"Martha, what's going on? This isn't like you; or Quinn for that matter. You've got a baby up there asleep and you're alone in the house, tying one on."
"What's wrong with me? Drink up, Ben and I'll tell you." When I didn't lift my glass, she continued to prod. "Go ahead." I took a swallow. It tasted like perfume. When I made a face, she said, "It gets better after you've had a few."
"Martha. . ."
"Shush, and just listen. I know; I'm acting like a fool but it's been a bad day . . . week . . . month. I'll get over it. I'll go back to being good old Martha but indulge me tonight, will you? You owe me. You and Betsy dragged me into this mess. I should have sent Howie packing that first weekend."
"You don't mean that, Martha."
Tears weren't far away as she swallowed what remained in her glass and poured another. "No, I don't mean that. I don't know what I mean except I can't stop dreaming of little children, all hurt and bleeding and I don't want to see them because it hurts too much, but I can't block them out!" She plopped down next to me and buried her head in my shoulder.
"I know," I said. "All of us are feeling the pressure plus you have a new baby and a cranky husband who isn't helping you a bit."
"You never did understand, Ben. Quinn's sabbatical project lost its funding."
"I'm sorry, but he really doesn't need it with what Mr. Cooms has done for all of us. When the dust settles, he can probably get on staff at Keene State."
"It's an ego thing. He's really down. Quinn sits around knowing what we're doing, and the world is treating him like some minor failed unemployed scientist. He's on the sidelines of the greatest happening since . . . Bethlehem! and he's forbidden by. . . God, I can't even describe Howie . . . from mentioning it. Maybe, forever! How do you suppose that makes him feel?"
I had an idea how it made him feel. He's not only seen Howie's flying saucer but he had proof, pictures with little green men, and an owner's manual to their ship, and, by his definition a self-centered jerk with most of his brain somewhere on an Interstate highway or a motor home grill stands in his way from announcing his findings and waiting for a call from the Nobel committee.
"Here I am, alone, feeling guilty, drunk, horny, scared shitless. . . " She raised her head and looked me in the eye. "Quinn hasn't slept with me since month four or five. Maybe he didn't want to screw a fat cow but then when he did want to, I didn't and both of us are too damn stubborn to talk about it." She pushed herself tighter against me. "Now he's three thousand miles away."