Married to a Stranger (11 page)

The Kellerman’s box was there on top of the bags of trash. She reached in and lifted it out. Steeling herself, she lifted the top of the box and removed it. Just as David had said, the mouse was gone. All that remained was the silver shell dish.

All right, Emma thought. Okay. Her heart was hammering. I’ll bring it inside. And then, as she turned to walk back inside she had an idea. Perhaps, she thought, just perhaps, if they were armed with more information, she could convince David that it was in his best interest for both of them to speak to the police. And there was a way to obtain more information. It would not be easy, in her condition, but it was possible. And she had to do
something.
She felt caged in the house, at the mercy of her own vulnerability and Lizette’s intrusive efficiency. With her sense of purpose came hopefulness and a burst of strength.

She looked longingly down the driveway at her car. Lizette’s brown Toyota had blocked her in. She wasn’t allowed to drive anyway, and she really wasn’t supposed to leave the house today. A taxi would be a reasonable compromise.

Emma made her way back into the house and called the cab company, telling the dispatcher to have the car wait at the end of the block. Then she slipped the Kellerman’s box into a paper sack and went to the hall closet for her coat. But as she tried to slip it on over her dress, it felt unbearably heavy and constricting over her flayed skin. For a minute she was stymied. Then she remembered the cape. It was a soft, blue-green alpaca cape that Rory had given to her for Christmas last year. She never wore it. It had a designer label but was not at all her style. It was still in the box it came in. She had almost given it to Goodwill when they moved into this house, but at the last minute she had felt guilty and stuffed the box in the office closet. Emma limped toward the office, now her bedroom, wondering if Lizette was still in the basement.

As she reached for the doorknob, Lizette pulled it open from inside. Emma let out a little cry.

“I was just making up your beds,” Lizette said balefully. “I saw you outside from the cellar window. What in the world were you doing out there, rummaging in the garbage cans?”

Emma felt spied upon, imprisoned. “I threw something away by accident.”

“Well then, you should let me get it for you. That’s my job.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Emma.

“You could have broken your stitches,” Lizette scolded her.

“I’m fine,” said Emma.

“The bed’s made up, so lie down and rest,” Lizette commanded. “I’m going to vacuum.”

“Fine,” said Emma, closing the bedroom door. Vacuuming. Good, Emma thought. The roar of the vacuum would cover up the sounds of her leaving the house. She would be able to slip out unnoticed. It was stupid, sneaking around her own house, but Lizette was intent on her agenda—to keep her patient housebound and quiet. Emma went over to the closet, looked inside, and found on the floor the battered box with the cape. She put it on over her shoulders, grateful for its lightness and warmth. She walked over to the desktop and wrote a note that read “Do not disturb.” She could hear the loud whine of the vacuum cleaner from the back of the house. Perfect, she thought. I’ll explain it to her when I get back.

Emma slipped out the bedroom and taped the sign to the bedroom door, closing the door behind her. The vacuum was still roaring. She quietly opened the front door of the house and let herself out. The taxi was idling up the block. Emma waved to the driver who saw her in his rearview mirror as she made her painful way down the front steps with the aid of a cane. He turned the car around, drove up to the house, got out, and opened the door for her. Emma thanked him and slid gingerly into the backseat, resisting the urge to cry out from the pain. The driver got back into the front seat.

“I want to go to Kellerman’s. On Main Street,” she said. “And I’ll need you to wait for me while I’m inside.”

T
HE CLERK
at Kellerman’s, a pretty young woman wearing a sky blue turtleneck and a blond ponytail, wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What happened to the box?” she asked.

“It got thrown away by accident,” said Emma, looking down at the stained box, which was sitting on top of the glass display case that served as a counter.

“In the garbage?” the clerk asked.

Emma nodded.

“It smells like it,” said the clerk.

“It was a bit chaotic after the wedding,” said Emma. “There’s no card. Nothing. I need to know who bought me the gift so I can thank them.”

“The box looks kind of old,” the clerk observed doubtfully. “I mean, it could be because it got messed up in the garbage. But our boxes are much…brighter.” She reached under the counter and placed a gleaming white box on the counter. “See?”

“You’re right,” said Emma. “This one is a little bit yellowed.”

“Would you mind taking the lid off yourself?”

Emma shook her head and lifted the lid off the box.

The clerk reached in gingerly and lifted out the silver scallop shell dish. She studied it for a minute and then shook her head. “I don’t think we carry these.”

“Well, it did come from this store,” said Emma.

“Maybe they bought it somewhere else and put it in a Kellerman’s box,” the girl suggested. “People do that, you know. They buy at Wal-Mart and then pretend it came from Kellerman’s.”

“This dish is silver. It did not come from Wal-Mart.”

“Well, you know what I mean. Some discount place.”

Emma felt suddenly weary. “You’re sure you don’t carry a dish like this one. Could you check with someone else? Someone in charge.”

“I don’t need to check with someone in charge. I unpack the stock.”

“Did you ever carry a dish like this?”

The girl sighed and called out to a bald man with a bow tie and half-glasses who was dusting crystal with a feather duster on the other side of the store. “Harvey, did we ever carry a silver dish like this?” She held the scallop shell up.

The man held his duster aloft and peered over his half-glasses. Then he came toward them and set the duster down on the display case. He picked up the shell dish and examined it. “Oh yes,” he said. “We carried these for years. We only stopped stocking them maybe a year ago. Where did it come from?”

“I received it as a wedding gift,” said Emma. “There was no card.”

The man sniffed. “I’m afraid you were…regifted, if you know what I mean.”

Emma nodded. “All right. Thanks for your help,” said Emma. She put the dish back in the box and deposited the box into her paper sack. She turned away from the counter leaning on her cane.

“Do you need some assistance there?” the clerk asked sympathetically.

“I’m fine,” said Emma.

She made her way back to the front door of the store, passing display cases of jewelry and tables of linens and elegant housewares that appeared untouched. The store was quiet as a library. It took all Emma’s strength to push open the front door. The taxi was waiting, the driver reading the newspaper. She slowly managed to get herself back into the cab and asked him to take her back home.

On the way home, Emma prepared her excuse. She expected that Lizette would be miffed if she had discovered her charge had left the house. You don’t answer to her, she reminded herself. Stop feeling guilty. But as the cab pulled up in front of the house, and Emma paid the driver and began to get slowly out of the backseat, she noticed, to her surprise, that the brown Toyota was no longer parked behind her car in the driveway.

Emma painfully made her way to the front door and opened it, as the empty cab sped away up the street. “Lizette,” she called out. “Lizette, I’m back.” But there was no answer. The house was silent. All she could hear was the wind, whistling outside, whipping the trees. She closed the door behind her and locked it. Telling herself aloud that there was nothing to be afraid of, Emma started to walk through the empty house. Even though it was only late afternoon, the storm had caused the day to darken, and the house was dim and uninviting. She turned on the lights in the living room, wishing David were back. She did not like being alone in the house.

She looked around for a note or some word of explanation for why Lizette had left. There was nothing. Her backpack was nowhere to be seen. Was it possible she went looking for me? Emma thought. That would be beyond the call of duty, although Lizette had seemed to be a person who went the extra mile. The door to the office/bedroom off the kitchen was ajar. Emma walked over to it. Her heart leapt unpleasantly at what she saw there. The
DO NOT DISTURB
sign had been ripped from the door. The ragged corners of the sign were still fastened there with Scotch tape. Lizette must have torn the sign off in frustration when she realized that Emma had sneaked out of the house. Emma’s gaze swept the narrow hallway, and she saw the wadded paper on the floor. She bent slowly and awkwardly to pick it up and smoothed out the handwritten sign. She imagined the nurse tapping on the door to check on her and then finding her gone. Emma’s face flamed to think of the anger her stealthy escape had obviously provoked.

Emma knew she was to blame, and she didn’t want to think about it. David, she thought, when will you get back? She knew he would scold her when he heard that she had sneaked out on the nurse. At least, he would for a moment, but then she would attempt to make a funny story out of it. She tried to focus on that image of him laughing, but her heart was pounding, and part of her felt childishly angry at him for not being there with her. Lizette had departed, and now she was all alone.

Emma could feel her heart thumping and hated the sensation. It’s not stupid to be scared, she told herself. It’s perfectly normal. After what happened to you, anyone would be afraid to be alone. But she could not calm herself. The panicky feelings were mushrooming inside her, and nothing she could say to herself was diminishing her anxiety.

When was he coming back? How long did she have to wait here by herself? Of course he didn’t know that she was alone. He thought the nurse was with her. She felt an overwhelming urge to call him and tell him. Their makeshift bedroom was dark and did not have a switch by the door. It only had a lamp on the desk and one beside the bed. Emma took a deep breath, steeled herself, and hurried across the room, jamming her shin on the cot and yelping in pain as she reached for the desk lamp and turned it on.

The small, parchment-shaded lamp threw a golden glow over the desk. By its light, she was able to turn on the lamp by the bed. The two lamps warmly illuminated the room. Emma straightened up and sighed. That’s better, she thought.

She walked back over to the desk and sat down in her husband’s swivel chair. Sitting there, she felt almost as if his arms were around her. She tried the number of his cell phone, but it was turned off. Of course it was. She knew he would turn it off during the interview. She thought about the restaurant where he was meeting the guy. Could they still be there at this hour? If they were, they had to be the last two people in the restaurant. What was the name of the place? It was a French name. Maybe he wrote it down.

She scanned the messy desktop, but the note he had written was not there. He must have taken it with him. Dammit, she thought. His computer was on. She pushed a key and saw that he was rewriting an interview with a baseball star about the steroid scandals that he had started before their wedding. On the wall above the desk hung a framed article he had written about spending time with a well-known Cajun chef trolling the bayous of Louisiana. The accompanying photo was a black-and-white print of a swamp that seemed to be steaming in the eerie, shadowy light.

Both articles Nevin had assigned him for
Slicker.
Nevin would know how to reach him. Maybe she should call Nevin at the office. At first she dismissed that idea. David wouldn’t want Nevin involved in their personal business. He had made that clear enough. And then she thought, the hell with Nevin. I need to get in touch with my husband. She knew that David had Nevin’s private line in his address book. She scanned the messy desktop but did not see it. It was probably in the desk drawer. She pulled the handle on the drawer without thinking and met resistance.

Is something stuck, she wondered? She pulled on the drawer from beneath with both hands. It did not budge. It was locked. Locked? she thought. What has he got that he needs to lock away? What did people lock away? Women locked away old love letters. Men? Be honest, she thought. Probably porn. The idea of it made her feel irritable on top of her anxiety. Surely he didn’t think that she was so prudish that he had to lock that stuff up. It wasn’t as if she had never seen that kind of magazine. Unless, she thought, grimacing, he was into something revolting. Animals, children, or other men. No way, she thought. That was just stupid. If there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that David’s sexual appetites were healthy. She rattled the handle impatiently, but the drawer would not open. Forget the drawer. It’s none of your business.

All of a sudden, the phone rang at her elbow. She jumped at the unexpected ring. Picking up the phone, she punched the button to receive the call and held the phone to her ear, her heart still pounding. “Hello,” she said.

There was silence at the other end. She could hear breathing.

“Hello. Who is this?” she demanded. The caller did not speak. Emma heard a click and the call was over.

There was someone there, she thought. Why wouldn’t they answer? She pressed *69 to try to retrieve the number. It was a cell phone exchange, a number that she didn’t recognize. She thought of calling it back but told herself she was being stupid. Someone called a wrong number, realized it, and hung up. That’s all it was.

But she no longer felt safe in the little bedroom. The ringing phone. The locked drawer. The nurse mysteriously gone. The room she was sharing with her husband in the house she loved so much suddenly felt unfriendly to her. The wind was rising, and branches from the bushes outside flailed at the windowpane, snapping at her. She wondered if all the windows in the house were locked. The prospect of getting up and going around to every window, even on the first floor, seemed like more than she was physically capable of doing. And the second floor would be impossible. I need help, she thought frantically. Her mind raced, thinking of the people she knew. Stephanie, she thought. She dialed her friend’s number and got the machine. Maybe she’s still at school. It took her a moment to remember the number of the school. But the secretary there said that Stephanie had left an hour ago.

Emma slammed down the phone in frustration. Part of her wanted to collapse in a sobbing heap. She tried to focus on her sensible side. You have to try to make sure the windows are locked, she thought. Anyone could come in. The thought propelled her from the chair, but it also made her start to cry. She limped out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, tears drizzling down her face.
David, why aren’t you with me?
She knew it was weak and feeble of her to expect him to hover over her. But she felt weak and feeble. Emma shuffled over to the kitchen sink and started to lean up to check the lock on the window. Just as she reached for the latch, she heard a loud crack above her head. Gooseflesh broke out up and down her arms. She whirled around, her heart pounding.

Someone in the house. Upstairs. They got in. She imagined the man in the ski mask hovering on the floor above her, starting down the stairs. Emma lurched across the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and punched in 911.

“Can I help you?” asked the steady voice.

“I think there’s someone in my house,” Emma cried.

“Okay, calm down,” said the operator. “Did you see anyone?”

“No, but a man tried to kill me and I think he might have come back,” she whispered.

“Okay. Why do you think there’s someone there?”

Emma was beginning to hyperventilate. “There was a loud…cracking sound. From upstairs. He’s up there. Send the police. Please…I’m injured and I can’t…”

“Okay, I will do that.”

“My name is Emma Webster. I’m at 611 Spencer Drive. We’re at the end of the street. The last house.”

“I’m putting the call out for a patrol car right now,” said the operator soothingly.

“Don’t hang up on me,” Emma pleaded.

“I won’t,” the operator said reassuringly. “The officer is not far from you. He ought to be there any minute now.”

“Thank you,” Emma said. “Really. Thank you.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. Look out your window. You should be able to see his lights any minute.”

“Okay, I’m looking,” said Emma. “I don’t see anything….”

She clutched the phone and approached the front window to try to see outside. All of a sudden, there was a flashing light in her driveway.

“He’s here,” Emma cried into the phone.

“All right, ma’am. You’ll be all right now.”

A moment later, there was a knock at her door.

Emma picked up her cane and hobbled to the door, still clutching the phone receiver. She looked through the peephole. A young, uniformed patrolman stood on her front step. Emma unlocked the door and let him in.

“Thank you, officer. Thank you for getting here so quickly.”

“That’s all right, ma’am,” said the policeman, who looked barely older than Emma. “You think there’s someone in the house.”

“Yes, upstairs,” she said.

“All right, I’m going to go on up there. You wait right here. Okay?”

“Be careful,” Emma said, following him into the living room.

The young man flipped the switch at the foot of the stairs and began to climb up. Emma’s heart was pounding in her chest, and she leaned against the back of one of the living-room chairs.

The shrill blast of the phone in her hand made her cry out. Her heart leapt again, actually feeling painful in her chest. She pressed the button and barked into the receiver, “Who is it?”

“Emma?” said a worried voice. “It’s Burke.”

Emma sank back against the chair and let out a sigh. “Burke. Oh thank God.”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”