Part 22 (2/2)
”Let me go, I say!”
He coughed and turned on his side toward her.
”You don't mean it.”
”I do! I do! Let go! Let go!”
She tore herself free and darted to the wardrobe door. He closed his eyes and his lashes lay low on his cheeks.
”Before you go, Goldie, where's the antiphlogistin? I got a chest on me like an ice-wagon.”
”Sure, you have. That's the only time you ever show up before crack of dawn.”
He reached out and touched her wrist.
”I'm hot, ain't I?”
She placed a reluctant hand on his brow.
”Fever?”
”It ain't nothing much. I'll be all right.”
”It's just one of your spells. Stay in bed a couple of days, and you'll soon be ready for another jamboree!”
”Don't fuss at me, baby.”
”It's in the wash-stand drawer in a little tin can. Don't make the plaster too hot.”
”Sure, I won't. I'll get along all righty.”
She threw a shabby cloth skirt over her arm and a pressed-plush coat that was gray at the elbows and frayed at the hem. He reached out for the dangling empty sleeve as she pa.s.sed.
”You was married in that coat, wasn't you, hon?”
”Yes,” she said, and her lips curled like burning paper; ”I was married in that coat.”
”Goldie-eyes, you know I can't get along without my petsie; you know it.
There ain't no one can hold a candle to you, baby!”
”Yes, yes!”
”There ain't! I wish I was feelin' well enough to tell you how sorry, baby--how sorry a fellow like me can get. I just wish it, baby--baby--”
She surrendered like a reed to the curve of a scythe and crumpled in a contortional heap beside the bed.
”You--you always get me!”
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