He had carefully avoided any place he might meet her, and it was almost two years later and the war was over before he saw her again. But one day he got a letter from Slim Farley, and Slim had seen Jack in San Diego.
Somehow he was sure V did not know Jack was back and out of the Navy. He cursed Slim for ever writing, for now he did not know whether he should tell her or not. He did not know what was right, and he had no way of knowing. He did not know what had happened between them. He sweated over the decision, telling himself over and over again to stay out of it. Stay out of it; he should stay out of it, and at first he determined he would.
But all he had wanted for them came back to him; he became half-convinced that if he told V now, he might be giving them the one more chance which they all needed. Jack was back, and maybe V did not know. Maybe it was his duty to tell her, and then leave it up to her. One day he looked for her name in the phone book to see if she still lived at the same place. She did. He stared down at the name—“Baird, Vassilia Caroline”—as though trying to discover in it whether he was doing the right thing or not. But it told him nothing, and so, finally, he drove over to her apartment.
He walked up the green-carpeted steps to the second floor. There were thirteen steps, he remembered, but he counted them as he climbed. At the top was a railing and a round-topped newel post and across from the newel post was V’s door. He stood motionless in front of it for a long time before he knocked.
She was in a blue bathrobe when she opened the door, and her face lit up and she put her hand out to him. He pressed her hand, and released it. It was cold. She looked older, more than two years older, her face had lost its youthful fullness, and her eyes and mouth looked larger in it.
Ben stood at the door, his hat in his hands, staring at her. She had just come out of the shower and her hair was damp and pinned up on top of her head. Her mouth was pink, without lipstick, and shining beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip. “Won’t you come in, Ben?” she said.
“There’s something I guess you ought to know, V,” he said, and then he said quickly, “Heard from Jack lately?”
She shook her head and repeated, “Won’t you come in, Ben?”
“I can’t stay but a minute. Jack’s in San Diego, V.”
She put her hand up to the edge of the door and her eyes became smaller. “How do you know?”
“I got a letter from a friend of mine down there.”
“From Jack?”
“No.”
“How long…? How long has he been…?”
“I guess two or three months,” Ben said.
“Oh.” She inclined her head and he could see her throat working. “Are you sure?” she said shakily.
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he tell me he was back?” she whispered. “Why didn’t he write and tell me? Why didn’t he come back here? He said he was going to. Oh, damn!” she almost sobbed.
Ben said, “He’s working for an outfit called Hogan and Griffith. They’re on a job at Kearny Mesa, north of Dago. That’s all I know, V.”
She nodded.
“Well, that’s it,” he said. “So long, V.” She still did not speak and he turned to go. He put his hand on the newel post, sliding it around as he stepped down the first step. V stood motionless; she had raised her head and was staring past him. He took another step, still sliding his hand around the newel post. He could see the beads of perspiration on her upper lip, her round, brown, staring eyes, her down-bent mouth. A wisp of hair had come loose and curled down over her forehead. He took another step and let his hand drop. She was still staring past him when he lost sight of her.
A few weeks later he read in the paper that she was marrying a man named Roger Denton, and he realized with a shock that Denton was the old rancher he had seen that day in the drive-in. The news startled and confused him. He tried to understand it, but he could not. And then she tried to phone him. The landlady gave him her name and telephone number, and said he was to call her back. But he didn’t, and the next day she called again while he was gone. This time there was a message. She wanted him to give her away at her wedding.
But he didn’t call her, and he couldn’t bring himself to go to the wedding.
He always wondered if she had gone to San Diego to see Jack. He had thought that was what she was going to do when he had seen her the last time. He had thought she was planning it when she stared past him.
He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her, wondering what had happened, and one day after he had gone to work for the local, he telephoned the Denton ranch on the sudden impulse that he had to talk to her. But she wasn’t there, he was disgusted with himself for phoning, and he didn’t ask where she was.
And then Slim had written him from San Diego, enclosing the newspaper clippings. Among the clippings were photographs of Jack, of a dark-haired girl with big eyes, and a blurred, unrecognizable photograph of V smiling, and under it the caption that was blatant, and meaningless, and without dignity: “Murdered Blonde in Love Triangle.”