She didn’t answer. A block from his home, she stopped. He stepped out. “You may be right,” she said softly. “I may be. Anyhow, Jimmie, I’m going to start my music.
Wednesdays and Fridays. At nine.” Her coupe budged forward, gathered speed, and swept down the luminous street, its gears shifting automatically. Jimmie walked along the cement sidewalk. Presently, he looked up. The same stars, in the same patterns, shone across the new evening. The unchangeability of those patterns was like a great scorn.
He entered his house with a sense of heavy fatigue. There was an aura of disturbance in the living room. Cocktails left half tasted. Chairs out of place. Something wrong. “Hey, people!” he called, trying to make his voice amiable and positive.
Westcott came from the dining room. “They’re all at the hospital, Mr. Bailey.
Your brother’s been hurt. Smashed his car up.”
“The devil he has! Bad?”
“I couldn’t say. They don’t know yet.”
Jimmie sat down slowly.
The slacker, he thought. The coward!