Too Easy (4 page)

Alright, she thinks, maybe I did react too strongly. Something about those boys; I was thinking about being their mother, and suddenly I don't like my sons.

She smiles and turns back to her desk, staring blankly at the two screens.

Or I'm more on edge than I think. This whole ticking clock thing is a weight. The promotion is probably out of my reach. Damn it all but okay. Is there something else? She sees Robert in her mind. Always working very hard. A little distracted maybe. Is something different? What would it be?

No, she thinks, it's probably me. It's my fault. Definitely.

I always worry too much. More than Robert anyway. It was always like that. He could be silly, and I tried to learn from him. Right from the first date, it was like that. All my life, I got straight A's, obeyed all the rules. “Sometimes,” Robert said, “you have to say, ‘Screw the rules.' ” It sounded so daring.

She remembers a night before they married, at a bowling alley, drinking too many beers, acting like kids. A
lot
of gutter balls! . . . She smiles thinking about the snapshots they
got from a machine, four for a dollar. Their heads pressed ear to ear, grinning, mugging for the camera. The snaps are in a scrapbook somewhere, but she doesn't need to have them before her. She can see the expressions exactly. We look so young, she thinks, and so happy. Robert taught me how. . . .

Oh well, she sighs, you get older, the worries pile up. Can't stay young forever, no matter how hard you try. Ouch! She thinks again of the ticking clock. Yeah, we've really got to deal with that. Is it baby time? Is that what I really want? Are we ready?

Anne shakes her thoughts back to work. She points her pencil at a row of numbers on the screen.
“Just
a million seven out of whack. Sure, let's trade a VP.” She smiles, thinking of Edd's curiously blank manner. Funny, someone more grown up than I am.

She focuses on the numbers, goes back to work.

•
 The cabbie comes across East 40th. Racing and braking, playing his private games with rush-hour traffic. Sees a hand shoot up on the left, brakes hard toward the curb. He rolls just past, gets a good look at the figure inside the raincoat, shudders his shoulders by way of approval. Then she's in the back, leaning right up to the partition, kind of shouting, “Turn up Third. Get on the right. We'll pick somebody up at 44th Street.”

He sees her in his mirror. A real looker with black hair, hot red lipstick, bright eyes, something tough around the mouth. He shoots over to Third, swings wide onto the avenue. In the mirror he sees she's put on some fancy sunglasses, sort of Hollywood. She's in the middle of the seat, staring up ahead.

“There,” she shouts, “tall man in a dark coat.”

Cabbie pulls over and this fairly big guy opens the door and quickly stoops down to get in. Smart-looking, might be
an exec . . . no, more like an architect. Maybe a little tense today. Don't worry, buddy. She'll fix you up.

“Just drive up to the park, drive around,” the woman says through the clear plastic partition. Then she moves to the left and sits staring straight ahead, as if she hardly knows the guy.

A little weird, the cabbie thinks. He grabs his clipboard, pretends to write something, hears the woman say softly, “Hi, big guy.”

The big guy's staying by the right door, also staring ahead.

“Let's
go,”
the woman shouts.

The cabbie hits the gas, thinking, Head up to the park, huh? Ride around, huh? Hey, no fucking in the cab, okay? Just kidding. An extra ten'll take care of it. I won't even look. Much.

He works into the middle of Third, gets up near 50th Street, then shifts around in his seat some, get the best angle on these two. She's more in the center now, facing the guy. Nice profile. Great smile. He's leaning to her, getting that big head down closer. Seems she's holding his arm now. Talk, talk, talk. Yeah, well, talk louder! Hell, with the motor, the wind, I can't hear a damned word.

Cabbie catches a light on 54th. Good. See what's happening here. He thinks he's seen this, people pretending not to know each other, at least not real well. Then you get moving, and they go at it. So what've you got? Not a married couple. When are they all over each other? Haha. Alright, they do it now and then. But they don't act cold at the start. Right? Right.

Cabbie leans his head back on the partition, like a tired guy. Makes a show of staring up at the light. “. . . thinking about you all day,” he hears the woman say. “You devil.” Then silence. Ohhh, kissy, kissy sounds. Cabbie grabs his crotch. Be still, my dick.

Light changes and the cabbie speeds up to 59th, turns left and goes across toward Sixth. Yeah, if the lady has another
idea, I know she'll speak
right up.
Geez, some of these dames these days.

Lots of traffic on Central Park South. The horse carriages all lined up. One of his favorite streets. The park still bare. Fucking winter, get outta here.

Problem now, he thinks, is sitting a little higher, get a look down, see what they're doing. He shifts around, flexes his shoulders, do that seventh-inning stretch sitting down. As he turns right into the park, he gets a good look. Whoa, they're locked! Let's see, who's groping who here? She's got an arm around his neck, the other hand in his jacket, rubbing his chest. All right, keeping it clean. And this guy is kissing her ear,
holy shit—tongue!
I need a drink—

Almost sideswipes a brand-new Lexus, instantly rolls the window down a few more inches, shouts, “Hey, pal, learn to drive. And buy American, you asshole!”

Cabbie wants desperately to turn around, look at them all at once, instead of little pieces at a time. He's on the drive now, heading northeast. Cars on each side of him. Little tricky in here. No good stomping some fucking Japobile. The paperwork'll kill ya. Need a stoplight.

The light's red near 72nd Street. The traffic real thick. More than a dozen cars stopped ahead of him. Bicyclists weaving past his door. Goddamned kids on skateboards taking his paint off.

Hey, I open the door in your face, see how you like that. Alright, let's see, the left hand's on her neck. In the hair, looks like. Hey, put me in there, coach. Now, that right hand. Down there somewhere. Oh shit, can't see. . . . Guy's face, let's see? Still tense. God, he's going crazy. But having fun? Whoa, there it is! A ring the size of a ball and chain.

The cabbie gulps trying not to laugh. Oh, well, excuse me, Nookie Man, but did you get permission?

The meter trips to $9. Cabbie thinks, Great, ride this park all day. No, they probably don't have much time. I'll just drive like a bat, run this thing way up.

The light changes and the traffic curves left, then right, heading north. Cabbie gets the speed up to 55, 60, slicing through the clear March chill.

He looks in the mirror again, realizes they've shifted left, more behind him. Fuck is this? What, they saw him? Trying to hide? The back of the guy's head is in the center of his mirror. To see her, he leans hard up against the door. Geez, he wants to adjust the mirror. But maybe they're watching him. Hey, you pervert. Who, moi? Fuck you, buddy, never saw you fuck her, besides your technique needs work.

Cabbie laughs a little to himself, thinking, No, it's not him saw me. Guy's got enough on his mind. It's her. Bitch. Mind your own business, lady. Guy driving a cab
has
to use the rearview mirror. It's the fucking law.

Hey, maybe they're just
lying down more.
Don't care about me one way or another. Wow. Yeah, like she's sinking down, getting him on her. Like she's overcome by the hots. I don't know, babe. You that hot? Fuck this, I'm that hot. He's got his hand on your tits, I'll die. Crash this fucking thing and go to heaven.

Cabbie figures a way. Gets in the left lane, waits, then steers suddenly to the right, so he has to look back over his shoulder, check traffic. Check that skirt almost up to there. Oh, sweet Jesus. Guy's right hand in the blouse, just the back of his wrist showing. I'm dying. It's not worth it. Meter's tripping $14. Who cares?
I'm paying.
Hey, folks, maybe we can do this regular.

Cabbie stares grimly ahead, hunches over the wheel. Reaches down to rub his hard-on. Thinking how pretty she is. What are those breasts? . . . 36C probably. Hell, make 'em D. More for me. Hey, I got the dreams, guy's got the nipple. I
know it.
Like a grape. Go ahead, get it out, suck it. I won't look. Much!

A horn blasts through his head. He looks at the road, sees he's over the yellow line, a few inches from another car. Scary! He ignores the guy, coolly steers back to his lane.

“Sorry, folks,” the cabbie yells toward the back seat. “Lot of jerks on the road.”

Hey, don't mind me, you two just go right ahead. Me, I'm having safe sex up here. Hey, if you can call safe having some fuck trying to run you off the road. Cabbie smiles, wondering if he could reach out and adjust the outside mirror, maybe see her that way. Jesus, I'm a nervous wreck up here. Always fuck the workingman, even when they
don't.
Isn't it the truth? Hey,
fuck
this workingman!

They're near the top of the park now, a twisting, hilly stretch. Stay alert, buddy. Some kids with a rock could try to steal my love birds. No fucking way, José. I'm bringing the goods home. Which is more than I can say for Mister-Don't-Let-Your-Meatloaf here.

Fuck it, the cabbie thinks. He rolls down his window, fiddles with the mirror, peers hard, gets a nice shot of mouths pressed together. Then they pull apart an inch, and the guy says something soulful, to judge by the serious expression. Guy looks like he wants something bad.
What's
another question.

Oh, and that kisser on her. Those eyes. What'd that guy say in the army? Talking about his fiancée, girl back home, for Chrissake. Shows me this Polaroid, says, I'd crawl three miles over broken glass to hear this girl piss over the phone. Man, I almost fell on the floor. Now I got her in the back seat.

Man, look at the money I'm making. What the hell. I'll have to spend it all in some bar getting over this. I'm not looking
nooooo
more. That's it. Stress'll kill you.

•
 On Saturday, after lunch, Kathy takes a cab to Grand Central, catches the train up to the stop just south of Bronxville. Not taking any chances at all. She's got on a green raincoat she hasn't worn in years, a dark scarf over her hair, and her sunglasses. She finds a cab, gives the driver an address about a block away from Robie's house. She has to see it, see how he lives, see how she's going to live.

Robie was paying for drinks, and she said, “Oh, let me see your wallet. I want to see what kinds of things you have in there.” She made a big deal out of the funny photo on his license. Then she had his address, without asking for it.

She sits back in the right corner of the cab. Enjoying the ride, the small roads, the great-looking homes they pass. She bought a map, knows generally where she is, how long the ride will take. Ah, Bronxville, she thinks, where I belong. And I had to be born in the ass end of Trenton.

And she's enjoying the suspense—maybe she'll see Robie. Maybe she'll see his wife.

Kathy's face tightens. Probably the wife is a nice enough woman, even if dull, plain, barren, and in the way. Just a stupid, lucky accident she got Robie. They do
not
belong together. Kathy doesn't want to let herself be emotional and thus perhaps careless. This is business, you might say. But that woman is all wrong for Robie. Kathy suspected this. Now she
knows
it. No, the fate of it—the plain common sense, really—is that she and Robie marry, have a number of children, and live happily and prosperously ever after. Good for each other the whole time.

Robie already knows what she wants, deep down. Watching the street signs flicker by, she wonders if she overplayed her hand. He asked about her marriage and Kathy told him about the dumb mistake she made, the uninteresting husband she got. Then she went a step too far, maybe. She looked in Robie's eyes and said, “Really, I just outgrew him. So I did what I had to do. I walked away from the marriage.” A little challenge in her eyes. A little too much? Telling Robie, Hey, I did it, you can, too. All it takes is balls.

Yeah, balls. She smiles. That's all Robie needs to bring to the table. Everything else is taken care of.

Funny, she thinks, talking about Keith as dull, uninteresting. He was never any of that. Mr. Balls himself. Hey, no reason to threaten Robie. . . .

Actually, Keith was a fascinating guy, she thinks. Give him credit. But everything I want to get away from, leave far behind.

And hello to this. . . . The cab is close to Robie's neighborhood now. If she remembers right, this street intersects with his. Pretty homes everywhere Kathy looks. The streets aren't straight but curve gently. Not rich people. Upper middle class. Probably half-acre lots, maybe a full acre here and there. Plenty of space. Deep backyards. Two-story homes, ranch homes. Grass, kids, cars, bikes, mailboxes, trees, shrubs. Normal people, leading normal
lives. People here, she thinks, they ought to get down on their knees every day, kiss the ground, thank the Lord, something. Hell, they probably bitch all the time they don't have it better. Not me. God, are you listening? Please, give me Robie, give me this. That's it. You won't hear a word out of me for the next fifty years. I won't look at another man. I'll raise good kids. Join the PTA. The whole thing. And not a peep out of me. That a deal, God? Please! I'll do my part, I promise!

Kathy sees the name of Robie's street. Her breathing quickens, which surprises her. She strains to pick out a number, figure how far away the house is. Let's see, oh, they're almost there. Jesus. The house is on her right—fifty feet outside the cab window. Just a low hedge separating them. Kathy presses herself back in the corner, peeks out. Nobody in sight. The cab is slowing, the guy looking for a number that actually doesn't exist. Robie's house is smallish, two stories. Well, hell, big for two people. White and a Colonial blue on the trim. Drive and garage to the right. Then a little fence with a row of small trees separating Robie's house from the nearest neighbor. Must be a backyard. . . .