Before she went to sleep.
Ann, Ann, thirty minutes, Ann, oh beloved darling....
The last record finished and shut off the machine. Ted dreamed of homering in the ninth, against Louisville, with the bases loaded.
He woke to a black room. Had Ann come in, not seen him in the living room, and gone to bed? Ann, no. Ann, be awake. Ann, you wouldn't like Venus—without me. I hope. Ann....
He stumbled out into the hall, and looked up the steps. No lights there, either. He ran up the stairs, whimpering, and through the dressing room into her room. He snapped on the big overhead light.
She was asleep. Asleep—and smiling.
He was shaking her. He was sobbing, burying his wet face in her shoulder, trembling and incoherent.
"Ted, baby, what is the matter? What's happened, darling?"
He told her. Incoherently, but swiftly, holding her tightly all the while. From the first of Hamilton's words to the last. And finished with, "I've wanted you so badly, and you seemed so distant. I know there's no excusing me, but I want you to understand, to know how much I—"
He was silent, spent, weak as water.