JOHN SHEA
209
"He seems
anxious, terribly anxious," she said quietly,
toying with the corner of the folded letter. "I wish I could do some–
thing. I can only send him my love , but that . . . doesn't seem
enough."
Let the bastard get a job and earn his way here, he thought
glibly, unconcerned by his lack of generosity. He closed his eyes for
a moment. Something would have to happen soon.
She wrote back almost at once, but her reply was obviously in–
adequate. Did she not love him? Had her love gone? Was she going
to let him die here, all alone, without her sunshine? He would love
very much to come to visit, but how? He needed her help . He
needed her help. He needed her help. Now.
The letter, short and almost totally given over to such senti–
ments, left her crying, her head bowed . Quickly, torn by the sight,
he invented another brief ending. "Your love sustains me. I know I
could not go on living without it, without the thought of you....
That's about it. It's a fairly short one this time. Marie?" She did not
look up . "Is there anything I can do? Some tea? Vodka?" When she
shook her head, he got up quietly . All he had to do was kneel beside
her and put his arms around her and tell her the truth. But again he
felt like a deceiver and an opportunist. "Give me a ring if there's
anything you need, all right?" As he left the apartment, the scene
vivid in his mind, he promised himself that he would not read
another letter to her. Before he reached his own door, he knew he
would be too weak to refuse .
He felt full of a nervous, aching energy. He could not think
clearly, did not know what to do . He paced . He tried to read, but
soon tossed the book aside. He performed climactic scenes in his
head , in which he would finally be able to speak; the letters would be
torn and strewn about the room, and a new life would begin for the
two of them. But nothing helped to calm him. He moved restlessly,
much too abruptly and awkwardly, and there was nowhere in the
apartment to go. Always he returned to a motionless frustration. For
a minute he contemplated the telephone . All he had to do was dial
her number ... and she would hear his voice, the same voice that
had spoken for someone else for so long, for so long that perhaps it
was no longer his. This is Terry, he would say; but it would be
Fabrizio Randazzo speaking, miraculously: he had come, he had
made the trip, everything would be fine now.
He jumped to his feet and charged into the kitchen. He threw
open the refrigerator and groped for a can of beer. Then he pulled
the rest of the cans out as well, dangling four from the plastic strip.
