Jean nodded. “See what you can do for him, anyway. Losing Sandra that
way was—pretty terrible.”
“What way?” I asked. “I’ve been away, remember. I read something about
it, but——”
“She just died,” Jean said. “Pernicious anemia, they said. But Hess told
me the doctor really didn’t know what it was. She just seemed to grow
weaker and weaker until—she passed away.”
I nodded, gave Jean a hasty kiss, and went back into the house. I had
just seen Hess Deming walk past, a glass in his hand.
* * * * *
He turned as I tapped his shoulder. “Oh, Mart,” he said, his voice just
a bit fuzzy. He could hold his liquor, but I could tell by his bloodshot
eyes that he was almost at the end of his rope. He was a handsome devil,
all right, well-built, strong-featured, with level gray eyes and a broad
mouth that was usually smiling. It wasn’t smiling now. It was slack, and
his face was bedewed with perspiration.
“You know about Sandra?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry, Hess.”
He drank deeply from the glass, wiped his mouth with a grimace of
distaste.
“I’m drunk, Mart,” he confided. “I had to get drunk. It was awful—those
last few days. I’ve got to burn her up.”