She leaned over and kissed her, and then walked to the door and flicked the light switch.
"Night, my baby."
Chris was almost out the door when Regan called out to her very softly:
"Mother, what's wrong with me?"
So haunted. The tone so despairing. So disproportionate to her condition. For a moment the mother felt shaken and confused. But quickly she righted herself.
"Well, it's just like I said, hon; it's nerves. All you need is those pills for a couple of weeks and I know you'll be feeling just fine. Now then, try to go to sleep, hon, okay?' No response.
Chris waited.
"Okay?" she repeated.
"Okay," whispered Regan.
Chris abruptly noticed goose pimples rising on her forearm. She rubbed it. Good Christ, it gets cold in this room. Where's the draft coming in from?
She moved to the window and checked along the edges. Found nothing. Turned to Regan.
"'You warm enough, baby?"
No answer.
Chris moved to the bedside. "Regan? You asleep?" she whispered.
Eyes closed. Deep breathing.
Chris tiptoed from the room.
From the hall she heard singing, and as she walked down the stairs, she saw with pleasure that the young Father Dyer was playing the piano near the livingroom picture window and was leading a group that had gathered around him in cheerful song. As she entered the living room, they had just finished "Till We Meet Again."
Chris started forward to join the group, but was quickly intercepted by the senator and his wife, who had their coats across their arms. They seemed edgy.
"Are you leaving so soon?" Chris asked.
"Oh, I'm really so sorry, and my dear, we've had a marvelous evening," the senator effused
"But poor Martha's got a headache."
"Oh, I am so sorry, but I do feel terrible," moaned the senator's wife. "Will you excuse us, Chris? It'd been such a lovely party."
"I'm really sorry you have to go," said Chris.
She accompanied them to the door and she could hear Father Dyer in the background asking,
"Does anyone else know the words to 'I'll Bet You're Sorry Now, Tokyo Rose'?"
She bade them good night. On her way back to the living room, Sharon stepped quietly out from the study.
"Where's Burke?" Chris asked her.
"In there," Sharon answered with a nod toward the study. "He's sleeping it off. Say, what did the senator say to you? Anything?"
"What do you mean?" asked Chris. "They just left."
"Well, I guess it's as well."
"Sharon, what do you mean?"
"Oh, Burke," sighed Sharon. In a guarded tone, she described an encounter between the senator and the director. Dennings, had remarked to him, in passing, said Sharon, that there appeared to be "an alien pubic hair floating round in my gin." Then he'd turned to the senator and added in a tone that was vaguely accusatory, "Never seen it before in my life! Have you?"
Chris giggled as Sharon went on to describe how the senator's embarrassed reaction had triggered one of Dennings' quixotic rages, in which he'd expressed his "boundless gratitude"
for the existence of politicians, since without them "one couldn't distinguish who the statesmen were, you see."
When the senator had moved away in a huff, the director turned to Sharon and said proudly,
"There, you see? I didn't curse. Now then, don't you think I handled that rather demurely?"
Chris couldn't help laughing. "Oh, well, let him sleep. But you'd better stay in there in case he wakes up. Would you mind?"
"Not at all." Sharon entered the study.
In the living room, Mary Jo Perrin sat alone and thoughtful in a corner chair. She looked edgy; disturbed. Chris started to join her, but changed her mind when one of the neighbors drifted over to the corner.
Chris headed for the piano instead. Dyer broke off his playing of chords and looked up to greet her. "Yes, young lady, and what can we do for you today? We're running a special on novenas."
