Galatea by James M. Cain Read Free Book Online

spend the night delivering cars to town, shuttling back by cab, delivering some more, and shuttling some more.
    I sat down on the love seat, to get adjusted to that, and think over all I had heard, as well as what I had seen—like the way things were done, in this peculiar state, with Val not able to stand up to some jerk of a government official, and Marge able to shrivel him up in two words. But then I began to feel bitter, not at the night’s work ahead, but at the way Val took it, putting this bunch of wheels ahead of this thing that had happened, and who it had happened to. I knew those ankles were serious, as Bill seemed to know, drunk as he was. Why didn’t Val know it too? At first it had seemed wonderful he didn’t love her. Now it made me sore, and I felt the hammers again. How long they beat, I don’t exactly know, but then Marge was there in the door, beckoning me to the bedroom.
    Only one lamp was lit, and she was lying there, still in the orange dress, her feet in a little tub. Her eyes were closed, but she lifted a hand when she heard me. When I sat on the bench beside her, I saw beads on her brow that said she was still in pain. I took my handkerchief and blotted them, and she nodded her head just a little, in a way that brought us both back to that day out by the tree. I said: “Keep your feet dunked under and you’ll be getting relief. Don’t let Marge make it too hot. Just puts more strain on your heart, swells up the fluid inside. I’d take an Anacin, and a sleeping pill if you have one.”
    “I wanted to thank you. For getting the Epsom.”
    “You don’t have to.”
    “I wanted to.”
    I went stumbling out, and all through that crazy night, driving cars up, putting keys in wacky places, coming back and starting all over, I hardly minded at all, because she had wanted to thank me.

CHAPTER VII
    “D UKE, CAN I ASK a favor?”
    “Of course, Mrs. Val, anything.”
    “It’s about my lunch when you fix it.”
    “Something the doctor ordered?”
    “I mustn’t have any pie.”
    It was next afternoon, with Val gone, the doctor gone, Bill gone, and Marge gone, and most of the excitement over, meaning wires, calls about the cars I’d delivered, and pictures on the society page. Before leaving, Marge had dressed her, in pink of some sort, and I had moved her, by getting her into the chair she used in the kitchen and sliding her along on the carpet, as of course she still couldn’t put any weight on her feet. I was about to get her lunch, but her three o’clock lunch, one I hadn’t heard of until today. Her appetite, she said, had come back, since the pain was gone.
    She explained, very chatty: “Dr. Semmes doesn’t think much of pastry, and wants me to lay off it, he says. But—he didn’t mention ice cream—of course it’s really a dairy product—and I’m sure it’ll be all right. It’s in the pantry freeze, Duke, all kinds of different flavors. Will you find me a pint of strawberry? And soften it up just a little? In the oven, a few minutes? ... Oh well, make it two. A natural food can’t hurt me.”
    I don’t know what hit me funny about it, unless she talked too much, or it seemed queer ice cream was in and pie wasn’t. Also, I wondered why Marge, before leaving, hadn’t said something about it, as she had talked to the doctor. I asked if this meant a diet, and this filthy little four-letter word got kind of a shocked silence. Then: “Well, no, Duke, nothing like that, I hope. Dr. Semmes knows my trouble, and would be the first to remind me I have to keep up my strength. It’s just—I had a taste in my mouth—something I’ve had before—I told him about it today. He thinks—they always have to blame something—the pastry could be the cause. I suppose it is—the least little bit rich.”
    She looked me in the eye, as a cat does when you suspicion him, and can’t imagine, even with feathers on his nose, why you’re picking on him. I reminded myself how her nature