Many a Slip

"Henry," Naomi had said, and her voice had been sharper than he remembered, "when are we going to get married?"

He had mumbled something about Lucille and the divorce and changed the subject. Omi was someone to take to small bars in the Village, to buy expensive perfume for, and sometimes to go home with. She was not someone to marry. Her eyes, he had decided, were not blue at all. They took their color from her eye shadow. Without it, they would probably have been colorless. Her hair, golden by candlelight, white gold under the moon, looked orange in the Fifth Avenue sun; and her figure was flawless only from a distance. No, he would not marry Omi, even after he had divorced Lucille. And it was just too bad that she and Lucille played at friendship.

He wondered whether Omi would continue to drop in at night when she could no longer say, ostensibly to Lucille, "Darling, I've found the most wonderful bar!" Omi played this game well--never looking at Henry, never hinting at conspiracy or deceit; and it no longer embarrassed or even amused him. He wondered whether Lucille knew. She knew of course that he was unfaithful to her, but he wondered whether she knew about Omi. It didn't matter. The thing with Omi was over. Now Omi would probably--but he didn't know what she would do. She would be angry though.

The thought of a scene with her on top of a scene with Lucille when he finally announced his intentions of escaping both women gave him a headache. The two double scotches in a nearby bar didn't help any.

Naomi was sitting in his living room when he got home that night. Her eyes looked bluer than ever; and her smile, strangely, was genuine.

"Surprise," she said gaily.

"Naomi was here for dinner, Henry," said Lucille. "I thought you'd be home." There was no nuance of reproach in her voice, just indifference.

"Sorry," said Henry.

"No, you aren't," said Lucille, again indifferently.

"Company manners, my pet," he said. "How are you, Omi?"

"Marvellous," she said with another gay smile. "But you look tired, Henry dear. We must fix you a little something to eat." She turned to his wife. "Mustn't we, Lucille?"

"You fix it, Naomi," Lucille said. "I have a headache."

"Darling, I'm so sorry," said Omi. "You must take something for it."

"Nothing touches it. Never has."

"Try these." Omi took a tiny green bottle from her handbag. "My doctor prescribed them for me when I had that marathon headache last year. They're marvellous. I never go anywhere without them."

"For God's sake," said Henry. "I'll find something to eat myself." He walked out into the kitchen, but he could still hear the two separate monologues that passed for friendly conversation in his living room."

"Only one, dear," Omi was saying. "They're terribly potent."

"I'll have it later, before I go to bed."

Henry poured himself a drink and allowed himself to hate both women consciously while the soda spat at him from the glass.

The refrigerator was characteristcally empty, so he fried two eggs. He liked them tough and broken. Lucille couldn't--or wouldn't--cook them that way.

"Scotch and soda and fried eggs," he said aloud. "God!" Then he laughed, partly at his imagination, for he was thinking that Naomi was like his drink, spitting at him and giving him a headache. Lucille was his tough, overcooked fried egg. The more he thought about the simile, the better he liked it. He wanted to tell someone abou tit. And he realized he was a little drunk.

"Martin?" He could hear Omi's voice. "No, I haven't seen him for ages. How is he?"

Lucille's reply was inaudible, but Omi's high-pitched laugh was very distinct. Henry bolted his drink, and, as he considered another, he realized that his headache was worse--like the little hammers in the television commercial. "One headache in my head, and two in the living room," he said, and poured the drink.

"Henry! Darling, you're talking to yourself. And you know what that means."

He walked back into the living room. "What does it mean, Omi?"

She smiled, and he noticed again that she seemed really happy.

"I'm driving you bats, love," said Lucille. "That's what it means, doesn't it, Omi? But it won't be for long."

"Oh?" The rising inflection indicated Omi's and Henry's surprise.

"You'll get used to it," said Lucille quickly.

"Oh." Falling inflection as the other two responded again in chorus.

"Lucille, dear," said Omi, "did I tell you about Coral?"

"I'm going to bed," said Henry. "Goodnight, Lucille, Omi."

The two women said goodnight, and Naomi left soon afterward.

***

"I suppose you know I want a divorce." Henry's voice came out of the dark as Lucille entered the bedroom.

"I know."

"Well?"

"No," said Lucille. "I've grown accustomed to your money."

"For God's sake, Lucille," he began. The effort of speaking at all seemed to tear his head apart. "What about alimony?" he asked more quietly.

"No good. I'll marry again."

"Lump sum settlement?"

"Won't do."

"Marry someone rich then."

"And live happily ever after? Be your age, Henry."

Lucille switched on the overhead light and began to undress. Her husband pulled the blankets over his head. He uttered a few muffled curses, from which Lucille was able to distinguish the word "headache." She turned the light off and went into the bathroom.

"How's your headache/" she inquired when she came back.

"Rotten," he said. "How's yours?"

"Better. You want Naomi's pill?"

"All right," Henry said listlessly.

"Don't get up. I'll get you some water."

***

"Naomi," Lucille's voice was very soft over the telephone. "Naomi, just what was in that pill you gave me?"

Omi's voice sounded faint. "I don't know, sweetie. Why? Didn't it help?"

"I didn't take it. I gave it to Henry."

"You what?" Her voice was still far away, but higher.

"I gave it to Henry. He died. The doctor says he was poisoned."

"Oh my God. My God. But you don't think I--"

"Naturally not, Naomi, but I had to mention the pill to the police."

"Police? Lucille, you're joking."

"No, I'm not," Lucille continued in the same even voice. "Henry's been poisoned. The doctor found traces of cyanide in his stomach."

"The doctor found traces of cyanide in his stomach," Naomi repeated weakly, like a child who was trying to memorize a line of verse.

She hung up, and walked over to her dresser. She took the green bottle from her handbag and went into the kitchen. Then she sterilized the bottle very carefully, just to make sure there were no traces of arsenic left.