Part 4.2 – Perry Sleeps
Perry took the elevator down to the lobby, where he spent several minutes making telephone calls. Paul Drake was shocked and upset, and promised to apprise Gertie of Della's illness. Perry had a heck of a time convincing the private detective not to drive down to Carmel that night, and was grateful that Paul was such a good friend to him and Della. He then dialed a local number and spoke to Martin, asking for a few additional favors of him. The designer assured him it was no inconvenience whatsoever to do what he asked, for most of it was already taken care of and merely needed to be moved into the house.
The house was empty and silent when he opened the front door. He headed straight upstairs and into the bathroom for a shower, leaving a trail of clothes in the hallway he would pick up later. Standing under the strong stream of hot water cleared away some of the anguish of the past three days, and he felt refreshed by the time he finally stepped out of the steamy stall and dried himself vigorously with the only towel that wasn't musty from having been left wadded up on the floor. He moved into the bedroom and dressed in silk pajamas, robe and slippers – he couldn't believe he had remembered to pack slippers and Della hadn't – and picked up two more towels and her still damp socks. Laden with six bath towels, three hand towels, Della's socks, and the bottle of bourbon, he descended the stairs and loaded everything but the bourbon into the washer in the mud room off the kitchen. Bless Martin for making practical decisions about what necessities would be required for the first weekend spent in the house.
Perry scuffed into the kitchen and rooted through the refrigerator, settling on leftover cold spaghetti to eat because he didn't want to dirty any pans to heat it up. There was a healthy amount of wine remaining from Saturday's dinner as well, which he poured into a wine glass. But before sipping any of the wine, he uncorked the bottle of bourbon and swigged directly from it, the whiskey a liquid balm for his exhausted, terrorized nerves. Feeling warm and soothed by the bourbon, he twiddled with the dial of the blue Crosley Bullseye Bakelite radio until he found a station currently playing old big band recordings, and settled wearily into the chair he had selected as 'his' at the kitchen table and proceeded to eat cold spaghetti.
He scraped the last of the sauce from the plate with a piece of bread and pushed the plate away from him. His cigarette case and lighter were lying on the table so he lit up and took a deep drag. He sat at the kitchen table in the dark, smoking, listening to the music Della loved and the washing machine, his brain blank and aching.
When the washer cycle ended he loaded the towels and the pair of socks in the dryer and proceeded to tidy the kitchen. Leaving the plate and wine glass to dry on the sideboard, he made his way back up the stairs and picked up the trail of clothing in the hallway, as well as Della's dungarees and white shirt, which he probably should have washed with the towels. Discovering a hamper in the closet, he tossed everything in and let the lid fall back in place. He pulled up the covers that had been flung back to reveal Della's rigid, convulsing body and arranged the quilt once again on the bed. He shed his robe, sat on the edge of the mattress and kicked off his slippers. He remained there for several minutes, hands clasped in his lap, telling himself over and over that Della was going to be fine, that she would soon be home and in this very same bed with him, and that he was only going to sleep for two hours, then head back to the hospital to relieve Mae.
The sheets were cool as he slipped between them. He reached out to pull Della's pillow toward him and his hand encountered something beneath it. Her discarded nightie. He dragged it toward him and wrapped his arms around the scrap of flannel. He fell asleep clutching the nightie, listening to the radio playing in the kitchen.
"I love you."
She looked up at him. "I love you, too." She returned her attention to the brief she was editing, a red grease pencil held between her fingers, tapping against the table in concert with Benny Goodman's 'Sing, Sing, Sing'.
"I love you."
She looked up at him again. "And I love you." After a swift smile, she let her eyes drop to the brief.
"I love you."
She didn't look at him until she had pushed the brief off to the side and folded her hands in front of her on the table. "Go ahead. What is it you want to talk about?"
He grinned at her. "I just like saying I love you."
"And I like hearing it, darling, but I know you. Telling me you love me three times in a row is merely a prelude to what you really have on your mind. What is it? We have a lot of work to do."
He gave her his best crestfallen look. "Don't you like saying I love you to me?"
"I do. I answered you twice already."
"I like that phrase too. 'I do'. We could say both in front of a judge, baby."
She sighed and hooked her index finger around his. "We could, but we aren't going to."
Now he really was crestfallen. "Let's discuss this more. I'm not going to accept that answer without an explanation."
"I've already given you an explanation several times, my darling."
"You don't call a man 'my darling' when you are refusing his marriage proposal, sweetheart. You're sending mixed messages."
"There is no mixed message. I love you. I'm just not going to marry you."
He sat back and looked at her with a blank expression. "Because you don't love me enough to marry me?"
She slid from her chair and onto his lap in one graceful movement. Her hands held his head as she kissed him, deeply, sensuously. His hands spanned her ribcage, long fingers digging into her soft flesh. "I love you too much to marry you, my darling man," she whispered against his searching lips.
Perry awoke with a jerk. He was on his side, hugging Della's nightie, his head resting on her pillow. He checked the luminous dial of his watch and swore vehemently. He had been asleep for almost five hours. Flinging back the covers, he sprang from the bed and flicked on the light. Dressing almost frantically, his brain still fogged from sleep, he had to tell himself aloud what to do. "Boxers, socks, corduroys, shirt, belt, sweater, shoes. No, boxers, socks, corduroys, deodorant, shirt, belt, sweater, shoes." He raced into the bathroom for his grooming case, brushed his teeth, slapped on a bit of cologne and swore again when he got his shirt buttoned without applying deodorant and had to unbutton and re-button, each wasted second keeping him from Della. He shouldn't have left the hospital. What if Della had woken up again? He had thought not installing a phone in the house would make it a real getaway; that they wouldn't be tempted to conduct business while taking time out from crime and criminals, but now he couldn't wait for Martin to arrange for one to be hooked up. If she had woken up, Mae could have called him and he could have talked to her, reassured her that he hadn't left her, not really.
He ran downstairs and into the kitchen to grab his cigarette case and lighter, and to pull the laundry out of the dryer. One of Della's socks was missing. He shook out each towel, but it wasn't anywhere to be found. He distinctly remembered putting two socks in the dryer. He checked the washer tub. It wasn't there. Scratching his head and cussing again about wasted seconds, he left the towels in a basket atop the dryer, grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and streaked through the house to the front door. Snatching his jacket from the peg and jamming his arms in it, he slammed the front door and ran down the steps to his car, almost slipping on the slick pavement.
Once behind the wheel of the big car, a calmer state of mind overtook him. It wasn't as if it was that night, that horrible night he had placed a fever-ravaged Della in the back seat wrapped in the quilt from their bed and driven through the fog and mist to the hospital. She was already there. She was already getting better. She woke up and talked and drank water, and commanded him to kiss her. He eased his foot off the accelerator and took a bite of the apple. He had to maintain a modicum of sanity, had to be strong for Della so that she could get better faster. He also had to show her 'family' that he wouldn't let anything happen to her, and if something did happen, like this, that he was capable of taking care of her. Which meant that no one would ever know what went on less than two hours before she convulsed.
The weather was still cold and damp, and he hurried from the visitor parking area to the lobby of the hospital, ran to catch the elevator and rode it impatiently to the third floor, shaking moisture from his hair and clothing. He was smoothing his hair back into place when the elevator doors opened on the third floor and he stepped out onto the C.C.U. He immediately sensed something was amiss – there were no nurses at the station and a small crowd of people were gathered in the hallway, blocking his view of Della's room. His heart stopped, then raced painfully as he broke into a run.
A tall, thin man with curly chestnut hair turned at the sound of Perry's feet pounding on the tile and took several steps toward him, waving his arms. Perry tried to push past him, and would have if Joe the orderly and Mae hadn't grabbed his arms and slowed him down. He struggled mightily, landing an inadvertent blow to the tall man's face, but two more orderlies joined in the task of restraining him and soon enough he was stilled.
"Perry!" Mae shouted. "Stop it! She's okay."
"Let go of me," he growled to the orderlies. "Let me in there."
Mae slapped her hands flat against his cheeks and forced him to look at her. "Perry, she's okay. She had a spell, but she's okay now. Kathy Martin is in there with her, as well as two other doctors, and a battalion of nurses. Look at me! She's in good hands."
Perry was breathing hard, his heart still beating much too fast, adrenaline exploding from his veins. He resisted the pressure of Mae's hands, ignored the sting of her slaps. How could Della be okay if whatever had happened required the assistance of three doctors and a 'battalion' of nurses? "Mae, tell them to let me go," he said with ominous calm.
Mae shook her head and continued to hold his face between her hands. "Absolutely not. Not until you calm down and promise you won't make a break for her room. And especially not until you apologize to Jamie for giving him what will most likely be a very impressive shiner."
Blue eyes wild with unknown fear sought the face of the tall, thin man with curly chestnut hair. Like Della's. Jamie. Oh good grief, he had assaulted Della's brother.