Too Easy (22 page)

Then she thinks, It's just a hunch, isn't it? An evil hunch.
Grab a sick day? Grab? Sort of slangy for Robert. The way somebody talks when they're trying to seem casual. When they're lying, that is.

She stays in the store a long time, walking up and down the aisles. They seem surprisingly bright and full of interesting objects. Why, look at that . . . they make a denture adhesive out of the glue in kelp!

Anne decides not to stop by the office. She's not sure she can handle routine chatter. Even this early there'll be people there. All the A types hunting ahead of the pack. . . .

She feels exquisitely keyed up. A painful state but somehow, she thinks, a valuable one. One she doesn't want to lose.

Her watch says 8:22. Robert's bound to be gone by this time. Still, what's the rush? Who wants bad news?

She works toward the checkout line to pay for the few items she has. As the cashier rings up the purchase, Anne glances out the big windows. It's raining, in a slow, mournful way that makes her think of funerals.

Yes, I'm supposed to be in one, aren't I? I'm supposed to be the victim here.

“Your change,
ma'am.”

Anne looks at the cashier, surprised. “Oh yes . . . of course. Thank you.”

What did that boy say? “Victims are shit, ma'am.” Yes, I think that was it. At the time, I was more upset by the word
ma'am
than what he said.
As
upset. Either way, that seems kind of funny now.

Anne puts the change away and walks back to her car. The rain splattering lightly on the windshield. A heavy drizzle. She starts the motor and the wipers. She stares out through the shiny windshield. Well, she thinks, I don't want to be a victim, not in any sense.

She drives slowly, taking a somewhat long way, back to her street. Then she goes faster, intending to keep on going if she sees Robert's car in the drive. Oh, I could have gone
by the train station, checked the parking lot there, found his car. I've got to think ahead. . . . No, the drive's empty.

She pulls in, feeling awkward and conspicuous. She's not sure why. What the hell, I live here. No, I know why. This is when you check the trap, see what you caught. And you hope the trap's empty. . . . No, maybe not. Maybe I want to get this over with. . . .

She walks quickly through the light rain. Inside the door, she carefully throws the dead-bolt lock. Then, taking off her coat, she walks slowly about the house, wanting to make sure nothing is open, that no one could possibly surprise her.

She holds off until 9:01. Robert's always on the train by that time. Usually he's at his office.

She stands a moment at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. Holding the railing. Taking inventory of her body, to see which parts hurt, which parts are happily unaware she's kicking another egg downstream.

Oh, yes, I have to call the office. . . . Oh, hell, let's deal with this.

In another minute she's sitting by the stack of blankets. Everything quiet upstairs. She pushes the button marked PLAYBACK.

There's a hang-up. Somebody calling us? No, Robert hung up here. . . . “Oh, there you are. In the shower?”

“Ummm, yeah.”

“Well, it looks like the day.”

“Sick day?”

“Yes. Here all day, I'd think. Thought you ought to know right away. I'm still home. Anne went to the drugstore.”

“Roger. Big 10-4, darling.”

“Good luck.”

“Don't worry. Oh, I'll leave a message about the walk, exact time. Figure maybe late lunch hour.”

“Got it. Love you.”

“Yours truly too.”

Then clicks. Anne pushes STOP while she can still move. Snakebite must feel like this. A heavy paralysis that begins in the heart and widens.

She sits without moving, staring at the gray cement floor for a long time.

•
 Kathy decides to move as early as she can. She's on the 11:56, a blonde in a cheap tan raincoat and a pale blue scarf and reading glasses. Two fake moles on her chin and cheek, some darker makeup under her eyes, so she'll look tired and ordinary.

She sits by a window, turned sharply toward it. Watching the rain wash down the glass, the colorless buildings beyond. Great weather, she thinks. Couldn't be better. Everybody outside looking at the ground, people with their collars up. A soft light that makes everything look the same.

Feeling pretty good, Kathy thinks, considering. It's funny how Robie talks as if this is an adventure or something brave. No, it's just work. You want anything in life, you have to work for it. You wade through it. Like you have an abortion or a baby, or the doc wants to cut something out of you. It's just work. And then you go on living. But God knows you aren't proud of it. It's just something you have to do.
Dad, shit that he was, had that much right. “You want something, baby, work for it, then it's yours, fair and square.” Some work's more complicated than others. But hell, I feel like there's almost nothing I couldn't do. Good old Keith, sitting in jail. Thanks, man.

Now and then Kathy scans the few people in the car. To see if anybody is watching her or if there's anyone who might be a threat. A cop type, maybe. Somebody who remembers details as a matter of routine. She figures that somebody like that is the only thing she has to worry about. That or seeing someone she knows. But there's not many of those, and they're working in Manhattan at this time. Who the hell goes to Westchester in the middle of the day? Nobody. It doesn't happen, she doesn't exist.

Kathy checks her watch. Less than ten minutes to the station. Find Robie's car and then it's show time.

She stares out the window some more. Feeling a little sad. Not because of what she's got to do but because she's doing more than Robie is. That's a weight on her. That really it was she who pushed the thing over the edge. Left to Robie, what was going to happen? She hates to think the words: maybe nothing.

Kathy winces.

Man, I'm making this thing happen. I see the rainbow slipping away and I know what I have to do. But why'd Robie let it slip? . . . Oh, the hell with it. I do this, and then we've got the rest of our lives together. The man I want, the life I want. It's right there. I just have to reach out and take it.

A house in Westchester. Robie and her padding around on weekends. Having some babies soon enough. All of it's in her mind, more real than the blurred world outside the window.

The conductor calls out, “Bronxville.”

She opens her pocketbook and takes out a pair of cheap leather gloves, only a little darker than the color of her skin.

She waits until the train is stopped and people are
moving off the train. Then she stands and walks off quickly, her head down. In a minute she's in the parking lot, almost sprinting through the steady rain toward Robie's car. It's almost exactly where she was seeing it in her head. She kneels by the left rear tire, reaches around behind the cold rubber, immediately finds the keys.

She starts up the car and drives along a route she has memorized in detail.

The thing is, Robie thinks what I'm doing is a lot more dangerous than it is. Still he lets me. But hell, I had to make sure he saw the worst of it. Had to make sure he really accepted it, that he could live with it. All right, at least we got that part settled.

Then she smiles to herself. Hell, I've got fall-back positions on top of fall-back positions. Good old New York, good state for killing people. Even if they actually got me, I'd be out in six or eight years. Miss Perfect Behavior. But it ain't never going to happen that way.

Kathy walks through it again. Alright, they grab me coming out of the house. That's five hundred to one, at best. So alright, I say, Gee, it was horrible! I just came up here to talk to this woman about her husband and me. Real friendly. But she couldn't handle it, went all to pieces! Attacked me with an ashtray, then a lamp. It was all I could do to get away from her. Lucky for me, I ran into the dining room, pulled out a drawer, got the first knife I saw. She comes running at me. I held up the knife, and she just about ran into it. I was completely shocked. Believe me, it was horrible! . . . Sounds good to me. So what've you got there, at worst manslaughter. Maybe even accidental death. Worst case, I walk in ten to thirty—months!

Kathy grins. He waits, of course. He visits me every week. Of course. Or he's got me to worry about. . . . Robie still can't figure why I wanted one of their knives. I'm not telling. Come on, Robie boy, think. . . .

That's it. Anything goes wrong, and I think they'll crack
it, I work a few things out with Robie, go straight to the cops, lay it on them, take the fall.

But if I'm out clean, there's no way they'll catch me. I'm not even here. I'm having a bad lunch on Sixth Avenue right now, and I need to walk in the rain to clear my head. I call in, then I go over to the Public Library and then Bryant Park, hang around some. Then I pass Robert Saunders on the way back. Hi, Mr. Saunders!

Kathy remembers all the little stops she made yesterday. Stops she'll make tomorrow, also. People who'll say, “Yeah, she was in my place. Sure, around lunch, I'm sure of that much.”

Hell, a week later, who remembers which day anything happened? And even worst case, the cops don't figure anything out for days, but probably weeks. Everything's muddled and forgotten by then. Beyond a reasonable doubt, for sure. And nobody in all of Westchester can ID me anyway.

All I have to do is drive carefully and don't get in any wrecks on this nice rainy day. And we're coasting downhill all the way home.

Kathy drives to a street that's perpendicular to Robie's street and stops forty yards from the corner. A street where cars routinely park along the curb. She sits a moment, checking her gloves, her pocketbook, the keys. Making sure everything is in order. Then from the pocketbook she takes a small fold-up umbrella and half opens it. As she does so, she stares down at the silver knife, making sure it's in its place.

Okay, girl, close the pocketbook, open the door, open the umbrella, get out and walk like it's just another day.

•
 Anne realizes she's hungry. All morning sitting, thinking, worrying, aching. She stares back toward the kitchen. She's afraid to fix food now. Never mind. She can't relax enough to eat. . . .

It's 12:19. The woman on the phone said, “Maybe late lunch hour.”

Anne's in her dining room, positioned so she can look out at the front lawn, the front walk. The rain still falling through a gray mist. The light increasing as the sun moves to zenith. The day seems now to glow.

Anne feels sure that someone will come to the house. The idea is still in her head that two people might appear. Robert and someone else. She dreads this with all her being.

That he would do this is horrible. And what defense would she have against her own husband? What emotional defense?

She's not sure, but she thinks she'll just bolt out the back
door, run to the nearest neighbor. Maybe jam the front door first, then flee. . . .

Stay just long enough to see that second person. That's the impossible task, to leave without seeing . . .
her.

But maybe it'll be one person. One woman. Anne listened to the tape five times. The tone of voice, the words, the various meanings. And of course the words that made listening almost impossible. “Love you.”

Each time she thinks these words, Anne feels herself start to tremble.

Damn, get steady. The point of the conversation seems to be that I'm home all day. Grabbing a sick day. That's what Robert called to tell that woman.
Her.

Yes, obviously. But then Anne thinks, But maybe nobody will appear . . . and all of this is just fantasy. Some bizarre misunderstanding.

But I have to
find out.

Yes, she accepts that. She's willing to play it out. But shouldn't she call for help, leave messages with people—
If I don't call back by three, send the cops.
Should she mail letters? Hide notes in places the cops will look? The same ideas she's played with for weeks. And they still don't sound right.

Maybe it's all her crazy imagination. “Well,” she murmurs aloud, “the embarrassment won't be imaginary.” She thought all morning of calling Edd at work, or one of the secretaries, or that young lawyer, Stan, or her mother or brother, or a friend, and leaving some sort of cryptic message. And every scenario she thought of ended in nothing happening and these people thinking she's crazy forever. She doesn't know enough. . . .

She especially wants to call Edd, trust him, bring him into this. But just the act of calling proves that she
knew,
that she was waiting. And what might it look like? she wonders. Something sleazy, absolutely. People would say, Oh, you and your
lover
plotted murder and revenge—confess! What lawyers could do with that. No, there's no way to call Edd.
No way to call anyone. She has to do it herself. Finally, Anne decides, she can trust only herself.

Funny thing, she thinks, I seem to want it that way.

Alright, the one person comes.
Her.
What then? She just walks in here and shoots me? Or she talks to me awhile first, explaining that this is necessary, because I'm obsolete and boring and not nearly pretty enough.

Damn it, this is my house. I know my way around. I know how the doors close and what locks. I can defend it.

Anne again scans the dining room, the living room, recalling which objects might be weapons, how she will maneuver or attack or run.

But there's really only one main thing. Kathy thinks I don't know she's coming. I do know. She's thinking she can surprise me. I'm thinking I can surprise her. Why not?