She looked at him and squeezed his hand.
“Helene,” Wally said. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’re not alone.” She squeezed his hand. “I love you,” Wally said.
She squeezed his hand again.
He stood up.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“You think maybe they followed me here?”
“Of course not,” he said.
But when they went to his car, he looked up and down the street to make sure there was nothing suspicious, and as they drove to the Sheraton Hotel, on Roosevelt Boulevard and Grant Avenue, he made three or four turns to be absolutely sure no one was following them.
He didn’t like the idea of leaving
her alone, but he understood why she didn’t want him to stay with her, and he knew that he couldn’t press her about that; she would think that all he wanted to do was get in bed with her.
He got the key from the desk clerk, who sort of smirked at him, making it clear he thought that what they were up to was a little quickie.
He stood outside the motel door.
“Get the room number off the phone, and I’ll call you in the morning,” Wally said.
“OK,” she said, “wait here.”
She came back with the number written inside a match-book, and handed it to him.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.
“Yes.”
She looked at him, and leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Wally,” she said.
“Aaaah. I’ll call you in the morning. Just lock the door and get some sleep.”
“Right.”
“Good night, Helene. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Right.”
He had taken a dozen steps toward his car when she called his name.
“Wally?”
“Yeah?”
He walked back to her.
“Wally, I love you, too,” Helene said.
“I know,” he said. “But thank you for saying it.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Helene said.