Free The Blunderer by Patricia Highsmith Page A

her.
    â€œI live in New York,” she replied.
    Walters heart jumped as if she had given him her telephone number and asked him to call. And he already knew that she lived in New York, anyway. “You’ll be commuting every day?”
    â€œYes. I suppose so.” She smiled, suddenly looking shy. “Give my good wishes to your wife. Good night.”
    â€œGood night.” He stood in the open doorway until the sound of her car had faded nearly away.
    Walter went to the hospital and stayed there all night, alternately reading and dozing on a bench in the corridor.
    On Tuesday afternoon, Walter got a call in his office from the hospital. The nurse’s familiar mechanical voice had a happy note in it: “Mrs. Stackhouse came out of the coma about fifteen minutes ago.”
    â€œShe’ll be all right?”
    â€œOh, yes, she’ll be all right.”
    Walter hung up without asking any more questions. He wanted to leap up to the ceiling, wanted to go running in and shout the news to Dick, but he had only told Dick that Clara had the flu. One didn’t get so excited about a recovery from flu. Walter forced himself to finish up the piece of work on his desk. He did it humbly and patiently, as a grateful sinner just saved from hell would do a small chore for a redeemer.
    Clara was sleeping, the nurse told Walter when he arrived, but he was allowed to go in and see her. Now her lips rested quietly together. She would be very groggy for a couple of weeks, the doctor said, but she would be able to go home in a day or so.
    â€œI’d like to talk to you for a moment,” the doctor said. “Will you come in my office?”
    Walter followed him. He knew what the doctor was going to say.
    â€œYour wife’s going to need psychiatric care for a while. To take an overdose indicates a kind of insanity, you know. Besides, suicide is a crime in this state. If she hadn’t had the luck to get into a private hospital, she’d have had a lot more trouble with the law than she’s had.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, than she’s had?”
    â€œWe had to report this, of course. Since I’m her private doctor, I’m responsible to a certain extent. I’d like to know that she gets psychiatric care once she leaves the hospital.”
    â€œIt’s going to take some persuading. She doesn’t like psychiatrists.”
    â€œI don’t care whether she likes them or not.”
    â€œI understand,” Walter said.
    That was the end of the interview. Walter called Jon to tell him the news.
    Some time after ten o’clock that evening, Walter saw Clara stir. He had been sitting by her bedside. Walter bent over her. He expected her to show resentment because he had left her that night, and when she didn’t, when she only smiled weakly at him, he thought that perhaps she was too groggy to recognize him.
    â€œWalter.” Her hand slid towards him on the sheet.
    Walter touched her tenderly with both hands, sat down on the edge of the bed, and put his face down on the sheets that covered her breast. He could feel her body, warm and alive. He felt he had never loved her so much.
    â€œWalter, don’t ever leave me, don’t ever leave me,” she said in a quick, feathery whisper. “Don’t ever leave me, ever.”
    â€œNo, darling.” He meant it.
    Clara came home Thursday morning. Walter carried her from the car to the house, because she had grown too sleepy during the ride in the car to walk.
    â€œIt’s like carrying a bride over the threshold, isn’t it?” Clara said softly as they went through the front door.
    â€œYes.” Walter had never carried her over a threshold before. Clara would have thought it too sentimental when they were first married.
    Claudia had filled the bedroom with flowers from the garden and Walter had added more. Jeff was freshly washed, and greeted Clara with licks and barks, but not as