Deep Water by Patricia Highsmith (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📗

he said, and I don't think he was drunk—except with his own power. But Melinda was talking about going to the ends of the earth with him. Why don't you tell him where to head off, Vic?"

       "It's news to me. I hadn't heard any of that."

       "Well, you should have. You're partly to blame, Vic. What real effort have you made to get back with Melinda on any kind of basis after the De Lisle affair?"

       Vic's mind teetered on the two meanings of the word "affair" before he could shape his answer. "I have tried," he said simply.

       "As far as I know, you're still living in your own part of the house." Horace said, hiding his embarrassment in an aggressive tone. "You're young, Vic. Thirty-six, aren't you? Melinda's still younger. What sort of marriage 'do' you expect to have with her? You'll wake up some morning and find her gone!"

       "I don't care to manage her," Vic said. "I never did. She's a free human being."

       Horace looked at him, puzzling. "You're just giving up? Because I think you may lose to Cameron."

       Vic was silent for several seconds. He was not thinking of what to answer. Partly he was feeling his embarrassment at the conversation, tasting it on his tongue, partly he was panicky lest Horace alter his opinion of him in any way, lower his estimation of him.

       "All right, Horace. I'll have a little talk with her about Mr. Cameron."

       "I think it'll take more than talking. Either you change your whole attitude—or else."

       Vic smiled. "Aren't you exaggerating?"

       "I don't think so, Vic." Horace lighted a cigarette. "Vic, why're you so damned aloof? What's the purpose?"

       "I'm not aloof. Will you go for a drink at the local?" He started gathering the few things he wanted to take home.

       "Your whole attitude's wrong, Vic. If it ever had a chance of being right—and maybe it did once—it's wrong now."

       "Those are the strongest words I've ever heard you use, Horace."

       "I mean them."

       Vic looked at Horace, feeling a little off balance. "Shall 'we' go for that drink?"

       Horace shook his head. "I'll be going. I didn't mean to blow my top, but I think I'm really glad I did. Maybe you'll take this one seriously—Cameron, I mean. Good night, Vic." Horace went out and closed the door.

       A strange sensation, like fear, came over Vic as soon as he was alone. He finished gathering his papers, went out, and locked the door behind him. Horace's car was just disappearing down the lane. Vic got into his own car. A cool tingle went up his spine into the back of his neck. Then he swallowed and relaxed his hands on the wheel. He knew what the trouble was. He had not allowed himself really to think about Cameron, except to think that Cameron would be gone in another couple of weeks. He had not allowed himself to put his brain to the problem that Cameron created. And Horace had pointed that out. It was as if Horace had pointed a finger at a fire burning right at his feet, a fire he had chosen to ignore. (On the other hand, he considered he had a right to ignore it if he wanted to. If a fire were at his feet, the only person who would be hurt would be himself. What had upset him most, lie thought, was that Horace had forced him for a moment into a conformist's attitude, a conformist's vision of things.) But perhaps Horace was right in saying that he hadn't realized some important facts. He hadn't, for instance, admitted to himself that Melinda might really like Cameron, that Cameron might be Melinda's type precisely. That bluntness, that primitiveness, that really outdid her own! And that pachydermal naiveté! Cameron was the kind who would "take her away," wait for a divorce, and then marry her properly. And he was, indeed, Melinda's type precisely. It was an overwhelming revelation to him.

       Trixie was alone in the house when Vic got home. The boxer puppy came loping to greet him, jumping into the air and wriggling at the same time in a movement that always reminded Vic of a leaping trout.

       "Was your mother here when you got home?" he asked. "Nope. I guess she's out with Tony," Trixie said, and went on reading the comic page in the evening paper.

       Vic fixed himself a drink. As he carried it to his armchair, he noticed the new blue-and-white box of Nelson Thirty-three pipe tobacco on the little table beside the chair. It must have come today, and Melinda had unwrapped it and put it there. She must have ordered it about two weeks ago, Vic thought, must have ordered it on one of the days that she had spent with Tony.

Chapter 20

Brian Ryder arrived by train in Wesley the following Saturday. He was a pleasant, intense young man with the energy of a young Tarzan and the physique that went with it. The first thing lie wanted to do was walk around the town, even before he and Vic had an opportunity to discuss his poems. The walk took him nearly two hours in the afternoon, and he returned with damp hair, his face shining. He had found Bear Lake and taken a dip in it. The temperature was about forty degrees. Bear Lake was nearly eight miles away. Vic asked him how he had made it so fast.

       "Oh, I took a jog along the road, going there," he replied. "I like to run. And on the way back I caught a ride with a fellow. He said he knew you."

       "Oh? Who?" Vic asked.

       "His name was Peterson."

       "Oh, yes."

       "He seems to think a lot of you."

       Vic made no reply. Melinda was sitting on the sofa in the living room, pasting photographs in her album. She had not said anything to Brian after