SOMETHING WAITS (10 page)

I’m not particularly proud of the story that follows. Not because I don’t think it well written; I wouldn’t have included it were that the case. Not because of the obvious sexual overtones either; sex is probably the least prevailing theme of this short tale. And not because I don’t think it’s a good stor;, I do. Maybe, in its simplicity and terse approach, it’s among my best, at least in that regard. And not even because I wasn’t once very proud of it indeed. But times change, and change things, including us. They have a way of doing that, you may have noticed. Most of us change with them to one degree or other and whether that’s a good or bad thing does not preclude its inevitability. We begin life knowing nothing, but endlessly fascinated by all around us and ravenous to learn. Later on, we think we know it all, have it quite figured out, thank you, and are pretty goddamn taken with our new-found self-absorbed stupidity. Still later on we concede there may be a few things we might actually not know with absolute certainty, a few more we may never entirely grasp, but that’s okay too, because it shows we’re learning, right, and therefore still growing, also a good and righteous thing. And still, still later we find we are in a place of knowing way too much, so much it’s crowding out and messing with the simplest of our thought processes—recall, for instance--while simultaneously aware we really know, have actually learned, almost nothing. At least nothing much worth knowing. This is called The Great Reawakening. It is here we long for those oblivious days of self-absorbed stupidity. Also called: Nostalgia. It is a dangerously time-wasting state of mind, but probably, considering all that went before, some kind of necessary one, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why. I think the fortunate ones are those lucky bastards who never look back. I wish I could do that. But I’m a writer. If I’m not constantly juggling the past with the present nothing comes out of the typewriter. You heard right: typewriter. Nostalgia, see? What comes next--I suppose finally--is that long arrived-at but irreversible beginning walk to what’s politely referred to as The Big Sleep.

In between, we’re all, more or less, victims of Time, of the fashions and politics of a series of ‘presents.’ Which is why I’m not particularly proud (or ashamed) of this story. Of all those included in this collection it seems the most moored in the past, the least in tune with contemporary sensibilities. In short: people today just don’t think that way anymore. Which makes it, for me at least, just slightly dated, a subject of a certain Time and Place that, in this case I think, also makes it a victim. In a word: quaint. I can think of a lot of adjectives I might like my stories to be respectfully linked with: none of them is ‘quaint.’ I immediately visualize doilies and Geritol (contains more iron than a pound of calves’ liver, don’t you know? But did anyone ask the calf?)

Not that this story’s wholly bereft of relevance, even now. Anything this involved with the basic physical and emotional drives of
homo sapiens
(in this case, perhaps,
homo erectus
) is probably good for a read or two more for some years to come. Still, I can’t shake a certain gnawing concern: is anyone under the age of twenty reading this apt to walk away scratching his head with indifferent wonder? Maybe a more pressing question would be: is anyone under the age of twenty reading?

Assuming you are—you got this far--and can get a bit farther--past what at first may seem the ramblings of a card carrying chauvinistic pig--you might find some mild edification and even minor redefinition in what was back then and—published for the first time here in uncollected form--perhaps, even now that elusive thing we all call

D
riving home from work that evening, he made up his mind to do it.

He’d rehearsed it a million times before in his mind, even gone to the physical lengths of securing the coil of clothesline from his wife’s supply in the garage, and purchasing the bottle of tablets from the pharmacy, placing them in the glove compartment (under a litter of concealing paraphernalia) for easy reference. For the day when he finally found the courage, the will. The strength. Well, today was the day. Today he set the wheels in what he knew would likely result in irreversible motion. Today he drew the line. He’d known it even as he’d left the office and climbed into his car for the long drive home. Today would be different. Today the longing and hoping and careful planning and, yes, the fearing would end.

Paul swung the car deliberately from his usual highway route and onto the ramp and surface street that would eventually lead him past the house of his best friend. And his best friend’s wife.

He could see her now in his mind’s eye, bussing about the house preparing Hal’s supper, soft, golden tresses moving sensuously as she went, full, generous breasts pressing maddeningly against that snug, white blouse she often favored. How many times had he seen that blouse in daily fantasies at the office? How many times had he opened it with trembling fingers in dream-tossed slumber next to his own wife? And now he was about to make those dreams a reality.

He knew a sudden wedge of doubt there behind the Lexus’ wheel. Could he do this…
really
do it? Yes, every precaution had been taken, everything worked out as near to last second planning he could imagine. But it was
crime
! No refuting that. What he was contemplating was nothing less than a crime in any state in the union! No matter what rationale he clung to, this would change his life forever. Hopefully not ruin it—not his life or hers—but definitely change it. Nothing would be the same after this. It made his pulse quicken. It made him grin.

He nosed the car through the quagmire of suburban New Jersey streets and felt his palms grow moist on the wheel.
Don’t!
his inner mind reprimanded. Don’t get bent out of shape now, blow everything you’ve finally worked up the courage for at the last second. He hadn’t achieved the top executive position at the firm by always playing it safe, without leaving a few broken bodies in his wake. This would be no different. That was the way to think of it, the smart way to approach it: as a job. Just another job. A very pleasant, very
exciting
job. Just thinking about it here in the car caused a stirring down there. It was going to be fine. Just another life decision; and you’re good at decision making, you’re the best!

To retain the bravado, Paul pushed his mind in other directions, willed himself to think of the first time he seen her, that day Hal had brought him home from work to pick up some papers for the office he’d forgotten. Janice had met them in the hallway, wearing the white blouse and a short red skirt that showed long, shapely legs. She’d smiled at him, given him her hand a moment, insisted he bring his wife over for dinner sometime. Had she held her hand in his just a few moments longer than absolutely necessary, perhaps feeling the same electric effect through her fingers as he did? He thought maybe she had. Was pretty damn sure of it.

That weekend the four of them had gone to dinner and dancing in the city. He’d managed to dance with her twice without making it look obvious, reveling in her touch, her smell, the warmth of her nearly driving him mad. He’d found himself trembling on the way back home. Later, in bed with his own wife Jill, she’d asked him what was wrong when she touched him. He’d covered with the old back pain act. On subsequent nights when they did make love, it was always in the darkness—always Janice’s face he saw before him, her body in his arms, under him.

Paul reached over and flipped open the glove compartment, lifted out the length of cord and bottle of tablets, slipped them into his suit jacket. Carefully he repeated the pharmacist’s words to himself: “No more than two tablets. One will make you a little dopey, two will put you out. Three will get you started toward coma. These things are very powerful, not to be taken lightly.” Paul remembered handing the druggist the fifty bucks, hurrying from the store like a breathless kid buying his first box of condoms. It would be almost funny if it was so terrifying. But that was kind of the point, right? The atavistic thrill that went with this?

He nosed the car into his friend’s driveway and cut the engine.

He sat quietly for a moment with his hand on the inner door handle, conscious of the rapid thud in his chest. This is it. Don’t think
. Do it!

He yanked almost vengefully at the door handle and climbed from the Lexus. Halfway up the front walk he became aware of the sagging weight of bottle and rope in his coat. Did it show? Would she look at his suit jacket and ask questions? He hadn’t even considered the possibility! A single piece of the perfect puzzle that didn’t quite perfectly fit. Damn. He almost faltered. To hell with it. She wouldn’t ask, it would be impolite. Everything was going to be fine. Once he was alone with her in the house, everything was going to be just fine…

He rang the bell without further thought, eliminating the last barrier between inaction and inertia. He waited. A blue jay dipped across the sky and lit on a tree in the front yard above freshly cut grass. Paul could imagine Hal out here with his mower last weekend, cutting, pruning…just another Pleasant Valley Sunday. He glanced back across his shoulder at the silent hulk of the Lexus. His Lexus. The neighbors would see his car sitting out there by itself! He felt a quick rise of panic. It’s not too late—you can still get out of here! A few quick steps back down the walk and life will go on as usual tomorrow…

He jerked reflexively when the front door suddenly opened, sending a sliver of pain up his neck. Janice stood there smiling surprise. She was wearing a yellow sweater that went wonderfully with her hair, her wide blue eyes. She looked lovely. As always, her smile went right through him.

“Paul! What a surprise! Come in!”

Inside, with the door shut safely behind him, it all seemed suddenly worth it, all the agonizing over things that could go wrong far behind him. He felt himself unwinding by degrees, the old spring back in his step.

“Hal’s working late tonight,” she was saying, leading him into the living room, round buttocks revolving under the snug skirt.

“Yes, I know. He asked me to pick up some papers on my way home tonight. Hope this isn’t inconvenient.”

“Don’t be silly. Nice to see you! Would you like a drink? I was just about to have one.”

It was standard hospitality. He was supposed to decline the drink, tell her he had to rush, Jill would be waiting supper. But he didn’t. Not this time. The drink would not be declined, the drink was his cue.

“Thanks, that sounds good. Rough day. Got any scotch?”

“Sure.” She poured the drinks, motioned for him to sit. “Hal must have forgotten to tell me about the papers,” she smiled, handing him his glass. She seemed relaxed, not the least ill at ease being alone with him in their house. But why should she be? He and Hal were best friends, right? “Did he say where he put them, Paul?”

“In the study, I think.”

She nodded, set down her glass. “I’ll just be a second.” And she swept from the room.

He looked down at her glass on the edge of the coffee table. Perfect.
Perfect.

He watched until she’d left the room completely, then reached quickly for the tablets, fingers shaking a little at the cap.

“How’s Jill?” Janice called musically from the other room. “We haven’t seen you two for a while!”

“She’s fine!” he called back, voice wavering irritatingly, “wants us all to get together soon!” He broke one of the tablets between his fingers and dropped the pieces into her drink, stirring it rapidly with a finger. He tried not to rattle the ice. By the time she’d returned, his was over on the Eames chair, her glass back on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry, Paul, I can’t seem to find any papers. Are you sure Hal said the study?”

“It’s not that important,” he told her unconcernedly, “I can get them tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” She took a sip.

He half expected her to make a face, examine the glass. She didn’t.

“So, what have you and Jill been doing these days?” sitting gracefully on the sofa across from him. Everything she did, every movement she made was graceful, seductive.

Paul shrugged nonchalance. “Same as always, loafing around--growing filthy rich.”

She laughed and the yellow sweater swelled, trembled. Maddening. But why hadn’t she worn the white blouse? He’d wanted her in that tight fitting blouse, dreamed of her in it. “How late is Hal working?”