He stared at her an incredulous moment, hearing the cool concise phrasing and understanding every syllable. Yet even then he could not accept the statement. She had not moved, and her small face was smooth and unlined. Except for the fact that she was not dressed for the city she might have been sitting in her office discussing a book contract with a writer, as befitted her position as a partner in the book publishing firm of Brainard & Eastman—Brainard being her maiden name.
“Oh, no, Frieda,” he said.
“Naturally you’ll have reasonable visitation rights.”
“When it’s convenient for you.”
“Those are your words, not mine.”
He took a breath and glanced at the brandy bottle. He had to work this out without stripping his emotional gears, and yet he knew he could not match her assurance and present self-control because she was talking contracts and rights and he was talking about a twelve-year-old, tow-headed boy who was never very far from his thoughts, a boy who returned his love and admiration and still thought his father was a real great guy.
He tried again, unaware that his inflection was growing caustic, not knowing that what he considered simply a lack of affection for his wife was in reality a well-developed dislike.
“Since when have you taken all this interest in motherhood?”
For the first time annoyance flickered in her blue eyes.
“What do you mean by that? I am his mother.”
“You bore him, if that’s what you mean. But what about the other things a child needs? He was three months old when I got back from France and even then you had a full-time nurse.”
“Why not? I could afford it then. Does that imply—”
He cut her off because the things in his mind could no longer go unsaid.
“Once he stopped being a baby how many times did you tuck him in bed or listen to his prayers or read to him or tell him stories? It was always me or the nurse, wasn’t it? From the time he could toddle you had him in nursery school. He came home to a nurse. You didn’t have the time; you couldn’t be bothered—”
“Oh, shut up!”
He stood up, avoiding her glance, knowing that her temper, like his, was getting frayed and unpredictable. He stepped to the table and poured some brandy into the glass, swished it absently and gulped it as if it were water.
Still holding the glass he stared out the window into the night, a moderately tall man with a lanky, loose-muscled look and straight dark hair that was sometimes stubborn. His brows were straight and black over the brooding brown eyes and his bony face was tight above the solidly set jaw. In those silent moments there was no outward movement of his body except the uncontrollable tremor in his hands, but he could feel the stiffness in his knees and an internal shakiness that spread out from the pit of his stomach. Finally he put the glass aside and turned back to his wife.
“Why, Frieda?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Why what?”
“The sudden possessiveness about Ricky? Because you know a divorce is important to me and you want to be vindictive—though God knows why you should be? Or is this your father’s idea? Does he want to mold the boy the way he tried to mold you?”
She had herself in hand again and her voice was clipped. “Do you think you and Nancy can give him a better home than Dad and I?”
He started to ask her just how often she expected to be at home and then reconsidered because her question had merit Twice Nancy had driven with him to camp to see the boy and they had quickly formed a mutual admiration society. This much he knew, just as he knew that in his daydreams the past few months he had seen Ricky and Nancy in this house together; he had even planned the layout so that an extra room or two could easily be added.
“Perhaps not in material things,” he said. “But one thing we could give him that your father has never been capable of, and that is understanding and affection. . . . No,” he said as he moved away from the table. “No deal. Visitation rights are not enough, Frieda.”
“Very well.” She tucked her bag under her arm and straightened her back. “In that case you and Miss Heath will have to accustom yourselves to the idea of sleeping together without benefit of clergy. Not that you haven’t already tried it.”
He started for her as she finished; then stopped as she jumped to her feet to face him. The words that came to him died in his throat as a cold fury possessed him. In that instant he hated this woman and the cold bright glints in her eyes told him that hate was returned. He made one more effort to preserve his self-control.
“Then let’s fight it out the other way. There’s one ground for divorce in New York State, so let’s see whose skirts are clean.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, and for that instant her glance wavered. “Are you—”
“I mean I’ve heard things here and there and if this is the way you want it I’ll get some private detective and find out how accurate the rumors are. Let’s see what a judge will say about this custody business once the facts are in.”
“Try it!” she shouted, her voice shrill. “Just you try it.”
“I intend to,” he yelled, and took a breath, standing with his face no more than a foot from hers, seeing the ugly distortion of her features and knowing his own expression must be equally twisted and stiff. “And if your conduct the past couple of years hasn’t been one hundred per cent virginal—which I damned well doubt—”
She hit him then, an open-handed, swinging blow that caught him on the cheekbone, and for the first time in his life he retaliated.
There was no thought process involved. At that moment he was beyond thinking. He felt the sting of the blow and instantly his own hand moved in an instinctive reflex action, as automatic as a skilled boxer counter-punching.
He saw her head rock as his palm caught her cheek, watched her stagger off balance and sit down on the edge of the divan and then skid off to the floor. She landed in a sitting position and there she stayed, more bewildered than hurt, her mouth open and her eyes incredulous.
For a long and silent moment as the shock immobilized them he stared down at her, horrified, the sickness rising in him as he realized what had happened. Then he wheeled and headed for the door as she found her voice.
The screams that followed him were hysterical, the words incoherent. He kept his eyes on the door, not daring to look back. Somehow he knew that if he listened or hesitated or tried to argue again the fury that possessed him might drive him to further violence.
It was fear that drove him on, the certain knowledge that he must get away before it was too late. He reached the door and stumbled into the night and the screams were muted. He passed the convertible and found the highway and turned left, his mind still tormented and the sickness rising in his throat.
He was vaguely aware that next door Tom Ashley’s house was dark and the garage empty. He was conscious enough of his surroundings to move to the side of the road when he heard an approaching car. He walked fast, driving himself in an effort to
