An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

in the mud of that shore? He had not even stopped to look, climbing out so hastily as he did. And might there not have been? And then would they not know and proceed to follow him⁠—the man those three men saw? Clifford Golden! That ride down this morning. His going out to the Cranstons’ in their car. That wet suit over in the room at the Cranstons’! Had anyone in his absence been in his room as yet to look, examine, inquire⁠—open his bag, maybe? An officer? God! It was there in his bag. But why in his bag or anywhere else near him now? Why had he not hidden it before this⁠—thrown it in the lake here, maybe, with a stone in it? That would keep it down. God! What was he thinking in the face of such a desperate situation as this? Supposing he did need the suit!

He was now up, standing⁠—mentally and physically frozen really⁠—his eyes touched with a stony glaze for the moment. He must get out of here. He must go back there, at once, and dispose of that suit⁠—drop it in the lake⁠—hide it somewhere in those woods beyond the house! And yet⁠—he could not do that so swiftly, either⁠—leave so instantly after this light conversation about the drowning of those two people. How would that look?

And as instantly there came the thought⁠—no⁠—be calm⁠—show no trace of excitement of any kind, if you can manage it⁠—appear cool⁠—make some unimportant remark, if you can.

And so now, mustering what nervous strength he had, and drawing near to Sondra, he said: “Too bad, eh?” Yet in a voice that for all its thinly-achieved normality was on the borderline of shaking and trembling. His knees and his hands, also.

“Yes, it certainly is,” replied Sondra, turning to him alone now. “I always hate to hear of anything like that, don’t you? Mother worries so about Stuart and me fooling around these lakes as it is.”

“Yes, I know.” His voice was thick and heavy. He could scarcely form the words. They were smothered, choked. His lips tightened to a thinner white line than before. His face grew paler still.

“Why, what’s the matter, Clydie?” Sondra asked, of a sudden, looking at him more closely. “You look so pale! Your eyes. Anything wrong? Aren’t you feeling well tonight, or is it this light out here?”

She turned to look at some of the others in order to make sure, then back at him. And he, feeling the extreme importance of looking anything but the way she was describing him now drew himself up as best he could, and replied: “Oh, no. It must be the light, I guess. Sure, it’s the light. I had⁠—a⁠—a hard day yesterday, that’s all. I shouldn’t have come over tonight, I suppose.” And then achieving the weirdest and most impossible of smiles. And Sondra, gazing most sympathetically, adding: “Was he so tired? My Clydie-mydie boy, after his work yesterday. Why didn’t my baby boy tell me that this morning instead of doing all that we did today? Want me to get Frank to run you down to the Cranstons’ now? Or maybe you’d like to go up in his room and lie down? He won’t mind, I know. Shall I ask him?”

She turned as if to speak to Frank, but Clyde, all but panic-stricken by this latest suggestion, and yet angling for an excuse to leave, exclaimed earnestly and yet shakily: “Please, please don’t, darling. I⁠—I⁠—don’t want you to. I’ll be all right. I’ll go up after a bit if I want to, or maybe home a little early, if you’re going after a while, but not now. I’m not feeling as good as I should, but I’ll be all right.”

Sondra, because of his strained and as she now fancied almost peevish tone, desisted with: “All right, honey. All right. But if you don’t feel well, I wish you would let me get Frank to take you down or go upstairs. He won’t mind. And then after a while⁠—about ten-thirty⁠—I’ll excuse myself and you can go down with me to your place. I’ll take you there before I go home and whoever else wants to go. Won’t my baby boy do something like that?”

And Clyde saying: “Well, I think I’ll go up and get a drink, anyhow.” And disappearing in one of the spacious baths of the Harriet home, locking the door and sitting down and thinking, thinking⁠—of Roberta’s body recovered, of the possibilities of a bruise of some kind, of the possibility of the print of his own feet in the mud and sandy loam of the shore; of that suit over at the Cranstons’, the men in the wood, Roberta’s bag, hat and coat, his own liningless hat left on the water⁠—and wondering what next to do. How to act! How to talk! Whether to go downstairs to Sondra now and persuade her to go, or whether to stay and suffer and agonize? And what would the morrow’s papers reveal? What? What? And was it wise, in case there was any news which would make it look as though eventually he was to be sought after, or in any way connected with this, to go on that proposed camping trip tomorrow! Or, wiser, to run away from here? He had some money now. He could go to New York, Boston, New Orleans where Ratterer was⁠—but oh, no⁠—not where anyone knew him.

Oh, God! The folly of all his planning in connection with all this to date! The flaws! Had he ever really planned it right from the start? Had he ever really imagined, for instance, that Roberta’s body would be found in that deep water? And yet, here it was⁠—risen so soon⁠—this first day⁠—to testify against him! And although he had signed as he had on those registers up there, was it not possible now, on account of those three men and that girl on that boat, for him to be traced? He must think, think,