FOR ALMOST THREE WEEKS STELLA waited. She thought, afterward, that she had probably done this because she knew and did not want her knowledge confirmed. But then, curiously, hurtfully, she had not known. There had been no sudden wrenching, no sense of severence. No dream, not even that. When he did not phone her that morning, she began to feel slightly sick. And this sickness went on all her waking hours, from the second she woke to the moment she slept. That was all. Nothing else.

Nobbi was reliable. She had always found him so. If he could not see her, and often he could not, he would always call her during the week, once, twice. They were sad little calls, because they were short and there was nothing substantial in them, only voices. But she was grateful for them nevertheless.

And if he said he would call, he would call.

And if he did not, then something had happened.

At first she reasoned. He had found Tracy and Tracy had been in a state, which had occurred before. And Nobbi was understandably taken up with Tracy, and he forgot.

When four days and nights had gone by, Stella suspected something bad, that Tracy was ill or had been harmed.

34 /

Then, she kept thinking, he would still have called her. Even if only for an instant. He would have let her know.

And Stella went on feeling sick, the way she had heard happened to some women when they were pregnant. Nausea that never went away. She lived on tea and bananas.

In the second week, she began to see that something had happened to Nobbi himself. She began to face it, gradually. But at the same time she thrust it away. There was an explanation. And, again, she kept saying to herself, she would know. Some spiritual psychic understanding. But she only felt sick.

She wanted to call his home. She had the number— that was easy, he was in the book, his name and the name of his firm.

First of all she was afraid of speaking to Marilyn, afraid of maybe causing trouble. Because what could she say?

But in the end, after nineteen days, she realized that what she could say was simple. She was a customer Nobbi had promised he would do some plastering for—or perhaps not for her, even, but for her mother…

So then, then she phoned.

After three and a half rings the receiver was lifted, and a well-spoken woman's voice gave the number.

Marilyn? Surely not.

"Is that Mrs. Ives?"

"No, it's the cleaning girl. I'm afraid Mrs. Ives can't come to the phone. At least, I don't think so—"

"Well," Stella was brisk and businesslike, "it's Mr. Ives I want really. He said he was going to do some plastering for my mother, and we just haven't heard from him."

"Oh, Lord," said Marilyn's well-spoken cleaning girl. There was a pause.

"He hasn't been in touch," said Stella.