The Transgressors by Jim Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

they were, and she was content to wait until he did.
    A scrupulously honest man, by his own code, he intended to tell her about the beating and what it had done to him, inwardly. She was his wife; she had a right to know. And he hungered for her sympathy, her assurance that he was right—that what he had lived by was right, and that Lord was wrong. But he was too reserved to make a direct appeal to her, and, at any rate, he could not find the right words. It was a simple thing, seemingly: he had had a fight as a result of a business misunderstanding. But it was all mixed up in his mind, and he could not talk about it. Lord had confused him as badly as he had beaten him.
    On one of his quick visits home, he did approach the subject obliquely, attempting by means of a hypothesis, in which he was determinedly fair to the deputy, to get her opinion as to his rightness and Lord’s wrongness:
    Lord, he told her, was doubtless a good man at heart. Everyone spoke well of him, and he deserved much more than life had given him. On the other hand—well, wasn’t his life his own lookout? Was anyone obligated to look out for his interests, to their own disadvantage perhaps, if he could not do so himself?
    “Well”—Donna pondered the problem seriously, her forehead puckering in thought—“well, no, I suppose not. Like Pa used to say, it’s everyone for himself in this world. But,” she added, her face brightening as though the sun had risen behind it, “I’m awfully glad you don’t feel that way. I’d hate to think where I’d be if you did.”
    McBride said uncomfortably that the two situations were different. He’d had a duty toward her, she being a child and his wife’s relative.
    “You did not! You just did it because you’re you, and you’d be just as kind and considerate with Mr. Lord or anyone else.” She hesitated, noticing the flicker of pain in his expression. “You—you do like Mr. Lord, don’t you? I remember your writing me that he’d been very friendly to you.”
    “And he was! He has been!” Seeing the concern in her eyes, he hurried on hastily, making his voice firm and hearty. “Lord’s been very friendly to me. No one could have been pleasanter than he has. I can’t say that we see eye to eye on everything, but—”
    “Yes, dear?” She had not noticed his use of the past tense. “But you do like him? You get along well together?”
    “Now, why shouldn’t we, child? He’s a good man, and you know I’d never willfully offend anyone.”
    “Yes, I know. I just thought that, perhaps—”
    “I’ll tell you, Donna,” McBride said, uncomfortable with his indirect lies and yet forced to tell another. “I think I’d trust Lord with everything I have, even if I didn’t like him personally. If such a thing is possible, he’s actually too honest.”
    “I’m so glad,” Donna murmured. “You need a good friend like that.”
    It was the last time they talked about Tom Lord. McBride wanted to tell her the truth, but he did not know how to begin. He was too fearful of hurting her, or worrying her, or belittling himself in her eyes.
    And, so, finally, before he could inform her that Lord was by no means his good friend, death came for Aaron McBride.
     
    With the morning baths out of the way, and her fourth cup of coffee warming the flesh beneath her stiffly starched uniform, the nurse went down the corridor to 4-B (Surgical), hesitated before the threshold a moment as though to gather her strength, and cautiously opened the door. She was an older woman; gray-haired, crisp-voiced, authoritative of manner. She was used to fussy and demanding patients, and she knew just how to handle them. Yet she had delayed far longer than she should in calling on 4-B. For 4-B somehow made her nervous. The patient not only failed to grasp the idea that the nurses knew what was best for her, and that she should do as they told her, but clung to a directly opposite viewpoint.
    Fortunately, the nurse saw with