Candy by Terry Southern Read Free Book Online Page B

said Livia.
    “Why, Aunt Livia, whatever are you talking about?” Candy asked in real, almost relieved, bewilderment.
    “Well, I just happened to notice that my husband didn’t come home last night,” said Aunt Livia with heavy sarcasm, “and for some strange reason I thought he might be in your bed!”
    “Uncle Jack? Do you mean Uncle Jack?”
    “That’s right. Uncle Jack!”
    With a loud click the golden slices sprang up in the toaster, one of them jumping right out and tumbling on the floor.
    “But—but what makes you think he’s here?” Candy said, nervously picking the toast up from the floor.
    “Put him on the phone!” Aunt Livia demanded.
    “Now, Aunt Livia, there’s no need to—”
    “Cut the crap!” she thundered.
    “But Uncle Jack isn’t here I tell you! He isn’t here!”
    For a few seconds there was silence, as if Aunt Livia was digesting this information. Finally she replied with tremendous authority:
    “Put that rat-bastard on the phone!”
    “But Aunt Livia—”
    “Cut the crap, you little tight-puss bitch!”
    Candy summoned all her dignity. “I’m sorry, Aunt Livia,” she said, “but I don’t propose to be talked to like that by anyone. Furthermore, I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. Good-bye!”
    With that she replaced the phone firmly in its cradle and stood up to brush off her bathrobe, for she’d been unconsciously crumbling the piece of toast she’d picked up and her lap now was completely covered with it. She was quite certain that she had done the ‘right thing.’ Really, there were limits to—to how much vulgarity one could permit and—
    The phone rang again, cutting short this train of thought.
    “Where do you suppose he is then?” Livia asked in a quite normal tone of voice, just as if the conversation had not been interrupted.
    “I’ve no idea,” Candy replied. “Have you tried phoning his office?”
    “His office? No, I haven’t tried that. That’s not a bad idea. I’ll do that right now. . . . I’ll catch up with that rat-ass and believe me, when I do . . .” and she hung up.
    Candy sat silently for a second, her eyes fixed on the telephone. She was waiting for it to ring again, and for that raucous, unladylike voice to complete its demolition of the lovely summer morning. As for the Miraculous Mandarin Suite, it had come to an end and the radio was now delivering an extremely nasal rendition of “The Wabash Cannonball.”
    Candy bit her full lower lip in annoyance, and had just begun to pour herself a cup of espresso coffee when the bell rang again.
    She placed the half-filled cup on the table with a little crash of exasperation and picked up the phone. There was no answer—and yet, the bell kept ringing. Then she realized that it was the front door; she had absurdly confused it with the phone.
    Ordinarily she would have thought of such an error as no more than amusing; but not this morning. Coming after the stormy events of the past few days, this little stumble that her mind had made struck her as being significant—ominous as well. My nerves have had about as much as they can stand, she thought as she went to answer the door.
    In the doorway stood a very thin old man dressed in a messenger boy’s uniform.
    “Telegram for Miss Christian,” he said. He was blinking violently.
    Candy noticed how slender and delicate his wrist was when she took the envelope. She looked at him again. He seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Is there anything wrong? I mean are you feeling ill, or—”
    “Something in my eye,” he explained.
    “Something in your eye! Well, for goodness sake don’t rub it like that!”
    (He had taken out a handkerchief and was patting at his eye.)
    Candy had to stoop down to look into his eye—he was quite short. As she did so her bathrobe opened considerably and, since this took place a few inches before his face, he found himself staring at her bare throat and splendid young breasts. . . .
    “No, not