"Tomorrow," he managed to say, but now he was afraid, afraid of himself, ambivalence taking over, he continued eating goodies from the tray but the break had come.
She noticed his twisted mouth, his uncertain fingers.
"I'll find us some dance music ... I'll turn on the radio ... dance with me, Orv." Then, she blurted: "Orv, are you really in love with her?"
"I helped get her out of London ... Uncle Victor helped me get her out ... we couldn't leave her to those blitzes. Do you love ... do you really love anyone, Lena? Do any of us really love, any more? Hasn't life become rotted?"
"What are you saying?" she asked, evasively.
"Nothing ... nothing..."
He put down his glass and got up and went to the piano; he had not touched a piano for over a year and he had no notion of touching this one; he wanted to be near it, thinking, for the moment, as he stood by it, of his mother, missing her. In Ithaca their piano had become impotent, had given way to the radio. Unsatisfactory--like altering one's name.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
(Landel had said ... Zinc had said.)
Without seeing Lena, he walked about the room, hesitated by the Chopin bust, lingered in front of the fireplaces; then, rubbing his hands together roughly, shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Good night."