The Collected Stories of Richard Yates by Richard Yates Read Free Book Online

let’s go home pick up ya bag.’ He siz, ‘Ah, bag schmagg.’ I siz, ‘Whatsa matta?’ but he don’t say nothin’, see? So we go home to his place and the living-room door’s shut, see?”
    She squirmed closer and put her head on his chest. Automatically he raised an arm and dropped it around her shoulders, still talking. “He siz, ‘G’ahead, Ralph, open the door.’ I siz, ‘Whatsa deal?’ He siz, ‘Never mind, Ralph, open the door.’ So I open the door, and oh Jesus.” His fingers gripped her shoulder with such intensity that she looked up at him in alarm.
    â€œThey was all there, Gracie,” he said. “All the fellas. Playin’ the piana, singin’, cheerin’—” His voice wavered and his eyelids fluttered shut, their lashes wet. “A big surprise party,” he said, trying to smile. “Fa me. Can ya beat that, Gracie? And then—and then Eddie comes out and—Eddie comes out and hands me this. The very same bag I been lookin’ at all this time. He bought it with his own money and he didn’t say nothin’, just to give me a surprise. ‘Here, Ralph,’ he siz. ‘Just to let ya know you’re the greatest guy in the world.’” His fingers tightened again, trembling. “I cried, Gracie,” he whispered. “I couldn’t help it. I don’t think the fellas saw it or anything, but I was cryin’.” He turned his face away and worked his lips in a tremendous effort to hold back the tears.
    â€œWould you like a drink, darling?” she asked tenderly.
    â€œNah, that’s all right, Gracie. I’m all right.” Gently he set the suitcase on the carpet. “Only, gimme a cigarette, huh?”
    She got one from the coffee table, put it in his lips and lit it. “Let me get you a drink,” she said.
    He frowned through the smoke. “Whaddya got, that sherry wine? Nah, I don’t like that stuff. Anyway, I’m fulla beer.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “And then Eddie’s mother feeds us this terrific meal,” he went on, and his voice was almost normal now. “We had steaks ; we had French-fried potatas” —his head rolled on the sofa-back with each item of the menu—“lettuce-and-tomata salad, pickles, bread, butter —everything. The works.”
    â€œWell,” she said. “Wasn’t that nice.”
    â€œAnd afterwards we had ice cream and coffee,” he said, “and all the beer we could drink. I mean, it was a real spread.”
    Grace ran her hands over her lap, partly to smooth the nylon and partly to dry the moisture on her palms. “Well, that certainly was nice of them,” she said. They sat there silent for what seemed a long time.
    â€œI can only stay a minute, Gracie,” Ralph said at last. “I promised ’em I’d be back.”
    Her heart thumped under the nylon. “Ralph, do you—do you like this?”
    â€œWhat, honey?”
    â€œMy negligee. You weren’t supposed to see it until—after the wedding, but I thought I’d—”
    â€œNice,” he said, feeling the flimsy material between thumb and index finger, like a merchant. “Very nice. Wudga pay fa this, honey?”
    â€œOh—I don’t know. But do you like it?”
    He kissed her and began, at last, to stroke her with his hands. “Nice,” he kept saying. “Nice. Hey, I like this.” His hand hesitated at the low neckline, slipped inside and held her breast.
    â€œI do love you, Ralph,” she whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”
    His fingers pinched her nipple, once, and slid quickly out again. The policy of restraint, the habit of months was too strong to break. “Sure,” he said. “And I love you, baby. Now you be a good girl and get ya beauty sleep, and I’ll see ya in the morning.