Free Cancel All Our Vows by John D. MacDonald

high warm mound of her sleeping hip, the rest of her, from her waist up, in darkness. He had been quiet in the bathroom, and had undressed in the hall, turned out the light, carried his clothes in in darkness.
    He had slid cautiously into his half of the double bed—twin beds now, though pushed close together always—and had lain back and risked a long deep breath of thanksgiving. She said, in the darkness, in the voice she used over the telephone, “Have a ducky time, dear?”
    “Just dandy, thanks.”
    “Good night, dear.”
    “Just like that?”
    “Just like that.” And, after a time, he had slept. She had been dressed almost formally for breakfast the next day. For three days he had tiptoed lightly around her. But it couldn’t go on. Then the fight came one evening, whenboth kids were at the movies. One of those bitter, almost meaningless, destructive quarrels.
    And, he thought, God forgive me, I lied to her and finally made her believe it, because I didn’t have the guts to tell the truth and risk losing her. Because her ideas of integrity are one hell of a lot higher than mine. I made her believe it, and then we had to be together again, right then and there, because it was something we both needed as a kind of proof. Right then and there, with the lights out in the living room, there on the couch, and with as much heat and heart in it as though we had been separated for years instead of days.
    And now, three years later, there had not been anyone else since the redhead, and Jane sat over in her corner of the car, remote, unapproachable. He let himself fill with righteous anger. Goddamn it, he hadn’t done anything. What the hell kind of a jail was she trying to keep him in?
    “You seem pretty quiet,” he said mildly.
    “Do I? I’m sorry.”
    “Get it off your chest, Jane.”
    “What in the world do you think you’re talking about?” She looked out the window. “You’re going right past our street!”
    “I know it,” he said grimly.
    “Isn’t it a little late for melodrama, dear? I need my sleep. I’m very tired.”
    He drove on in silence, parked in windless tree shadows, lit two cigarettes, handed her one. He said, “Jane, I’ve lived with you for fifteen years. I know you pretty well. I know when something is eating on you. There is something eating on you right now. I think I know what it is. Let’s get this over before we go home.”
    “It isn’t important, really.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, it is a little silly of me. I’m an adult I guess. Or should be. I ought to get used to such things. Other women do.”
    “What things?”
    “Oh, things. Going out for cocktails and dinner and a dance and watching your husband glow and hover all evening.”
    “Just how did I do that?”
    “Glowing like a two-dollar lantern every time you looked at Laura Corban. Hovering around her as if you were afraid something might swoop in and damage her or something. You were a fool and everybody in the club saw it. They’ll be whispering all week. Going down there into that cellar with her and spending hours alone down there with her, while I tried to talk to that hideous Ellis Corban, and neither of us could say what we were thinking. Then seeing you come up with her, and she all flushed and excited and her skirt up around her waist. What was I supposed to think, Fletcher?”
    “That I’d backed her up against a slot machine down there and she was very tasty.”
    “Don’t be coarse and ridiculous!” she snapped.
    “Coarse—I’ll stand still for that, but I think you’ve won the ridiculousness medal. She was flushed and excited because she hit the jackpot. There were college kids down there with us. As far as my glow is concerned, that was a glow of apprehension. I didn’t know what she’d do next. And as far as hovering is concerned, I was trying to be able to get there in time if she did go off her rocker.”
    “Oh, you make it sound perfectly all right, don’t