The War of the Roses (16 page)

'It can't be shared any longer. Not like this.'

'Then why don't you simply sell it and split the value?'

'I'm willing to give her half the value. I paid for it. My brains. My sweat
.
Christ'

He was frowning and she had the impression he was talking by rote, like an actor going over his lines in rehearsal. Suddenly he stopped talking and was staring at something on top of the bed canopy.

'What is it, Oliver?' she asked. He moved leisurely from the bed and crossed the room. Slowly, with quiet deliberation, he moved a chair to a corner of the room and stood on it. He was naked and the act seemed odd and incongruous. She lifted herself on one elbow to observe him, but before she could speak he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Stretching, he peered over the canopy's side, then stepped down again. He took a robe from the closet.

With a ringer still on his lips, he quietly opened the door and went into the corridor. By then she was too curious to stay and she followed him into Eve's room, which was next to his. Ignoring her, he kneeled and began to feel along the baseboard. Then, finding a wire, he traced it along the side of one of Eve's bookcases. It snaked through a tiny hole near the floor.

'Bastards,' he muttered, crawling, following the wire. It led from Eve's room, along the baseboard of the corridor, then upward again, to the window overlooking the garden. He bounded down the back stairs. She followed quickly behind him. He was lost in concentration. She watched him select a big knife from the wooden box on the kitchen island. Curiosity gave way to fright. She hung back in the shadows while he passed in front of her again and slowly opened the door to the garden.

When it was fully opened
he sprang out and, crouching, ran across the yard to the garage, flinging open the back door. She heard noises, groans, then silence. A light was switched on,, bathing the quiet garden in a yellowish haze.

Disregarding the cold, she padded along the moist grass to the garage window. What she saw choked a scream in her throat. Oliver had a knife to a man's throat. He was a
little
man in glasses, pale and frightened. She could see the indentation
where the knife point
pinched the skin.

He drew the man alongside a beige van, with an open side door, through which she could see lighted television screens and tape-recording equipment. Barbara had taken her station wagon and the van was parked in its place. Next to it was Eve's Honda and beside that, encased in its cover, Oliver's Ferrari.

She saw the two men disappear into the van through the side door.

Then she saw the tape reels come crashing out of the van, unraveling on the cement garage floor. The man was screeching in protest. When they emerged again, Oliver held the man in a hammerlock, the knife pressed to his throat.

'. . . just doing my job,' she heard the man cackle in fear. Oliver said nothing. A vein palpitated in his forehead. She had never seen him in this state.

Squinting into the glare of the naked garage bulb, viewing this sense of repressed rage and violence, she saw everything in isolation, without connection to herself. Oliver removed the knife point from the man's neck and looked into the cab of the van. From its seat he grabbed an object, which Ann recognized as Barbara's electronic door opener. He looked at it for a moment, shrugged, then pointed it toward the heavy door, which opened with a rumble. Then he ordered the man into the driver's seat. The motor of the van caught and accelerated. A cloud of exhaust filled the air as it backed out of the garage. Reversing quickly, it headed full speed down the alley.

But as it moved, tires squealing on the asphalt, a shattering scream rent the air, a sound of deep pain. The van did not stop, but the sound had shocked Ann into movement and she ran along the gravel path around the garage, ignoring the sharp pain on her bare feet. Oliver was standing over something, a still, black shape.

'The son of a bitch has run over Mercedes,' Oliver said, and knelt beside the dead animal.

The events were jumbled in her mind. She was frightened and the distorted, broken animal made her suddenly nauseated and she had a spasm of dry heaves.

'Serves the bitch right,' Oliver muttered. She could not recognize his voice. He stabbed his knife into the air and, winding up like a baseball pitcher, flung it into the darkness.

He sent Ann up to her own room and
spent the next few hours dismantl
ing the television equipment and removing the wire. Then he smashed the camera with a sledgehammer and threw the pieces into the kitchen garbage compactor. When everything was sufficiently flattened, he carted the refuse out to the trash cans in the alley.

He had worked in a sustained rage, unthinking, not conscious of his actions. As the heat of anger abated he felt himself unstiffen. His mind began to clear and his reason returned.

Strippi
ng the cover off
his Ferrari and removing the fiberglass top, he climbed in, felt the cool leather, and breathed deeply, savoring its aroma. Opening the glove compartment, he removed the key, placed it in the ignition, and flicked it. The eight cylinders caught almost immediately and the engine purred, soothing him.

It was a toy, really, but it gave him pleasure and he mothered it like a baby, changing its plugs, keeping it shined and covered. It was three years old, a work of art, and he knew its value was appreciating rapidly. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of car.

Perhaps, he thought, he should take this one acknowledged personal possession and ride off into the night, a lone cowboy, in search of new adventures, a new life, leaving the old behind. Me and my
little
red Ferrari, he thought, feeling the wheel, the close, warm security of the tight driver's seat. He stepped on the accelerator,
listening to the satisfying whisper of the 205-horsepower engine. A 3,200-pound magic carpet.

Finally, reality intruded. He remembered Mercedes. Surely Barbara was responsible for its death. He climbed out of the Ferrari and shoved the cat into a plastic bag. Putting the crushed body into the seat beside him, he carefully backed the car out and sped over the darkened streets. The wind felt good, relaxing him. Momentarily forgetting the incident, he let himself merge with the. Ferrari's power, savoring the sense of freedom. An escape. When he reached Memorial Bridge, he stopped, grabbed the neck of the plastic bag, and flung it into the Potomac River.

By disposing of Mercedes, he assured himself, he would spare the children any embarrassment over their mother's wanton act. She had used their child's room for her filthy spying. That was a crime worse than the spying itself, a disgusting act. It was no wonder that Mercedes had been killed. It was retribution. Let them think the cat was lost.

When he returned, he tucked in the Ferrari. Then he gathered up the tapes and burned them in the library fireplace. Nixon should have done this, he thought, watching the plastic curl and turn quickly to ashes. He wished it were Barbara.

At seven in the morning he called Goldstein and told him what had happened.

'Meet me at the delicatessen on Grubb Road,' Goldstein said, responding to Oliver's agitation. 'We'll put some Jewish soul food in you. It will calm you down.'

Goldstein was waiting in a booth, smearing globs of cream cheese on a dark brown bagel, on which he then placed two strips of Nova Scotia lox. His mouth was full and he pointed to a platter on the other side of the table.

'I want to take her to court. Invasion of privacy. Something. Anything.'

Goldstein continue
d to chew without pause. 'Well,
what you intend to do about it?' 'I'm thinking.' 'You're eating.'

'You think it's impossible to eat and think at the same time?'

'Nothing's impossible.'

Goldstein quickly finished all the food on his plate and lit a cigar.

'Now I'm finished thinking,' he said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. Goldstein puffed again and began to speak.

'The strategy was as follows. Remember the objective. The house. The whole house. To make their case better, they want you out. Anyhow, any way. They catch you red-handed with the governess -'

'Not really a governess. Sort of an
au pair
girl.' Oliver was surprised at his odd defensiveness, as if he wanted to raise her in his own esteem.

'But involved with the children.'

'You might say that.'

'I did say that. They go to the judge and say you have been
shtupping
their child's governess. You are an unfit father, a moral threat to the children.
Shtupping
her under their noses, so to speak. Such an immoral action is dangerous to the children's welfare, et cetera, et cetera. They get an injunction. You go. The governess goes. You're finally out of the house.'

'It's ruthless. She's an innocent.'

'Sounds to me she's not so innocent.'

'I don't mean that. She's only a bystander. She doesn't have to be hit with a bag of shit.'

'Anybody within spitting distance of a divorce gets slopped with it. It can't be helped. Don't be such a dummy. Your lovely wife set you up. Leaving you alone in the house with a young, attractive girl. Am I right?'

'Yes.'

'You are a sexually deprived man, right?'

Oliver pointed a finger directl
y at Goldstein's chest. 'That's entrapment. I want her in court.'

'You want to have the gumshoe testify. Then what's-her-name. And the press comes. Before you know it, it's the plot for a pornographic movie. You want to subject your kids to that?'

Oliver looked down at his plate of lox, cream cheese, and bagels. His stomach turned. He reached into his pocket for a Maalox and popped one into his mouth.

'Anyway, you destroyed the evidence. So they have nothing to go on. It was their move and they blew it.' Goldstein looked covetously at Oliver's plate. He pointed with the cigar. 'You gonna have that?' Oliver pushed the plate toward him and Goldstein began to eat.

'The inhumanity of human beings depresses me. And when I get depressed, I eat.' Goldstein sighed through a full mouth, raising his shoulders to fill his lungs with air. Oliver waited for him to swallow. The process seemed interminable.

'It is a kind of theater of the absurd.' Oliver sighed. 'They do it with technology. Gadgets. Divorce is now show business. Nothing is sacred anymore.'

'Only marriage is sacred. Not divorce.'

Goldstein's philosophical homilies tried his patience. He is practicing his ex-profession on me, Oliver thought, realizing that Goldstein's self-image was a far cry from the stubby little man with drooping eyelids, heavy jowls, and a paunch like an inflated balloon under his pants. He wore his pants high, a black leather belt strapped around what seemed to be his chest. Naked, Oliver speculated, he must look like an overstuffed cherub.

'When you talk like that, I have to look behind you to see if you sprouted wings,' Oliver said. He knew Goldstein was winding up for a sermon.

'You can destroy the legal basis for the family,' he began. 'But the biological basis lives on. Thurmont has no regard for the human equation.
Ess iss nisht gut fur der kinder
.
It is not good for the children. A
shanda.
A shame.' Goldstein shook his head; his bald pate glistened beneath the overhead lights. 'My advice now is as follows.' He paused, drew in his breath. He saw himself, Oliver was certain, as Moses the lawgiver coming down from Mount Sinai with the tablets clutched to his breast. 'Ignore it. It never happened. They tried. They lost. If she doesn't bring it up, you don't bring it up. I'll talk to Thurmont. If someone brings it up, the children get involved. If the children get involved, they'll try to show you're a bad influence, which is what they tried to do in the first place.'

'How can I ignore it? And there's Ann to consider. I don't know if it can be handled.' He shook his head. 'Barbara won't keep her mouth shut. She'll make Ann's life hell.'

'If only you were a student of the Talmud, Rose. A
shanda.
Listen to me. Think of me not as a Murray, but as a David. David and Oliver. Friends. Biblically speaking, Barbara will not jeopardize her own reputation as 'good mother.' You said yourself she is a good mother. You even thought she was a good wife. So why tempt guilt? Custody of the children for you won't do them any good. You have a practice. You travel. Think of me also as your spiritual advisor. Guilt won't do any good. We Jews know about guilt.' He paused, searching internally for the relief of a belch, which came in a loud, cascading rumble. 'Sometimes a good
greps
gets rid of the cobwebs of the mind. A confrontation now is not smart. Don't upset the children. Tell Ann to stay.'

'Suppose she won't.'

'You said she loves you. For love, women do many stupid things.'

'Like getting married,' Oliver said, suddenly assailed by a flash of memory of a younger Barbara.

'Love should never be the basis of marriage. It's a business proposition from the beginning. Read the Talmud, Rose. It will make you a
mensh.'

Goldstein stubbed the remains of his half-smoked cigar into the greasy plate.

'The whole idea is repugnant,' Oliver said. 'As a matter of fact, I'm getting tired of the way I'm living. If only she was reasonable. What's wrong with half?'

'Remember King Solomon and the baby?'

'What the hell has that got to do with it?'

'Our case rests with Solomon. We will have to prove we are the real mother of the house.'

'But the real mother was willing to give up the child rather than see it destroyed.' Oliver was proud of his insight, but Goldstein looked at him sadly, his droopy lids fluttering.

'So who got the child?'

'I don't understand any of this,' Oliver said, getting up. Goldstein pulled him down again. 'The real mother.'

He hurried away from the delicatessen in panic, more confused than when he had arrived. He found Ann in her room, packing.

'I'm going,' she said. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

'Where?'

'I don't know. I only know I can't stay here. I'd rather make the break before she forces me to.' Her suitcase was battered and one clasp was broken. He felt as if he had deliberately thrown her out on the street.

'Goldstein says you don't have to go.'

'Then let Goldstein come here and stay.' She turned toward him. 'It can't work. She will know that we've had a . . . relationship. The detective will tell her. You're still her husband. Legally.'

'But we're supposed to be leading separate lives - '

'And I can't see myself facing the children.' She looked up at him and touched his cheek gendy. 'I hate seeing this happen to this family, Oliver. I feel as if somehow I wished it to happen.'

'Tell it to Goldstein. He's an expert on guilt.'

She moved her face against his chest and he embraced her, feeling the heat of her cheek against him.

'I know I love you, Oliver. I can't stand the idea of it under these circumstances. I've never had this kind of experience before and I don't know how to cope with it.'

'Frankly, Ann, I haven't either.' He remembered Goldstein again.

'Then, Ann ...' He hesitated, doubting his sincerity, although he had admitted to himself he was moved by her. 'If you love me.' He paused.

'Please, Oliver. Don't do that to me.'

He was angry at himself. He disengaged and turned toward the dormer window. It was a cloudy, gloomy day.

'Then let me ask you as a friend. If that's possible. I don't even want us to think of ourselves as lovers. I don't want to use you. All I want you to do is to stay a while longer. Goldstein says Barbara might not bring it up, for the children's sake. And I really believe that they'll be heartbroken if you leave now. And they'll suspect something that they don't really need to know about. Just for a little while.'

She shook her head.

'I don't think I can, Oliver. I haven't got that kind of pluck.'

'Well, then, be selfish. Think of your own financial needs.'

'There is too much selfishness around he
re as it is.' She seemed instantl
y apologetic and her eyes began to fill with tears.

'For crying out loud, Ann' - Oliver felt himself erupting - 'we're not evil people.'

'It's only a house, Oliver. You can get another one. And these' - she waved her arms in the air - 'are only things.'

'She has no right to all of them.' He turned away, his eyes now vague and inert.

'It's an obsession and it's making you and her do crazy things. I saw you out there last night with that knife. Nothing else mattered. I can't imagine why you didn't stick it into that man's neck. I felt certain you were going to do it. That's another thing, Oliver. I don't like to see you people disintegrate. Even what Barbara did to me. I just don't see it as the real Barbara. If only you both could see what you're becoming.' The long speech seemed to make her winded and she sat down on the sleigh bed. 'I didn't like being a spectator to this. And I don't like being a participant.'