Cherry shifted uncomfortably. “I know.”
“And we have the opera tickets that I turned last week’s in for. I hate to nag, darling, but we haven’t used any of our opera tickets.”
“We can see them right here on the tri-D,” she said in a small voice.
“That has nothing to do with it, sweetheart. I—I didn’t want to tell you about it, but Wainwright, down at the office, said something to me yesterday. He told me he would be at the circus last night and as much as said he’d be looking to see if we were there, too. Well, we weren’t there. Heaven knows what I’ll tell him next week.”
He waited for Cherry to answer, but she was silent.
He went on reasonably, “So if you could see your way clear to going out tonight—”
He stopped, slack-jawed. Cherry was crying, silently and in quantity.
“Darling!” he said inarticulately.
He hurried to her, but she fended him off. He stood helpless over her, watching her cry.
“Dear, what’s the matter?” he asked.
She turned her head away.
Morey rocked back on his heels. It wasn’t exactly the first time he’d seen Cherry cry—there had been that poignant scene when they Gave Each Other Up, realizing that their backgrounds were too far apart for happiness, before the realization that they had to have each other, no matter what… But it was the first time her tears had made him feel guilty.
And he did feel guilty. He stood there staring at her.
Then he turned his back on her and walked over to the bar. He ignored the ready liqueurs and poured two stiff highballs, brought them back to her. He set one down beside her, took a long drink from the other.
In quite a different tone, he said, “Dear, what’s the matter?”
No answer.
“Come on. What is it?”
She looked up at him and rubbed at her eyes. Almost sullenly, she said, “Sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry. Look, we love each other. Let’s talk this thing out.”
She picked up her drink and held it for a moment, before setting it down untasted. “What’s the use, Morey?”
“Please. Let’s try.”
She shrugged.
He went on remorselessly, “You aren’t happy, are you? And it’s because of—well, all this.” His gesture took in the richly furnished conservatory, the thick-piled carpet, the host of machines and contrivances for their comfort and entertainment that waited for their touch. By implication it took in twenty-six rooms, five cars, nine robots. Morey said, with an effort, “It isn’t what you’re used to, is it?”
“I can’t help it,” Cherry said. “Morey, you know I’ve tried. But back home—”
“Dammit,” he flared, “this is your home. You don’t live with your father any more in that five-room cottage; you don’t spend your evenings hoeing the garden or playing cards for matchsticks. You live here, with me, your husband! You knew what you were getting into. We talked all this out long before we were married—”
The words stopped, because words were useless. Cherry was crying again, but not silently.
Through her tears, she wailed: “Darling, I’ve tried. You don’t know how I’ve tried! I’ve worn all those silly clothes and I’ve played all those silly games and I’ve gone out with you as much as I possibly could and—I’ve eaten all that terrible food until I’m actually getting fa-fa-ter! I thought I could stand it. But I just can’t go on like this; I’m not used to it. I—I love you, Morey, but I’m going crazy, living like this. I can’t help it, Morey—I’m tired of being poor!”
Eventually the tears dried up, and the quarrel healed, and the lovers kissed and made up. But Morey lay awake that night, listening to his wife’s gentle breathing from the suite next to his own, staring into the darkness as tragically as any pauper before him had ever done.
Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the Earth.
Blessed Morey, heir to more worldly goods than he could possibly consume.