I was surprised to find it was only seven. It had been only an hour and a half since I had come up the stairs the first time that evening. I felt as though I’d moved into a different time zone. I ran a bath for the second time that day and poured myself an inch of Scotch. I soaked in water as hot as I could bear it, lying in the dark with a wet towel wrapped around my head. Gradually my headache dissipated. I was very, very tired.
After thirty minutes of soaking and reheating the tub, I felt able to cope with some motion. Wrapping a large towel around me, I walked through the apartment, trying to keep my muscles from freezing on me. All I really wanted to do was sleep, but I knew if I did that now I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. I did some exercises, gingerly, fortifying myself with Black Label. Suddenly I caught sight of a clock and remembered my date with Devereux. I was already late and wondered if he was still there.
With an effort I found the restaurant’s name in the phone book and dialed their number. The ma?tre d’hotel was very cooperative and offered to look for Mr. Devereux in the bar. A few minutes passed, and I began to think he must have gone home when he came onto the line.
“Hello, Ralph.”
“This had better be good.”
“If I tried explaining it, it would take hours and you still wouldn’t believe me,” I answered. “Will you give me another half hour?”
He hesitated; I guessed he was looking for the pride to say no—good-looking guys aren’t used to being stood up. “Sure,” he said finally. “But if you’re not here by eight thirty, you can find your own way home.”
“Ralph,” I said, controlling my voice carefully, “this has been one absolute zero of a day. I’d like to have a pleasant evening, learn a little bit about insurance, and try to forget what’s gone before. Can we do that?”
He was embarrassed. “Sure, Vicki—I mean Vic. See you in the bar.”
We hung up and I looked through my wardrobe for something elegant enough for the Cartwheel, but loose and flowing, and found a string-colored Mexican dress that I’d forgotten about. It was two-piece, with a long full skirt and a woven, square-necked top that tied at the waist and bloused out below. The long sleeves covered my puffy arms and I didn’t have to wear pantyhose or a slip. Cork sandals completed the costume.
Surveying my face under the bathroom light made me want to reconsider going out in public, My lower lip was swollen where Earl’s pinky ring had sliced it, and a purple smudge was showing on my left jaw, extending veinous red lines like a cracked egg along my cheek to the eye.
I tried some makeup; my base wasn’t very heavy and didn’t conceal the worst of the purple but did cover the spidery red marks. Heavy shadow took the focus from an incipient black eye, and dark lipstick, applied more strongly than my usual style, made the swollen lip look pouty and sexy—or might if the lights were dim enough.
My legs were stiffening up, but my daily runs seemed to be paying off—I negotiated the stairs without more than minor tremors. A taxi was going by on Halsted; it dropped me in front of the Hanover House Hotel on Oak Street at 8:25.
This was my first visit to the Cartwheel. To me it typified the sterile place where bright, empty North Siders with more money than sense liked to eat. The bar, to the left of the entrance, was dark, with a piano amplified too loudly, playing songs that bring tears to the eyes of Yale graduates. The place was crowded, Friday night in Chicago. Ralph sat at the end of the bar with a drink. He looked up as I came in, smiled, sketched a wave, but didn’t get up. I concentrated on walking smoothly, and made it to where he sat. He looked at his watch. “You just made it.”
In more ways than one, I thought. “Oh, you’d never have left without finishing your drink.” There weren’t any empty stools. “How about proving you’re a more generous soul than I and letting me have that seat and a Scotch?”
He grinned and grabbed me, intending to pull me onto his lap. A spasm of pain shot through my ribs. “Oh, Jesus, Ralph! don’t!”
He let go of me at once, got up stiffly and quietly, and offered me the barstool. I stood, feeling awkward. I don’t like scenes, and I didn’t feel like using the energy to calm Ralph down. He’d seemed like a guy made for sunshine; maybe his divorce had made him insecure with women. I saw I’d have to tell him the truth and put up with his sympathy. And I didn’t want to reveal how badly Smeissen had shown me up that afternoon. It was no comfort that he would limp in pain for a day or two.
I dragged my attention back to Ralph. “Would you like me to take you home?” he was asking.
“Ralph, I’d like a chance to explain some things to you. I know it must look as though I don’t want to be here, showing up an hour late and all. Are you too upset for me to tell you about it?”
“Not at all,” he said politely.
“Well, could we go someplace and sit down? It’s a little confusing and hard to do standing up.”