Part 10 (1/2)
”I think it's cut a d.a.m.n sight too low.”
Kitty chuckled again. ”She's very nicely built,” she said complacently. ”Isn't she?”
”All right,” Archer said, exasperatedly. ”I'm stuffy. She told me that, too.”
”Girls have to make themselves look nice,” Kitty said mildly. ”You ought to be thankful she's so pretty.”
”I'm thankful,” said Archer. ”I'm delighted. It's working out fine. It's working so well she's out tonight with one of the most notorious men in New York.”
”Notorious!” Kitty pretended to be shocked. ”Heavens!”
”Now, Kitty,” Archer shouted, ”will you please stop being so d.a.m.ned tolerant for a minute or two?”
”I haven't heard a man called notorious,” Kitty said, ”since our preacher ran off with the telegraph operator's wife, and that was in-”
”You know what you are?” Archer asked, resigned to the fact that he had already lost this battle.
”What?”
”Slippery. I have what your daughter would call an utterly slippery wife.”
”Don't take it so hard, darling,” Kitty said. She leaned over and patted his hand comfortably. ”I think Mr. Barbante is very nice.”
”He is the most thorough woman chaser in the city,” Archer said gloomily. ”He's at least thirty and has the morals of a Turk.”
”I'm sure Jane will behave very well,” Kitty said primly. ”I'm not at all worried about her.”
Archer knew that this was meant as a rebuke for his lack of faith. ”Neither am I,” he said quickly. ”Not really.”
”It's all good experience for a girl,” Kitty said. ”Let them see the whole line early so they won't be surprised later in life.”
”If I weren't so tired,” Archer said, ”I would be shocked.”
”Why don't you try to take a cold shower before dinner?” Kitty asked, instantly solicitous.
”I don't want a shower. Also-she put on a whole batch of disgusting airs with him and she wore low-heeled shoes because he's a midget.”
Kitty smiled. ”Girls have to grow up sometime,” she said. ”You've got to try on an air or two when you're eighteen years old to see what the effect is. And I always wore low shoes myself when I went out with a short man. Don't be so stern.”
”Anyway,” Archer said, with grim satisfaction, ”I told her to come home early. From now on, I'm going to take over Jane's instruction, and I hope that that one”-he pointed to Kitty's stomach-”is a boy.”
”My,” Kitty said, wrinkling her nose, ”you must have had a bad day. Did you have a fight with O'Neill?”
”No,” Archer said. For a moment, he thought of telling Kitty the whole story. It would be a relief to unburden himself, get someone else's advice, share the painful interior monologue of the last twenty-four hours. He regarded her thoughtfully. She looked fragile, childish and helpless in the pillowed bed. Then he decided against it. Not now. Not yet. Not until it couldn't be avoided. He would leave Kitty's protection intact as long as he possibly could. ”No,” he said, ”I didn't have any trouble with O'Neill. Just the regular routine,” he said carelessly. ”I spoke to Nancy on the phone. Clement has the measles. I told him I'd come up soon and tell him a story.”
Kitty looked at him strangely. ”You don't plan to go into the room, do you?”
”Of course I plan to go into the room. You can't tell a four-year-old child a story by coaxial cable, can you?”
”Oh, Clement ...” Kitty looked at him reproachfully. ”Measles're so catching.”
”I had the measles,” Archer said, ”when I was five years old. And I've known young Clement since before he was born and I'm his G.o.dfather. What do you expect me to do-stand at the doorway and make him feel like a leper?”
”Now you're angry at me,” Kitty said. Her voice began to tremble. She had developed an unhappy tendency toward tears in the last few months. ”You think I'm unfeeling toward the child.”
”I despise the idea of being frightened of sickrooms,” Archer said. ”It's so cowardly and. ...”
”You despise me,” Kitty began to sob.
Archer put his arm around her to comfort her. Her shoulders felt frail and young under the frilly bedjacket. ”Now, darling,” he kissed her neck, ”I don't despise you at all. You know that.”
”It's not for me,” Kitty said. ”Or even for you. But even if we don't get it ourselves, we can carry the infection and then when the child is born. ...”
”I know, I know,” Archer said. ”Don't worry about him. He'll be enormously rugged. I guarantee.”
”I feel so queer these days,” Kitty said wetly into his shoulder. ”You have to forgive me.”
”Of course I forgive you.”
”It's not like when we were young. I knew nothing bad could happen then. ...”
”Nothing bad is going to happen now. And we're not so old,” Archer said. ”Stop making us sound as though we're both ready to fall apart.”
”I don't have any confidence any more,” Kitty whispered. ”I have such terrible dreams. ...”
”Don't cry. Kitty, darling, please don't cry,” Archer whispered, holding her. ”And from now on, whenever you have a bad dream, wake me up and we'll put on the light, and you can tell me about it if you think that'll help, or we'll just sit up and read. ...”
Kitty stifled her sobs and rubbed her face against his coat. She kissed him. ”I'm all right now,” she said. She smiled wanly. ”Is it dreadful, weeping like this? I'm ashamed of myself.”
Archer stood up. ”Don't worry about it,” he said. ”You cry all you want for the next four months.”
”The perfect husband.” Kitty even managed a chuckle.
The phone rang on the bedside table and Archer leaned over a picked it up. ”h.e.l.lo,” he said.
”Clement.” It was Vic's voice. ”I heard you called.”
”Yes.” Archer glanced at Kitty, moist and inquiring on the bed below him. It would be impossible to talk now. ”I wanted to see you.”
”I'm afraid it'll have to wait a few days,” Vic said. His voice w sober. ”I'm having a little trouble.”
”What's the matter?”
”I just got a call from Detroit. I'm taking a plane for there now. I'm leaving in ten minutes. My mother's had a stroke and the doctors're being gloomy.”
”Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Vic.”