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I
was
thirty
.
Before
me
stretched
the
portentous
,
menacing
road
of
a
new
decade
.
It
was
seven
o'clock
when
we
got
into
the
coupe
with
him
and
started
for
Long
Island
.
Tom
talked
incessantly
,
exulting
and
laughing
,
but
his
voice
was
as
remote
from
Jordan
and
me
as
the
foreign
clamor
on
the
sidewalk
or
the
tumult
of
the
elevated
overhead
.
Human
sympathy
has
its
limits
,
and
we
were
content
to
let
all
their
tragic
arguments
fade
with
the
city
lights
behind
.
Thirty
--
the
promise
of
a
decade
of
loneliness
,
a
thinning
list
of
single
men
to
know
,
a
thinning
brief-case
of
enthusiasm
,
thinning
hair
.
But
there
was
Jordan
beside
me
,
who
,
unlike
Daisy
,
was
too
wise
ever
to
carry
well-forgotten
dreams
from
age
to
age
.
As
we
passed
over
the
dark
bridge
her
wan
face
fell
lazily
against
my
coat
's
shoulder
and
the
formidable
stroke
of
thirty
died
away
with
the
reassuring
pressure
of
her
hand
.
So
we
drove
on
toward
death
through
the
cooling
twilight
.
The
young
Greek
,
Michaelis
,
who
ran
the
coffee
joint
beside
the
ashheaps
was
the
principal
witness
at
the
inquest
.
He
had
slept
through
the
heat
until
after
five
,
when
he
strolled
over
to
the
garage
,
and
found
George
Wilson
sick
in
his
office
--
really
sick
,
pale
as
his
own
pale
hair
and
shaking
all
over
.
Michaelis
advised
him
to
go
to
bed
,
but
Wilson
refused
,
saying
that
he
'd
miss
a
lot
of
business
if
he
did
.
While
his
neighbor
was
trying
to
persuade
him
a
violent
racket
broke
out
overhead
.
"
I
've
got
my
wife
locked
in
up
there
,
"
explained
Wilson
calmly
.
"
She
's
going
to
stay
there
till
the
day
after
to-morrow
,
and
then
we
're
going
to
move
away
.
"
Michaelis
was
astonished
;
they
had
been
neighbors
for
four
years
,
and
Wilson
had
never
seemed
faintly
capable
of
such
a
statement
.
Generally
he
was
one
of
these
worn-out
men
:
when
he
was
n't
working
,
he
sat
on
a
chair
in
the
doorway
and
stared
at
the
people
and
the
cars
that
passed
along
the
road
.
When
any
one
spoke
to
him
he
invariably
laughed
in
an
agreeable
,
colorless
way
.
He
was
his
wife
's
man
and
not
his
own
.
So
naturally
Michaelis
tried
to
find
out
what
had
happened
,
but
Wilson
would
n't
say
a
word
--
instead
he
began
to
throw
curious
,
suspicious
glances
at
his
visitor
and
ask
him
what
he
'd
been
doing
at
certain
times
on
certain
days
.
Just
as
the
latter
was
getting
uneasy
,
some
workmen
came
past
the
door
bound
for
his
restaurant
,
and
Michaelis
took
the
opportunity
to
get
away
,
intending
to
come
back
later
.
But
he
did
n't
.
He
supposed
he
forgot
to
,
that
's
all
.
When
he
came
outside
again
,
a
little
after
seven
,
he
was
reminded
of
the
conversation
because
he
heard
Mrs.
Wilson
's
voice
,
loud
and
scolding
,
down-stairs
in
the
garage
.
"
Beat
me
!
"
he
heard
her
cry
.
"
Throw
me
down
and
beat
me
,
you
dirty
little
coward
!
"
