The Passage by David Poyer Page B

forgot. Billy.”
    â€œDid you fight any Russians today?”
    â€œNo, we just mainly fought ourselves today.”
    â€œScotch and water? Or something with gin?”
    â€œScotch, with ice. Look in the bag—”
    â€œI still have some you brought last week.”
    Billy wanted a ride, so Dan gave him a merry-go-round for a couple of minutes. His head whacked into an overstuffed chair, but he didn’t want to stop. Dan grinned, planing him up toward the ceiling.
    His mother came out with glasses. “Oh—don’t be too rough. He loves it, but … Now don’t mess his uniform, Billy. You’d better go back to your room.”
    â€œOh Mom, do I hafta? Lieutenant Dan and me—”
    â€œYour room, I said, young man. Jennifer will be here in a little while. Dan, want to come upstairs? I’m still getting dressed. Billy, stay down here. You can watch TV till we come back down, okay?”
    Dan looked back as they climbed the stairs, to see the boy’s saddened eyes watching him.
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    â€œDID you like that?” She rolled over, tucking the sheet between her legs, and propped her head on her arm. He kneaded between his eyes, wishing the knot would go away. Fucking depressed him, he didn’t know why. “Yeah, it was great,” he said, glancing at the door. The boy’s eyes—he couldn’t get them out of his mind.

    Beverly Strishauser was tall and pale, an overwhelming paleness: pale blond hair, pale lips, white translucent skin. Her face was a Modigliani oval on a long neck. Lying beside him, she lifted a narrow foot as if admiring the blue veins that threaded it, the hollow beneath her ankle. She had small violet-laced breasts and a hollow beneath her breastbone. Everything about her was long except her hair, which was pageboy short, with a dark streak in back. She liked to wear pastel colors, flower prints in sheer fabrics, with clunky white or pale gray high heels. As she turned for something on the nightstand, his finger traced down her spine. She shifted her hips, squeezing his hand as a lighter clicked. He heard her inhale and then exhale, aiming the smoke away from him.
    â€œIs there anything different you’d like me to do?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Do you want to do something else?”
    â€œNo. I liked that—gosh, I liked it. But I thought maybe you’d like something different.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” he said again, not feeling attached to the conversation. The cold light bleeding through the blinds outlined every object in the room starkly and separately: the night table, books, their half-empty glasses, her diaphragm case on the dresser, the poster of the Morris Island lighthouse. He disliked it when she smoked in bed. He’d never smoked, couldn’t stand it; didn’t like the smell, the ash, anything about it. “Hey, have you got an aspirin?”
    She searched for her glasses, then got up quickly, patting his hand, and went into the bathroom. He lay with his eyes closed till he felt her fingers insert a tablet between his lips, then hold the drink for him, as for a sick child. The scotch was watery. He remembered a riddle he’d heard about twins who’d been poisoned in a bar, but only one died. The poison was in the ice in their drinks, and one had drunk his drink fast and the other slow.
    â€œWhere’s Billy?”
    â€œHe’ll be all right. Mr. Rogers is on. The sitter will be in soon.”
    â€œWhere are we going tonight?”
    â€œWe don’t have to go anywhere, if you’re not feeling well.”
    â€œNo, hell. I might ask you to drive, though.”
    â€œOkay,” she said agreeably. He watched her slowly drawing on her underclothes, panty hose, slip.
    That was what he disliked about her, her agreeableness. That and the smoke smell that was always on her breath and her Deep South accent and the ugly dress shields she wore. She taught