Kenneth waited, politely.
Noel said, “May I telephone you when I get back to New York this Fall?”
(I thought, “I shall never see him again; he won’t remember my name.”)
I said, “Do, by all means. I am in the telephone book. Have a nice
summer with Mr. Coolidge.”
Kenneth and I walked on uptown. After two or three blocks he said,
“Let’s go to Harlem. I should like to see the lights swing ’round at
Small’s. Or do you think it is too warm a night?”
“No, let’s go . . . it might be fun.”
We danced a little, and sat down and drank cold drinks. We did not talk
much. I wanted to say something that would make Kenneth feel happy—but
there is very little to be said to a young man going to California to
die, very swiftly, of lungs and complications.
After a rather long silence, he said, “Noel will telephone you when he
gets back.”
“Why should he, Kenneth?”
He ignored that. “I never meant him to meet you, Pat.”
“I know, Ken. . . . But I don’t know why.”
“Because you have had your major catastrophe, and what you need now is a
little tranquillity.”
“He made me feel nineteen years old, and as if nothing had ever happened
to me, but as if all sorts of marvellous things were going to happen,
instantly.”
“I noticed,” said Kenneth.
We had some of our drinks. Then Kenneth went on talking.
“He is a grand person. I always had an idea that he and you were made to
finish each other’s sentences.”
“Well, then—why didn’t you have us meet last year?”
Kenneth had some more of his drink.
“You needn’t tell me, if you don’t want to, Kenneth.”
“Oh, he will tell you himself, but his version will damn him too much.
You may as well hear the by-stander’s account.”
“Forget about it, Ken. Let’s talk about you.”
“Thank you, no. I’ll make Noel’s story as brief as possible though. It
won’t amuse you.
“He made one of those just-before-the-battle marriages, before he sailed
for France. His wife was a delectable young blonde thing, with no more
sense than a kitten. Naturally, while he was gone she fell in love with
someone else. When Noel came back, she wanted a divorce.
“Naturally, also, he was somewhat disturbed. They discussed the
situation over a good many highballs. He started to drive her home. It
was a rainy night and he was fairly drunk. He ran the car into a tree,
or perhaps it was a telegraph pole. I don’t remember.”
“Was she killed, Kenneth?”
“No. The whole left side of her face was smashed in, and she lost the
sight of one eye. I believe she wears some sort of black patch over it,
on the rare occasions when she comes to New York. She had been a very
lovely-looking young person. She was twenty, when that happened to her.
They say she is a shrew, now, and her main interest in life is reminding
Noel of what he did to her.”