Bad Connections Read Free Page A

could.
    â€œWhy don’t you just go on up to my house after work?”
    â€œNo, I’m not going to your house. I don’t want to.”
    â€œYou don’t want to?”
    â€œI think we’d better meet on neutral ground.”
    â€œI can tell you’re very angry,” he said sadly, “and very very upset. This is the first time I’ve made you angry. We could talk much better at my house really.”
    â€œNo.”
    Somehow hearing from Conrad that I was angry and upset had made me begin to cry. I have always been undone by sympathy.
    â€œI’ll meet you in front of your building after work then.” He was brisk now, all business. “Hi, Dianne. I’ll be right with you.” I could hear a commotion in the background, muffled voices. “Is that neutral enough?” he said.
    Before I could answer he had hung up.

I WAITED FOR Conrad looking anxiously up Fourth Avenue, trying to catch sight of the Saab. I was amazed by the number of small green cars of various makes that passed me. I had never been aware there were so many of that particular shade. It reminded me of being pregnant and suddenly seeing other pregnant women all over the place—bellies moving toward me down every street.
    He arrived slightly late, pulling over smoothly to the curb. “Heavy traffic,” he said, opening the door for me. I got in next to him, displacing a pile of books and a half-eaten hero sandwich and putting them down on the floor behind my feet. “Why don’t you throw those in the back?” Conrad said.
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    He was studying me. I looked just once very quickly at his wonderfully blue eyes that were so richly fringed with dark lashes. I looked away, clutching my small paper bag.
    â€œBeen shopping?” he said.
    â€œNot exactly.”
    He smiled brilliantly for a moment. His hand brushed my knee as he started the car. I felt a flash of incongruous joy at being with him. I struggled to keep my anger intact, uninvaded.
    He asked me if I wanted to go any place in particular.
    â€œAnywhere,” I said coldly.
    â€œLet’s just drive around then. I have another meeting in a couple of hours.” He turned the corner and headed uptown. “Want to go through the park?”
    â€œYou sound like a cabdriver.”
    â€œI drove a cab for a while in ’65. You didn’t know that.”
    â€œJust one of the many things you’ve done.”
    â€œWhat’s eating you, Molly?”
    â€œI hate being lied to.”
    He sighed.
    â€œYou’re not even good at it.”
    â€œThat’s true. Actually, I have a great respect for the truth. If I didn’t, I’d be a much better liar, believe me. In some situations a lie is necessary.”
    â€œFor example?” I said bitterly.
    â€œFor example ,”he said chidingly, shaking his head. “Do you know how much regard I have for you?” His voice was husky, slightly choked.
    Tears rushed into my eyes, although it was love I would have preferred him to say.
    He was looking straight at the traffic now. His hand moved on the wheel in a myriad of small adjustments.
    â€œConrad,” I said, “are you involved with someone?”
    â€œInvolved?” With a deft swerve, the car shot ahead of a slow-moving bus. “Involved,” Conrad said, “is a term that hardly has any meaning. There are degrees of involvement. Are we involved—you and I?”
    â€œYes, I think we are.”
    â€œBut what does that mean to you, Molly?”
    â€œIt means,” I said with difficulty, the words catching in my throat, “that we care for each other.”
    â€œThat is certainly the case.” He turned now and beamed his smile at me. “Even though you care less for me right at this moment than you have at times in the past.” His eyes changed from tender to slightly mischievous. “At any rate, I think involvement means more to