Magician's Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

it out on Elly. As it is now, the will’s in Alec’s favor, with a trust fund or whatever it is, and of course when he inherits, he can make me a settlement and one for Elly too—though mine I don’t care about. I’m making a living now and can take care of myself the rest of my life, I think. But my child I can’t disregard.”
    â€œSo where does that put us, if anywhere?”
    â€œWell? Tonight’s been sweet. And tomorrow—”
    â€œWe do a retake, on the sneak—?”
    â€œAll right, if that’s what you think it is.”
    â€œThink? We are on the sneak, Sally!”
    â€œClay! I stay—and then what? Do you know?”
    â€œI told you! You go to Reno—”
    â€œAnd get not one red cent! Of what’s due me or due my little boy! If that’s not being nutty, I wouldn’t know what it is!”
    â€œHey, wait, not so fast!”
    His mind had been at work and by now had somewhat caught up. He asked: “How can you hope for a settlement, if a lump sum’s what you mean, when the dough’s tied up in a trust fund? They won’t unfreeze it for you; it couldn’t be done. And if alimony’s what you mean, it won’t run one day after you’re married again. So I’m not with it, Sally, at all. And so far as Elly goes, again, if the will names your husband, your boy can’t cut in, except as you get an allowance to bring him up, until your husband dies. So who’s nutty now?”
    â€œ... I think it’s time to go.”
    â€œI guess it is.”
    â€œMy friend, you’re through with that girl. Did you hear what I said, dumbbell? They’re marking time, all right—or she is—right foot, left foot, and tearing the leaves off the calendar. Because once the old man goes, the only way that she can cut in is by another blessed event, with funeral lilies yet. And you don’t volunteer to knock that husband off—she’s nice, but not that nice, oh no. She’ll be a Merry Widow, that we know for sure, but not with your help. Do you hear? You’re through!”
    So he informed his reflection in the mirror, after taking her back to the theater, making her promise to call the next night, and rolling behind her on Elm Street, as she skipped along to a pleasant house and went in. But the next night, when he got in from the club, he found a note on his bureau, from Ellen, his cleaning woman: Mr. L.: This was under y our pillow. “This” was a tortoise-shell comb with a filigree back. He sniffed it, found it full of her delicate smell. Trying to put it down, not quite being able to, he took it into the living room, held it as he sat by the window again, looking down at the city. When the phone rang he answered briskly, as though things were just as they had been at the parting the night before. He mentioned the comb; she said, “Oh-oh-oh,” with a guilty laugh. She mentioned the theater’s change of bill, “so I can go there again tonight without its looking funny.” He waited as before, across from the parking lot, telling his rear-vision mirror: “Stop borrowing trouble. Don’t jump to conclusions, Lockwood. Maybe she means what you think, maybe not, who knows? Take it as it comes. It’s just a few nights anyway before the boy is brought back, and that brings it to an end, a natural, easy end, without you smacking her down. Until then, she’s pretty nice.” The next few nights she decided to eat uptown and come to his place in her car. He gave her a key, and she let herself in the back way, scratching on his door, and being welcomed ecstatically.
    The last night he gave her dinner, prepared by himself: Grant’s steak, baked potato, peas and onions, salad, and ice cream with brandied cherries, with martinis to start things off, and Château Neuf du Pape. It all impressed her no end, except for the wine, which made her laugh. “It