The Hounds
by Kate Wilhelm
Rose Ellen knew that Martin had been laid off, had known it for over a week, but she had waited for him to tell her. She watched him get out of the car on Friday, and she said to herself, “Now he’s ready. He’s got a plan and he’ll tell me what we’re going to do, and it’ll be all right.” There was more relief in her voice, that was in her mind only, than she had thought possible. Why, I’ve been scared, she thought, in wonder, savoring the feeling now that there was no longer any need to deny it. She knew Martin was ready by the way he left the car. He was a thin, intense man, not very tall, five-nine. When worried, or preoccupied, or under pressure, he seemed to lose all his coordination. He bumped into furniture, moved jerkily, upsetting things within reach, knocked over coffee cups, glasses. And he forgot to turn things off: water, lights, the car engine once. He had a high domed forehead, thin hair the color of wet sand, and now, after twelve years at the cape, a very deep burned-in suntan. He was driven by a nervous energy that sought release through constant motion. He always had a dozen projects under way: refinishing furniture, assembling a stereo system, designing a space lab model, breeding toy poodles, raising hydroponic vegetables. All his projects turned out well. All were one-man efforts. This afternoon his motion was fluid as he swung his legs out of the car, followed through with a smooth movement, then slammed the door hard. His walk was jaunty as he came up the drive and around the canary date palm to where she waited at the poolside bar. Rose Ellen was in a bikini, although the air was a bit too cool, and she wouldn’t dream of swimming yet. But the sun felt good when the wind died down, and she knew she looked as good in the brief red strips as she had looked fifteen or even twenty years ago. She saw herself reflected in his eyes, not actually, but his expression told her that he was seeing her again. He hadn’t for the whole week.
He didn’t kiss her; they never kissed until they were going to make love. He patted her bottom and reached for the cocktail shaker. He shook it once then poured and sat down, still looking at her approvingly.
“You know,” he said.
“What, honey? I know what?” Her relief put a lilt in her voice, made her want to sing.
“And you’ve known all along. Well, okay, here’s to us.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is that I’ve known all along, or are you just going to sit there looking enigmatic as hell and pleased, and slightly soused?” She leaned over him, looking into his eyes, sniffing. “And how long ago did you leave the office?”
“Noon. Little after. I didn’t go back after lunch. I got the can, last Thursday.” He put his glass down and pulled her to his lap. “And I don’t care.”
. . .
