He was not surprised when he received her telegram. He had accepted the fact that this had not been the last blow, that she would hit him in return. It came the day of the wedding, and Arch Huber was with him in his room, waiting while he dressed. Arch was sitting on the bed, knocking ashes from his cigarette into a peanut can balanced on his knee, and Jack was tying his tie in front of the mirror over the dresser, when there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Ostermann, the landlady, her dyed hair done up in curlers, a broom in her hand. “Telegram,” she said. “I gave the kid a dime.”
Jack got two nickels from his pocket, gave them to her and closed the door. He tore open the yellow envelope, unfolded the flimsy and read the pasted-on message. Holding his face tight and sucking at his front teeth he looked again at the name on the bottom: V Denton. He rubbed his thumbnail over it.
Coolly he tried to recall where he had heard that name. Then he told himself it didn’t matter. He smiled wryly at his instinctive jealousy of this Denton, whoever he was. He should have known V would strike back like this. But this was what he had wanted; V married to someone else, himself married to Gene.
Still holding the telegram he returned to the dresser. He laid it on the scarf, face up, and looking at his reflection in the mirror, pushed the end of the tie through the loop and pulled it down. The knot came out lopsided and he took it apart again. When he read the telegram once more he heard the bed springs creak, and Arch said, “Bad news?”
“No,” Jack said. Then he said in explanation, “Friend of mine just got married.”
Arch laughed. “That’s a coincidence.”
Jack studied his face in the mirror. The muscles of his cheeks were bunched like tiny fingers and a hard grin pushed out his lower lip. Abruptly he covered the telegram with his right hand. He braced the other on the edge of the dresser and leaned forward, half-supporting himself on his hands. His face was pressed close to the mirror, distorting his image, and he felt the shoulder muscles bunch under his shirt.
The telegram tore under his weight and letting himself down he crumpled it into a ball and batted it off the dresser. He retied the tie quickly and pulled the knot tight against his throat.
“About ready?” Arch asked.
Jack took his comb from his hip pocket and ran it through his hair, staring fixedly at the hard face, wooden now, that looked back at him from the mirror. Behind him he could see Arch sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs crossed, watching him curiously.
“Yeah, let’s go,” he said.