He swung himself over the railing, took the big black hand Isaiah held out.
"David Champlin! Sure glad to see you. Sorry we kept you waiting. Whyn't you sing out you was here?"
"You were busy," said David. He could tell the other man's mind was on a hundred different things, that he was glad David had come, yet wished he hadn't; that with so many things pressing him there was no time, no heart, for the amenities.
"Thought you were long gone," Isaiah was saying. "Thought you was on a plane by now. Been so damned busy around here. Lawd!"
"I know," said David. "That's why I'm here. Heard you say a few weeks ago, didn't I, that you could use an extra hand?"
(Sara. Sara, baby. Smallest. Little love. Understand. For God's sweet sake, understand. Love me. Oh, my little love—) Pharaoh's army got drownded—
Like hell it did. Like hell it did, Gramp; like hell it did, little girl on the schoolhouse steps. You can see its banners flying, hear its warriors shouting—everywhere. Like hell, like bloody hell it got drownded.
CHAPTER 61
Four people stood talking at one end of the big lounge in London's Crown Hotel in Russell Square—Hunter Travis, Dr. Clifton Sutherland and his wife, Rhoda, and a London doctor. Rhoda was saying: "It was good of you to come so quickly, Dr. Dutton. It wasn't actually an emergency."
"Not at all, Mrs. Sutherland. I'm delighted to help any friends of the Travises." The doctor turned to Suds. "There's precious little to be done, as you know, Dr. Sutherland. She must have sleep, of course, and certainly a little nourishment wouldn't do any harm either. The tonic I've prescribed ought to help that stomach. It's an old-fashioned mixture, but very effective."
"My wife and I have to return to the States very soon. We're glad she's in good hands."
"She's an extraordinarily healthy young woman. She'll land on her feet. It's difficult for any male, even a doctor, to put himself in the shoes of a young woman whose marriage has been called off abruptly and unexpectedly. I'll keep an eye on her for a while if she'll let me." He smiled at Hunter. "Your prescription was the best one, Hunter. Your mother. If you can persuade Miss Kent to stay with your family for a while, it would be splendid."
"The family will be back tonight," said Hunter. "I'll do my best."
"Excellent. There's a chemist at the corner. Run up and get these prescriptions filled like a good chap. She's to have the liquid before eating, two of the sleeping capsules tonight, then one a night for a while. You can explain to your mother. Miss Kent doesn't impress me as one who would remember to take medicine. And do try and get some tea and toast into her if nothing else—"
In the chemist's, Hunter fidgeted nervously, roaming the aisles, fingering bottles of mouthwash, boxes of facial tissue, finally buying two of the latter. Sooner or later Sara had to cry. Damn, she had to or she'd crack up completely. Maybe the sleeping tablets would do it, make her let go. He felt bruised and stunned. Emotional involvements were something he'd shied away from since boyhood. Now he was learning that the emotions, unused, could be like unused muscles— hurting like hell when exercising them could no longer be avoided.
Two items—capsules and a bottle of liquid. That was one thing he like about England. Medicine still came in liquid form. And most of it nasty. Gave a man a feeling of having his feet on the ground.
He hurried across the hotel lounge, said to Suds and Rhoda, "I'll bring these up to her—and make her take them."
Suds started to rise, and Hunter said: "Stay here, Suds. I think it would be better if I went alone."
The upstairs corridor looked ten miles long. He wished it were a hundred. Sara's door would be in front of him all too soon. He knocked, then opened it without waiting for a response.
Apparently she hadn't moved since they had gone downstairs with Dr. Dutton half an hour before. She sat like a statue in one of the big room's two armchairs. Like a statue, like a model posing for a painting, like a doll—like a dead woman, except for her eyes. He walked over to her, put a hand over one of her small ones that lay on the arm of the chair.
"Sara, luv—it's Dr. Travis."
"I know, Hunter." She moved now, stood up. "Sit here. It's the most comfortable." She walked to the bed with a curious stiffness, only her legs seeming to be in motion, then sat on the edge of it, straight and still again. She wore a downy cloud-blue robe, and the soft ruching of a blue nightgown showed at her throat.
He unwrapped the package, making a big thing of it, harrumphing and grunting like a cranky doctor, measuring out a teaspoon of the liquid into a glass, adding water, and putting it on the bedside table. "Drink hearty, me girl. It's good for those collywobbles." He picked up the telephone and ordered tea and toast.
"I don't want—"
"Quiet woman! Make that for two, please. Thank you."
"Sometimes you're so British, Hunter." Her voice had no inflection whatever; it was like soft fabric that had been gone over with a hot iron, all its softness made smooth and stiff and starchy. He wondered if she could hear it. If she could hear anything at all, even what he was saying, for the words that must have seared into her brain yesterday when David had called. "You're so British sometimes, and other times you're not." She laughed softly, and Hunter felt goose pimples start out on his flesh. "Tea." The laugh was a little louder now, and the goose pimples increased. "Tea. Oh, my God, Hunter, tea! God—God—God! Tea! Sudsy. Rhoda. That damned doctor. A nice cup of tea. That'll do it, old girl. A nice cup of tea and it all never happened."
He went closer, gripped her shoulders, shook her, not gently. "Stop it, Sara. It happened."
Suddenly her body went limp under his hands and she fell forward, her face against the rough tweed of his coat, her head heavy against him. "I know. I know." And still when she drew back and looked up at him her eyes were dry. "Why, Hunter? Why did it happen?"
He smiled down at her. "You want me to do what you ought to do? Break down and cry? I bloody well could, you know."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I believe you could. You big phony."
He let go of her shoulders, frowning. "Drink that medicine, Sara Kent. It's horrid, judging by the smell. Do you good. Bound to."
He handed her the glass, and she held it in both hands, like a child, and drank it at last, wincing at the taste, then smiling for the first time. "Big bully, too."
Tea came and was set out on the table in front of the window, and when the door had closed behind the maid, Sara said, "Where are Suds and Rhoda?"
"Downstairs in the lounge."
"Thanks for keeping them there."
"Come over here and sit down, Sara. Drink this liquid in this pot. I won't name it, seeing as how it upsets you."
"Tea?" She walked to the table, still with that stiff, legs-only motion, and sat opposite him.
He poured her tea, adding cream and sugar, and she held the cup as she had the glass, in both hands, but did not drink until he said, "Sara, I'll count to five, then hold your nose and pour—"
"Big bully." But she took a swallow, then another. "All right, Hunter?"
"All right, infant. Only finish it. There's a lovely picture of Donald Duck on the bottom of the cup."
"Donald Duck's old hat. He was 'in' when I was a child. Was I ever, Hunter? I feel old. God, I feel old. A million years old."
He said nothing, uncovered the toast and handed her a piece, buttery and still warm. "Eat it."
"No—all right." She nibbled, then took a larger bite. "What was in that hell brew? I—it tastes good. The toast, I mean."
"Inasmuch as it's the first thing you've consented to bite into for twenty-four hours, and inasmuch as you upchucked half the night, I wouldn't give the medicine too much credit."
She did not speak again until she had drunk another cup of tea and eaten another piece of toast. Then she stood and walked to the window, looking down into the road below. She did not look at him when she said "Hunter, make Sudsy stop hating David."
"Sara! He doesn't—"
"Yes. Ye
s, he does. You know it. Yesterday—last night— he'd—I think he'd have strangled him if—if—"
"Suds is fond of you. We all are. It hurts him to see you hurt. Just as it does me and Rhoda. He's angry, yes. He'll get over it."
"No, he won't I can tell. But he mustn't hate David. Because David's good. I don't know, Hunter. I don't know yet what—what happened. But I know David's goodness. No matter what things seem like. Sudsy mustn't hate him—" Her voice was shaking, and Hunter went over to her and took her arm.
"Sara, get over here and get into bed. Right now." She let him lead her to the bed, and crawled into it. "Here are two pills. Open wide—"
"No." She shook her head, and he knew he could not move her.
"Why not, luv?"
"Not until I know what happened. Hunter—all I heard— all I could hear was David saying he wouldn't—Hunter, he sounded as though he was crying—I never heard him like that —never, never—and then—then he hung up."
"You've been over it a thousand times, haven't you, pet?"
"A thousand thousand—"
"Did you think I wouldn't try and find out? I was on the phone half the night. I couldn't raise anyone, anywhere, couldn't get any word except that Brad Willis had left for
Boston." He looked at his watch. "I'm going to call again. Try him there. I'll call from downstairs, Sara. Not here."
"All right, that's all right. Just—for God's sake, find out. Please."
"Don't say 'please.' You know I will. And when I do, will you take your pills?"
"Yes." Her breath caught, and she sighed like a child whose fatigue has been unadmitted until then. "Yes. I'm tired now. But I can't sleep, Hunter, I can't—and then wake up still not knowing—"
"Tomorrow we want you to go to my family's house. For as long as you can—a week—a month—any time at all."
"Your mother wants me?"
"She'll be back tonight. You know she does."
"She's a love. Will she give me tea?"
"Pots and pots of it, I'm afraid."
"Bless her. But—I'm—I'm better alone—"
"I'll fetch you in the morning and now I'm going downstairs and call."
He left her sitting up in bed, her head on her knees, rocking gently back and forth like a mechanical doll, and still she had not wept.
When he went downstairs Suds and Rhoda were gone, and the lounge waiter told him they had left word that they would return by six o'clock. An hour later he was back at Sara's door. She had gotten up while he was gone and was sitting again in the big chair. He had the feeling that, if he had not come back, she would have sat there forever. This time he did not have to go to her, touch her, to bring her back to reality. She was running toward him. "Did you find out? Did you? Did you talk to him?"
He led her to the bed, forcing her to sit on its edge, holding both her hands tightly clasped in one of his. "Yes, I found out. I didn't talk to David, and I couldn't reach Brad in Boston. Only Peg. She sent her love, Sara."
"Go on—go on—"
"I reached Chuck Martin. He's in New Orleans, and he's been with David most of the time. David isn't there right now. Chuck told me—"
She did not speak while he told her the story until he described Gramp's death; then she swayed, whispered, "Oh, no! Please God, no. Not Gramp. Not Gramp—"
"Yes, Sara. Gramp. Li'l Joe Champlin, who never knowingly hurt a living soul." It was shock therapy, and he knew it was good because he could see life begin to return to her face. At last he said, "That's all I know. I think it's all there is to know."
She drew her hands away from his, covering her face with them, and Hunter was glad, because he hadn't thought it possible for eyes to hold more pain than Sara's had held. Her voice was muffled when she said, "Thank you, Hunter. You're so damned good and"—she dropped her hands to her lap and smiled shakily—"it upsets you like hell to hear it—"
"We are what we are, Sara." He smiled at her, tried to pull, as though by main force, another smile from her. "We do what we have to do, what we want to do. Will you take your pills now? I'll break your neck if you don't. You promised."
"Did I? All right. All right, Hunter. Whatever you say."
"And my mother's house tomorrow?"
"Let me think about—all right. Your mother's house tomorrow. I know now, I know about it now. You see, every once in a while I'd think it wasn't true. I'd think that if I could sit very still and not acknowledge it, I'd find out it wasn't true. But I know now. It is."
He handed her the pills and a glass of water and watched her as she swallowed them.
"One more thing—"
"Is it bad, Hunter? I can't take—"
"No. It's a message from Chuck to you. I'll give it verbatim; that's my kind of memory. He said: 'Tell Sara from me and from Brad that we're thinking of her. Me, I'm praying. And tell her for God's sake'—he wasn't being profane, Sara— 'for God's sake to try and understand. And not to be angry. Above all, not to be angry. David is going through hell.'" When Sara did not speak, Hunter went on. " 'Ask her'—this is still Chuck talking, Sara—'ask her if she ever heard of Gethsemane—'"
She closed her eyes. "Yes. Yes, of course I have. It was—a garden—"
He stood up, threw back the covers of the bed, and made her lie down on the stacked pillows, covering her as he would a child. "Try to sleep, Sara. More water?".
"No, thanks. I'll—I'll sleep now. Hunter—Gramp! He had his passport and—and—"
"Want me to sit over here and read for a while, until you get to sleep?"
She had turned on her side and lay now with knees drawn up, a very small mound under the blankets. One fist was pressed against her lips, and her words were difficult to hear: "No. Because I'm going to cry. Oh, God, Hunter, I'm going to cry—and I want to cry alone—"
"All right, Sara. I'll be downstairs. I'll see you're left alone, luv—"
***
In the lounge he ordered a double whiskey, drank it straight without putting the glass down, then swallowed water. He hadn't done that since they'd pulled him out of the wreck of his car on the Dover Road two years before. He leaned back, feeling as though he'd been running twenty miles with a full pack. This sort of thing, he thought, was supposed to be grist for a writer's mill. It damned well wasn't grist for his. His characters had better sense than to love the way Sara and David loved. Up to now he'd thought he'd made his characters too civilized. Now he wasn't sure. No woman, hurt as Sara had been hurt, had any business saying, "Don't let Suds hate David...." Good God, she ought to be hating him herself! That would be normal. Saying "I know David's goodness—no matter what things seem like" wasn't.
Rhoda's voice roused him from an exhausted doze. "You seem to have another patient, Cliff." Hunter straightened up, blinking.
Suds signaled to the waiter, ordered two whiskeys, and a coffee for Rhoda who asked sharply, "What about Sara?"
"What do you mean? She took her medicine like a good child. She must be sound asleep by now."
"Good," said Suds. "Well done, Hunter."
"Sit down, Rhoda, and I'll tell you both what I found out. I finally got the real gen from Chuck in New Orleans."
"Not yet. Did you leave her up there all alone? Where are the sleeping capsules?"
Hunter's eyes, usually cool and seldom wide, were wide now with astonishment. "Rhoda, you can't be serious! Do you honestly think she'd do what's called 'something drastic'? You're way off base."
"I don't care what you think, Hunter. You shouldn't have left her there alone. I'm going up—"
He jumped to his feet, took her arm. "Let her alone, Rhoda. I promised her we'd leave her alone."
"It was a very stupid thing to do. I'm going up—"
Hunter turned to Suds. "Don't let her."
Suds, unsmiling round face set and cold, said wearily: "Don't wake her, Rhoda. She'll be dead asleep after two of those. Get the maid on the floor or the housekeeper to let you in and take the pills out if it will make you feel better." He looked at Hu
nter. "It could be a good idea."
Hunter shrugged. "All right. Only don't wake her. The pills are on the shelf in the bathroom. It never occurred to me, and I still think it's damned silly."
He watched Rhoda leave, and when she had walked through the archway into the lobby he-said to Suds, "I have a message from Sara. For you."
"Yes?" This cold, detached man was a Suds that Hunter had never known.
"I am to tell you not to hate David. I'd like to put in my bit also. Don't."
" 'Hate' is a strong word. I'm sorry—but my understanding isn't all that elastic. I'd hardly call it 'hate' that I feel, though. Disgust, perhaps."
"Suds—listen—"
"Nothing justifies it, Hunter. You've seen Sara and been with her. Do you think anything in God's world can make it less than appalling to hurt a Sara Kent like that? What he has done is indefensible."
"It's easy to be angry, to hate someone you—"
"I told you 'hate' is a strong word."
"It's a murderous one in some places I could name. It was for Li'l Joe Champlin. Damn it, listen while I tell you what I learned—"
Rhoda rejoined them before he finished, and when the story had been told, he said: "Can't you see now, Suds? Understand? They killed more than just an old man. They killed what has made David tick. Good God, man, would you expect him to brush it off? Pick up his life and go on as if nothing had happened? What in hell did they teach you about shock?"
"Sara has already shown us all what shock can do. Even if it's only temporary, it's been unnecessary. One thing they taught me—avoid causing the patient unnecessary pain."
Hunter stood tiredly. "All right, Suds. Have it your own way. I hope to God that David never finds out how you feel. That would really do it for the poor devil."
"I'm afraid he will if I ever see him or talk to him."
"For God's sake, Suds, show a little compassion."
Suds ran a hand over his face, shivered. "I've used it all up, Hunter. As Chuck would say, 'I've run plumb out.' I'm wrung dry."
Both Suds and Rhoda were standing now. Rhoda said: "I'm afraid I feel pretty much the same way Clifton does, Hunter. We're going up to our room and freshen up and then have dinner here. Join us?"