“Why?”
“She’s the only one who can handle him at all. If I want to keep him from doing something that’s bad for his health or his business, I might as well talk to the statue of General Sherman, across from the Plaza Royale.”
I thought as things stood, she might. But I just helped myself to more of the crisp bacon.
“So I did let Marge know what marched. She’d just finished thanking me and saying she’d bustle right in and throw a monkey wrench where it would do the most good, when Dow came in the office and overheard me.” Ruth gazed drearily at me over her cup. “I’d better tell you about Dow and me.”
“Not necessary, is it?” I couldn’t bring myself to casually mention that he was dead.
“I’d feel better if I told somebody. You seem to understand, sort of. I want to tell you.”
She did, while the simple act of buttering toast made me think of that steak knife being brandished by a shrewd Prosecutor before a crowded courtroom.
“Dow’s different from most men. Not because he’s always having affairs; I guess most men do, one time or another. But he’s never serious; he never even pretends to be with anyone except Marge. He always tells a girl he’s devoted to Marge, wouldn’t dream of leaving her for any other woman. I know; he told me — and I was idiot enough to fall in love with him in spite of it. The secretary he had before I got the job, she had a nervous breakdown, went completely to pieces, simply because she thought he’d change his mind, after sleeping with her a few times, and leave his wife. Of course he didn’t.”
I couldn’t think of any comment that wouldn’t sound like Simple Simon.
She spilled marmalade on the tablecloth; all I could see were dime-size spots of wax dropped on a bedspread by someone coating finger tips with wax so they wouldn’t leave any prints.