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185 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1959
The radio came in on something slow and tinkly: dinner music. Ace picked Bonnie up and set her in the crib. “Shall we dance?” he asked his wife, bowing.
“We need to talk.”
“Baby. It’s the cocktail hour.”
“This is getting us no place,” she said, rising from her chair, though.
In her crib, Bonnie whimpered at the sight of her mother being seized. Ace fitted his hand into the natural place on Evey’s back and she shuffled stiffly into his lead. When, with a sudden injection of saxophones, the tempo quickened, he spun her out carefully, keeping the beat with his shoulders. Her hair brushed his lips as she minced in, then swung away, to the end of his arm; he could feel her toes dig into the carpet. He flipped his own hair back from his eyes. The music ate through his skin and mixed with the nerves and small veins; he seemed to be great again, and all the other kids were around them, in a ring, clapping time.
That night he had the dream. He must have dreamed it while lying there asleep in the morning light, for it was fresh in his head when he woke. They had been in a jungle. Joan, dressed in a torn sarong, was swimming in a clear river among alligators. Somehow, as if from a tree, he was looking down, and there was a calmness in the way the slim girl and the green alligators moved, in and out, perfectly visible under the window-skin of the water. Joan’s face sometimes showed the horror she was undergoing and sometimes looked numb. Her hair trailed behind and fanned when her face came toward the surface. He shouted silently with grief. Then he had rescued her…
There should be, in a man's life, hours when he has never married, and his wife walks in magic circles she herself draws. It was little enough to ask; he had sold his life, his chances, for her sake.