The orthopedist said he would phone her in an hour. And five minutes later it was with the confused thought that he was already calling that Mary answered the phone.
“I can’t talk, Joris,” she said. “There was an awful accident—”
“Can I help?”
“It’s gone now. It was my husband—”
Suddenly Mary knew she wanted to do anything but wait alone for word from the hospital.
“Come over then,” she said. “You can take me up there if I’m needed.”
She sat in place by the phone until he came—jumped to her feet with an exclamation at his ring.
“Why? Why?” she sobbed at last. “I offered to go see him at his hotel.”
“Not drunk?”
“No, no—he almost never takes a drink. Will you wait right outside my door while I dress and get ready?”
The news came half an hour later that Martin’s shoulder was set again, that he was sleeping under the ethylene gas and would sleep till morning. Joris Deglen was very gentle, swinging her feet up on the sofa, putting a pillow at her back and answering her incessant “Why?” with a different response every time—Martin had been delirious; he was lonely; then at a certain moment telling the truth he had long guessed at: Martin was jealous.
“That was it,” Mary said bitterly. “We were to be free—only I wasn’t free. Only free to sneak about behind his back.”
She was free now though, free as air. And later, when he said he wouldn’t go just yet, but would sit in the living room reading until she quieted down, Mary went into her room with her head clear as morning. After she undressed for the second time that night she stayed for a few minutes before the mirror arranging her hair and keeping her mind free of all thoughts about Martin except that he was sleeping and at the moment felt no pain.
Then she opened her bedroom door and called down the corridor into the living room:
“Do you want to come and tell me good night?”
