell her just what had happened and to achieve in the telling a measure of catharsis. She was not restrained by a lack of confidence in Gussie, for she knew very well that Gussie would collaborate in good faith. She truly did not know what restrained her, but only that she had better adhere to the policy of solitary deception, except for her mother, that she had set for herself.

After she had worked with little effect for about an hour, she got up and went forward into the salon; it was then a few minutes after ten o’clock. Both Gussie and Serena were busy with customers, and she waited at the rear, smoking a cigarette, until Gussie was free and came back to her.

“Has Aaron come in?” she said.

“Not yet.” Gussie removed a thin brown lozenge from a box and put it on her tongue. “I’m satisfied these filthy things will destroy me in a little while, but in the meantime they keep me from coughing. Perhaps he’s still not feeling well and won’t come in at all.”

“I don’t know. There is something I particularly want to speak with him about, and he assured me Saturday night that he would be here this morning.”

“It’s only around ten, darling. Probably he’ll be here soon.”

“His wife’s not at home, you know.”

“Yes, I know. That hypochondriac bitch is gone off to Florida again, and don’t I hate her guts because she’s there instead of me.” Gussie stared at Donna intently. “But why mention his wife? What’s the significance?”

“Nothing, I guess. I was just thinking that he’s all alone in the house. Do you suppose anything could have happened to him?”

“Like another heart attack?”

“Yes.”

Gussie’s face expressed a kind of undirected anger at the filthiness of things in general.

“Damn it, darling, let’s not start anticipating anything. If he’s not here in another hour, we can call his house or something.”

Donna returned to her room and sat down to the sketch, but she no longer tried to work. The promotion of deception, especially her easy accomplishment of it, filled her with self-disgust and actually made her physically ill. After a few minutes, she got up and went out and opened the door to Aaron’s office so that she could hear the phone in there if it began to ring. Then she returned and sat down again and stared at the sketch without seeing it, and waited and waited for the ringing to begin. Surely Mrs. Cassidy — was that her name? — had arrived long ago at the house to discover Aaron in the hall, and if she had discovered him, which she surely had, what had she done about it? What would one do naturally in such an event? It was quite likely that she had first called a doctor, even though Aaron was obviously dead and had been dead for a long time and had no need of a doctor, simply because calling a doctor was what one would instinctively think of and do. The doctor would come and would in turn call the police. The police would come, and all this would take time, of course, but surely there had been time enough. Surely they were there now, or had been there, and why in God’s name didn’t one of them call the shop, which would seem a reasonable thing to do.

Sitting and waiting and visualizing the probable sequence of events, she felt her tension increasing to an intolerable degree. She wanted desperately to get up and do something to relieve it — to run or scream or destroy something with her hands, or best of all to call Aaron’s home number at once and get it over with — but she knew that it would not be wise to display an anxiety out of proportion to its cause. So she forced herself to sit and wait with apparent calm until most of another hour had passed. At ten minutes to eleven, Gussie came into the room, and it was she who assumed in the end the position of suggesting some kind of action.

“Damn it, Donna,” she said, “you’ve started me worrying. I think I’ll call Aaron’s house. Not that it’ll do any good, so far as I can see. If he’s there alone, and something’s happened to him, he won’t be able to answer.”

“A cleaning woman comes in some days. She might be there this morning.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten about her. Do you think I should call?”

“No.” Donna stood up. “I’ll call, Gussie. I was just thinking about doing it when you came in.”

She went out of the room and into Aaron’s office. Gussie followed and stood in the doorway, watching her as she dialed the number. At the other end of the line, the telephone rang in three long bursts, and at the completion of the third burst the receiver was picked up and a man’s voice came through.

“Hello,” the voice said.

“Hello.” There was a painful constriction in Donna’s throat, and she could not understand how her own voice slipped so easily through it. “Is this Aaron Burns’ residence?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mr. Burns there?”

“He’s here, but he can’t come to the phone. Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Donna Buchanan, Mr. Burns’ assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“At the shop.”

“Would you care to tell me what you want with Mr. Burns?”

“I don’t think so. At least, not unless you would first care to tell me who you are.”

“Sorry. My name’s Daniels. I’m a policeman.”

“Policeman! What’s the matter? Has something happened to Mr. Burns?”

“I’m afraid so. As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”

“Dead? Mr. Burns is dead?”

“Right, Miss Buchanan. He’s dead.”

“Why are the police there?”

“He was alone when he died, Miss Buchanan. The cleaning woman found him when she arrived for work this morning. It’s required that the police make a routine investigation of such matters.”

“I see. Was it his heart?”

“I wouldn’t know, Miss Buchanan. I’m a policeman, not a doctor. What makes you think it might have been his heart?”

“Because he’s had heart attacks before. The cleaning woman should be able to tell you that.”

“She has done so, as a matter of fact. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Burns’ doctor said it was his heart, and it probably was, but it isn’t official yet.”

“Thank you for being frank.”

“Have I offended you? If I have, I’m sorry. I realize that this must be quite a shock to you.”

“Thank you for being sorry.”

“Well, I don’t seem to be doing very well with you, Miss Buchanan. Perhaps I’d have better luck if I spoke with you in person. Would you agree to see me for a few minutes?”

“You mean you want me to come out to the house?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d be happy to call at the shop.”

“All right.”

“Thank you, Miss Buchanan. Some time this afternoon. Probably about two o’clock.”

Now that it was over, she felt drained and spent and suddenly chilled, and she put her head in her hands and began to shiver. Gussie moved over quickly from the door to put an arm around her shoulders, and the scent of Gussie was an odd and offensive mixture of perfume and smoke and medicated lozenges.

“So he’s dead,” Gussie said quietly. “We all knew it would happen sooner or later, darling. For God’s sake, don’t fall apart on me.”

“I’m all right,” Donna said. “I’m perfectly all right.”

2.

It was two-thirty when Daniels came. She was aware at once that he was not at all what she would have imagined if she had imagined anything. He was slender, almost slight, dressed neatly in a gray suit with which he wore a white shirt and maroon knit tie and black shoes, and in the rich simplicity of the shop he seemed neither out of place nor ill at ease. He sat down with motion that seemed almost practiced, a suggestion of exceptional coordination and of strength in excess of its first impression. His hair was light brown, cut close to his head, and his eyes were brown and as light as his hair, having at times a yellowish cast.

“I’m afraid I upset you on the telephone this morning, Miss Buchanan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” she said.

“Nevertheless, it must have been a shock to learn of Mr. Burns’ death in such a manner.”

“It was a shock, but it was not entirely unexpected. We all knew that he had a heart condition.”

“That’s been established. Two previous attacks, I believe.”

“I think so. He had one since I became associated with him.”

“I see. Well, it’s now certain that he died of another attack. Early Sunday morning, as nearly as it can be fixed. It’s probable that he simply dropped over without ever knowing what happened to him.”

“If it was necessary for him to die, I’m glad that it was that way.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s easier if it happens quickly. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I wouldn’t like to have a little time to die in. A little time at the end, I mean, to try to put things together and make some kind of sense of them.” The thin light of his smile flared briefly and went out. “Just an odd notion, of course.”

She thought herself that it was odd, especially coming from him, from whom she would not have expected it. It suggested that he had thought seriously about the matter and had developed already, though he was still young, a kind of prospectus for dying. Looking at him with an interest that was more than what he had originally evoked because of his role in her own situation, she wondered what kind of man he was — what books he read, what music he listened to, how and to whom he might make love.

When she made no response to his thoughts on dying, he said, “Did you know Mr. Burns well, Miss Buchanan?”

“Quite well, I think. I worked with him closely and enjoyed his confidence, if that’s what you mean.”

“You referred to yourself as his assistant. What does that mean, precisely?”

“I don’t know that it means anything very precise. I design gowns which are sold in this shop, and I managed the business when he was recovering from his second heart attack.”

“That’s certainly indicative of confidence, I’d say. Did you know him socially as well?”

“We occasionally had dinner together.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“I’m not quite sure what you are trying to get at. Are you making an implication I should resent?”

“I hope not. I’d only like to know if he ever spoke to you about his personal life.”

“It’s very likely, isn’t it? It would hardly have been natural if he hadn’t. Only a minute or two ago you were telling me yourself, though I’ve just met you, your personal feelings about dying.”

“So I was.” He paused and stared down at his feet for a moment. “Let me put it this way. Did Mr. Burns give the impression of being a happy man?”

“Happy? I don’t think I could say. I don’t even think I know what happiness is.”

“I’m very certain that I don’t, so far as that goes, but you’re equivocating, Miss Buchanan. Taking happiness to be merely a reasonably good adjustment to life, would you be willing to say that he was happy?”

“He was successful and adjusted and, if you insist on your term, I suppose he was happy.”

“From Mr. Burns’ housekeeper this morning, I gathered that his marriage was not successful. Is that so?”

“Are you prepared to credit the gossip of a cleaning woman about something like that?”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m asking for your opinion.”

“All right. His marriage was not successful, but it did not disturb him. He had reached a point where it no longer meant anything to him, one way or another. If you are thinking that he might have committed suicide because of it, you are certainly mistaken.”

“I don’t think he committed suicide. When I told you it was established that he died of a heart attack, I was telling you the truth.”

“In that case, why are you still concerned as a policeman? Why am I compelled to answer your questions?”

“You are not compelled to answer. You are not compelled to talk to me at all. Frankly, there is something in this that disturbs me, and I hope you will answer a few more questions voluntarily in order to help me clarify it for myself.”

“What is it that disturbs you?”

“Are you willing, then, to help?”

“I can’t think what could possibly concern you in Aaron’s death, since it’s established as natural, but I’ll help you if I can.”

“Thank you. Many men, when their marriages turn out badly, look for satisfaction elsewhere. With other women, or another woman. Did Mr. Burns do that?”

“I don’t think I’ll answer that question.”

“Your refusal to answer indicates that he did.”

“Nothing of the sort. It indicates that you are certainly prying into something that is none of your business.”

“Look, Miss Buchanan. I’m no moralist. At least I am not functioning as a moralist in this instance. Perhaps I had better tell you what I have in mind.”

“Perhaps you had.”

“All right. I strongly suspect that a woman spent the night, or part of it, with Mr. Burns. The night before his death. She may have left, of course, before his death, or she may not have, and I would like to know which way it was.”

“If she was there at all.”

“Of course. If she was there at all.”

“Why do you think she may have been?”

“It’s usually pretty apparent when two people have slept in a bed.”

“No cigarettes with lipstick on them?”

“No, nothing so obvious.” He smiled thinly. “Are you being sarcastic, Miss Buchanan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I am probably being a bore, so I don’t really blame you. As a matter of fact, however, the absence of lipstick-stained stubs is a point in itself. A kind of negative one. If other signs indicate a woman’s presence, the missing stubs would seem to suggest that she may have left after his death, since she took the trouble to dispose of them. Sudden death during an assignation, even natural death, would make a nasty mess that any woman would prefer to avoid.”

“Perhaps she didn’t smoke. Perhaps she simply didn’t want the housekeeper to know she’d been there. Perhaps Aaron disposed of them after she was gone. If she was ever there.”

“You needn’t restate the condition every time, Miss Buchanan. It’s thoroughly understood. All the points you make are possible, of course, and you are clever to think of them so quickly. It took me a while longer. Now all I have is a bed which appears to have been slept in by two people.” He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and, leaning forward, extended it toward her. “Do you smoke?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She took a cigarette and accepted his light and drew smoke deeply into her lungs. He thought, watching her, that she was a very attractive and clever young woman, to say nothing of being an extremely self-possessed one. She was, in fact, the very kind of young woman that he himself would like to have. When she held out the cigarette so that he could see clearly the vivid stain on the end that had been between her lips, he looked at it and up at her and smiled again his thin smile.

“I have nothing to compare it with, Miss Buchanan. Besides, even if I did, it would prove nothing definitely.”

“Do you really wish to prove something definitely? Couldn’t you prove it by fingerprints or something like that?”

“I might prove that someone had been there. I couldn’t prove when. Anyhow, there was definitely nothing extraordinary in Mr. Burns’ death, and I am not particularly anxious to flay a straw man.”

“Why are you doing it, then?”

“Am I? Perhaps I am. It’s only that I always feel a strong compulsion to gather up a loose end.”

“How do you intend to gather it?”

“When I came here, I had a couple of devious tactics in mind. Now that I have met you and talked with you, I prefer to ask directly if you were with Mr. Burns when he died, or in the house the night before.”

“I’ll not answer that, of course. Your loose end, I think, must remain ungathered.”

“Do you think so? As for me, I think I’ll just consider it safely tucked in.” He stood up and extended a hand which, after a moment, she accepted. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Buchanan. You’re a most attractive woman.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d enjoy very much seeing you again, but I suppose that’s impossible.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Goodby, then.”

“Goodby.”

In the evening after the shop closed Gussie stopped in before going home. “How did it go with the copper?” she asked. “He was only trying to gather up a loose end.”

“What kind of loose end?”

“He thinks someone may have spent Saturday night with Aaron.”

“A woman?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Does he think she may have had something to do with his death?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It’s definite that he died naturally of a heart attack.”

“Then why the hell does he care who may have slept there? I don’t get it.”

“Well, I suppose it’s some kind of offense of omission if you know about a death and don’t report it. He didn’t seem inclined to make much of an issue of it, however.”

Gussie leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

“Was a woman there with Aaron, darling?”

“How would I know?”

“You’d know if you were the woman, wouldn’t you?”

“Do you think I was having an affair with Aaron?”

“Affair? That’s a fancy word that I wouldn’t know about. I know damn well you were sleeping with him.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Darling, darling, this is old Gussie speaking. You don’t have to play cat and mouse with me. I’ve slept with enough men myself to be able to tell when one’s being slept with. Especially one like Aaron, who simply exuded gratitude and devotion. Don’t you think I’ve seen him looking at you?”

“I didn’t dream that it was so apparent.”

“To no one but Gussie, darling.”

“Do you blame me, Gussie?”

“God, no! Don’t be absurd, darling.” Gussie laughed softly. “He was a starved and lonely guy with a thousand vague oppressions, married to a bitch and living from habit. He needed you and had you, and I’m glad. I truly loved the sad bastard in my own way, and I’d have slept with him myself if he’d ever asked me.”

Watching Gussie’s face, like a death mask with its closed eyes, Donna had for the first time an intimation of just what burden of grief might now be carried in Gussie’s heart, silently in the bony body. It had not once occurred to her that Gussie might feel for Aaron any emotion beyond the ordinary. And she was ashamed that Gussie had been so sentient, while she had been so dull. She was also ashamed she had lied to Gussie about Saturday night. She would have liked now to renounce the lie, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. So she decided, as a compromise, to tell still another lie that would at least embrace part of the truth.

“The truth is,” she said, “I went to Aaron’s, but I didn’t stay all night. We went there after dinner, and later he took me out to Mother’s.”

“Did you tell the copper that?”

“No. I didn’t think it was necessary. I refused to answer his questions about it.”

“Well, under the circumstances, that’s merely a way of telling him everything without committing yourself to anything. I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you, darling, and if you need any expert lying done, don’t fail to call on Gussie. I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’m one of the most convincing liars on earth.”

“Thanks, Gussie.”

Donna stood up and walked around the room, stretching the muscles of her back and legs. She felt exhausted by the tensions of the day, and she was thankful it was over. Her head throbbed, and she pressed her hand against her forehead.

“Is everyone gone?” she said.

“Yes. I assumed the authority to tell them not to come in tomorrow. Was I right?”

“Of course. We must certainly remain closed at least until after Aaron is buried.”

“What will be done about the shop, I wonder.”

“I don’t know. It will be up to Aaron’s wife, I suppose. His widow. It’s a fine shop, and it’s getting better all the time, and if she’s wise she will let it continue to make money for her.”

“She’s not wise. She’s a stupid, lazy slut who likes to lie on her tail and play sick, and it’s my opinion that she’ll convert her responsibilities into cash as quickly as possible.”

“I hope not.”

“So do I, but I shouldn’t count on it. It will be a damn, shame if she does, especially for you, darling, now that you’ve got started so beautifully with your originals.”

“I’ve been thinking about it — about the shop, I mean, and what will happen to it — and perhaps I’ll go and talk to Mrs. Burns about it.”

“To try to sell her on keeping it open?”

“Yes. I could manage it for her, Gussie. With your help I know I could do it. I did it while Aaron was in the hospital the last time, and I could do it permanently if she would only let me.”

“Of course you could, darling. Your judgment is as good as Aaron’s was, and you have other assets that he lacked. Actually, given a free hand, you would certainly make a bigger thing of the shop than he could have.”

“Do you think she will let me, Gussie?”

“I told you that I don’t, and I don’t. I’m sorry, darling, but she simply won’t want to be bothered with it.”

“What shall we do if she refuses?”

“Look for jobs, I guess. What the hell else will there be to do?”

Donna stood quietly for a moment, gnawing a knuckle.

“Damn her to hell,” she said. “She tried her best to ruin Aaron’s life, and now, because she is a stupid woman, she’ll ruin ours if we don’t stop her. Gussie, how much do you think the shop would sell for?”

“I don’t know. As a guess, two hundred thousand. Certainly no less. Why?”

“I was wondering if it would be possible to buy it. For me to buy it.”

“I don’t know where you’d get two hundred thousand dollars, or even two hundred thousand cents in a hurry, but I know where we can get a good strong drink, which is available and at the moment even more essential. Are you interested?”

“No.” Donna shook her head. “Thanks just the same, Gussie, but I think I’ll stay on for a while.”

“All right, darling. If you want me, you know where to find me. Take care, now.”

Gussie went out, and Donna sat down and removed her glasses and began to rub her eyes. She heard the rear door open and close as Gussie left and continued to sit and rub her eyes, wondering how she could best approach Aaron’s widow, or how she could possibly get hold of enormous amounts of money like two hundred thousand dollars.