Read The Listening Walls for Free Online Page B

holiday. I saw Old Faithful already six times. It is a site. It gets cold here at nite, blankets needed. There is a swimming pool that smells bad owing to minrals in the water. The smell don’t come off on you fortunately. No more room on the card. Hello to Mack.
    Yours truly,
    Gerda Lundquist.
    Â 
    Yellowstone yet, Miss Burton thought. And I can’t even afford Sequoia. Not that I want to. People are always say­ing how small you feel under the big trees, which isn’t my idea of fun at five foot one-half inch.
    Having finished her unofficial tour of the house and mail, Miss Burton let the Scottie in at the back door and fed him several dog biscuits. Then she walked over to Fulton Street to catch a bus back to town.
    She had no premonition of disaster. The day was sunny and her horoscope that morning had been exceptionally favorable. So had Rupert’s, which she always looked up even before her own: This is a wonderful day for you Leos and Librans .
    Wonderful day, Miss Burton thought, and skipped along the sidewalk, quite forgetting that Mrs. Kellogg was in a hospital and Mrs. Wyatt was dead.
    The plane was on schedule. Rupert called the A.B.C. Hospital from the airport and made arrangements to see his wife in spite of the lateness of the hour.
    He arrived at the hospital shortly before midnight and was met at the main desk by a dark young man who iden­tified himself as Dr. Escobar.
    â€œShe’s alseep,” Escobar said. “But I think, under the circumstances, it would do her good to see you. She has called for you several times.”
    â€œHow is she?”
    â€œThat’s difficult to say. She’s been crying a great deal, whenever she wakes up, in fact.”
    â€œIs she in pain?”
    â€œHer head may hurt a bit, but I think the crying is ex­plained more by emotional reasons than physical ones. It is not merely the death of her friend that has disturbed her, though that certainly is bad enough in itself. There were additional circumstances, the fact that the two women were alone in a strange city without friends, that they’d been drinking a good deal . . . .”
    â€œDrinking? Amy has never taken more than a cocktail before dinner.”
    Escobar looked a little embarrassed. “There is con­siderable evidence that both your wife and Mrs. Wyatt had been drinking tequila with an American barfly named O’Donnell. The women had a loud argument.”
    â€œThey were very good friends,” Rupert said stiffly. “Ever since childhood.”
    â€œVery good friends sometimes argue together, some­times drink together. What I am trying to tell you is that Mrs. Kellogg feels extremely guilty, guilty about the drinking, guilty about the argument, guilty, most of all, because she was unable to prevent her friend’s suicide.”
    â€œDid she try?”
    â€œAnyone would try, naturally.”
    â€œHas she told you what . . .”
    â€œShe’s told me very little. She has very little to tell. Tequila is a formidable concoction if one is not used to it.” Escobar turned to the elevators. “Come along, we’ll see her now. We’ve moved her from Emergency to a pri­vate room on the third floor.”
    She was asleep with the night light on. Her left eye was black and swollen, and there was a bandage over her tem­ple. Crumpled pieces of Kleenex littered the floor be­side her bed.
    â€œAmy.” Rupert bent over his sleeping wife and touched her shoulder. “Amy, dear, it’s me.”
    She was hardly awake before she began to cry, holding her fists against her eyes.
    â€œAmy, don’t. Stop that, please. Everything’s going to be all right.”
    â€œNo—no . . .”
    â€œYes, it is. I’m here to take care of you.”
    â€œWilma’s dead.” Her voice began to rise. “Wilma’s dead!”
    Escobar stepped swiftly over to the side of the bed and grasped her hand. “Now,