Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) Read Free Book Online Page B

you for me," Buddy told her. Linking his arm with hers, he said,
"Would you like to see my old war wound?"
                 Amused
by him, intrigued by him, she permitted him to lead her from the room, saying as
she went, "I don't know. Would I?"
                 George
closed the door after them, then turned to Jack with
arms outstretched. "Dear boy," he said.
                 Jack
performed a boyish smile. "Hi, George."
                 A
knock sounded at the door, and a voice called, "Five minutes to curtain.
Five minutes to curtain."
                 Jack
took George's hands, held them in his, a movement that seemed to suggest
togetherness but which nevertheless subtly kept George at a little distance.
"I'm sorry, George," Jack said. "It's too late."
                 Petulant,
George said, "Traffic was terrible. I hate this city, I really do."
                 Jack
did truly like his benefactor, and his sympathy showed through his nervousness
and reluctance. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I have to go."
                 "Later,"
George told him. "I'll see you here later. After the
performance."
                 His
smile wan, Jack said, "After the performance, the performance."
                 George
leaned forward to kiss Jack's cheek. Jack awkwardly patted the older man's
back, then moved gracefully around him and left the room, closing the door
behind himself .
                 George
roved the tiny room, wringing his hands, a series of agonized expressions on
his face, small moaning sounds rising from his throat. At last he flung himself
into the chair in front of the dressing table and stared desperately at his own
reflection. "You fool, you," he cried, and put his head down onto his folded arms and wept.
     

10
     
     
                 How
it all comes back to me now, those wonderful days of first success, when I was
still young and naive and hopeful and caring. I had such genius in those days! I could do anything. And with Buddy again at
my side . . . Buddy would always save me, protect me, keep me from harm. He'd
been doing it from the beginning. (We don’t—we never —talk about that.)
                 I
sit smiling at the patio, under God's sun (the high clouds have cleared away,
but I'm not even afraid of that anymore),
and I bask in my memories of those glorious days, until I notice the
interviewer frowning at me again. Now what’s his problem? “Something wrong?" I ask.
                 He
says, “Wait a minute. That last part. Where George Castleberry looked at
himself in the mirror and said, ‘You fool, you,' and put his head down on his
folded arms and wept."
                 I
nod, agreeing. “A lovely scene, isn't it? Touching, dramatic,
full of pathos and understanding and deep revelation."
                 “But,”
he says, “ you didn't see that part. That happened
after you left the room."
                “One knows these things,” I say, and
Hoskins rolls into view like a giant passenger ship, possibly the QEII, bearing a tall, shimmering glass on
a silver tray. “Ah, Hoskins,” I say.
                 “Your fuzzy drink, sir.’’
                 “Thank you, Hoskins.’’
                 Hoskins
recedes, like one of those literary ghosts— Scrooge's father, Hamlet's
Christmas—and I raise the shimmering glass. “To Marcia Callahan,’’ I say.
                 “Your
first wife, I believe,’’ the interviewer says. They love to show how they’ve researched you, how they've studied up on you, how they’ve done their homework. There are times
when I hate being other people's homework.
                 I
taste the shimmer in the glass, and it is like all the finest things of our
planet gathered together into one foamy tube. The clean chill
of Antarctica , the breezy pure sweetness of the Caribbean