The War of the Roses (17 page)

He moved back toward her and sat down on the bed, touching the curled edges of the wood. He seemed mentally adrift, searching for a piece of flotsam.

'We found the damned thing in Middleburg,' he said, speaking slowly. At first she was confused by the sudden change of subject. 'It's part of the French phase of the early Federal period, bui
lt around 1810. We had it refin
ished. You know, when you you refinish an antique, you hurt its value. Crazy, isn't it? We liked the idea of it. What marvelous fantasies those people had. A bed like a sleigh. Closing your eyes and going off to a peaceful slumber in a sleigh.'

'They're still only things, Oliver.'

'I used to think that myself. But they're more than that. They're dreams, as if you're stepping into someone else's life. You begin to wonder how many others slept in this bed, what they thought about, how they looked at life.' His eyes swept the room. 'They're more than objects. Just thinking about them prolongs their life. Maybe life is a dream.'

'I know they're beautiful. I understand your feelings about them. But they're still not flesh and blood. They don't feel. People are what count.'

She turned toward him, and he embraced her. She felt his breath in her ear. 'And I love the kids,' she said. 'I'm really attached to them. There's nothing I won't do for them. I think they've been fantastic soldiers through all this. They've gone beyond the call of children's duty to their parents.'

'I know,' he whispered. The mention of the children seemed to snap him back to alertness and he backed away. 'And I don't want to see them hurt any more than they have to be. As a matter of fact, I've decided to send them to camp for the summer. They're better off away from here while all this is going on.'

Actually, the idea had just occurred to him. Ann could leave when they left. He hoped she would reach this conclusion on her own. Then another dilemma intruded. He and Barbara would be alone in the house for two whole months.
Alone.
He shuddered, wondering again how he had slipped into this purgatory. There was something happening to him, he acknowledged. Perhaps he was losing his self-esteem, his sense of manhood. Certainly he had lost control of events. He turned toward her again, seeking validation, searching for lost power. He embraced her, feeling aroused instantly.

'Save me, Ann,' he begged.

'All right, Oliver,' she whispered as he began to
undress her.
/

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled. 'Damn you, Goldstein.' 'Goldstein?'

'He said women in love invariably do stupid things.' 'He was right,
^’
she said. He grasped her, as a drowning man reaches for a lifeline.

17

Josh and his grandfather had shot the rabbits and she had packed them in ice, still unskinned, and driven them home. Earlier, she had eviscerated fifteen of the two dozen at her father's, bringing home the useful innards in plastic bags. The rest hung on pothooks, like punished criminals, above the kitchen island. She took them down one at a time, slit each lengthwise down its belly, and peeled away the fur. Then she slit open the rib cage, removed the entrails, sliced away at the meat, and put the strips in a large bowl.

Rabbit
pate
had struck her as a novel idea and she had persuaded the French Market to try it. She was thankful that the work temporarily diverted her attention from the weekend'
s disaster. She had gotten Thur
mont's call on Sunday. Everything had gone wrong. The detective was upset and threatening. He had demanded payment immediately, alleging that Oliver had stolen some of his equipment, the remains of which she had already seen in the trash cans.

She hadn't been at al
l comfortable in what she had do
ne. But, she told herself, she'd had no choice. If only he would understand and move out once and for all. She was surprised, too, that the episode had given her a twinge of jealousy. She considered the perils of male celibacy and knew that, under the right circumstances, Oliver would react. Often when he came home after a long trip, he had fallen on her like a horny beast. She had dutifully submitted, of course, less out of sexual enjoyment than of validating her role as wife again. It
was all part of the programming and gave her more reason to detest her former self.

In a way, she felt relieved that she would not have to confront the detective's evidence. But that softness in herself angered her and she hacked away at the rabbits as if they were tangible enemies. Who was the real enemy? Herself? Oliver? Ann? She wanted to apologize to Ann. She was not being her true self. Her behavior was merely a device, a tactic. In war, people did things out of character, suspended compassion, kindness, consideration.

Thurmont had forbidden any discussion of the subject.

'Leave it alone. We blew it,' he had barked into the phone, forestalling any protests on her part by hanging lip abruptly.

The evidence in the trash cans testified to Oliver's wrath. That, too, seemed completely out of character. Oliver had always been cerebral, nonviolent, and rarely had he lost his temper. He was never out of control. It was another trait that she had grown to despise, his cool-headedness.

'Show me an emotion out of control and I'll show you certain defeat.' He had burned that lesson into her and she was trying her best to follow his advice.

She had, she thought, pulled off her first meeting with Ann that morning with expert acting prowess. Not that they had exchanged any more than the most prosaic words about the weather, the weekend. She had begun a long, one-sided account of their trip, as if nothing had occurred between them. Ann had been remarkably cool, although little lip tremors and nervously shifting eyes revealed the tension between them. It was only when Ann went off to school that Barbara's real anger surfaced. The little bitch fucked Oliver under my roof, in the room next to my daughter's bed. She ran up a full steam of rancor, which somehow increased the speed with which she hacked apart the rabbits.

The unusual circumstances had interfered with her morning routine and it wasn't until she put the rabbit livers and the other meat in the grinder that she realized that she hadn't seen or fed Mercedes. Barbara searched in the usual bunks around the kitchen, then poked around the cat's favorite haunts in the garden and the rafters of the garage.

'Mercedes,' she called, offering familiar signals. She gave up in frustration and went back into the kitchen. Perhaps Ann had forgotten about Mercedes, considering how busy the girl had been, Barbara thought with a smirk.

After she had ground the rabbit meat, along with veal and pork, and added the onion and garlic to the mix, she called the animal pound, carefully describing the cat to the attendant.

'Call animal removal. She may have been run over.'

Getting through to them was a bureaucratic nightmare, and when she did finally, it was futile. She was thankful that no dead animals had been reported. But it wasn't like Mercedes to disappear. She had raised her from a kitten; she had rarely strayed in the daytime, sometimes making a pest of herself as she clawed her way about the kitchen shelves. She would have to ask Ann when she returned. After all, Mercedes had been entrusted to her care. The irony disturbed Barbara. She felt more compassion for the missing Mercedes than for Oliver. If only he had disappeared.

She mixed wine, cognac, salt, pepper, thyme, parsley, and oil in a small bowl, then added the mixture to the meat bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. Cold took the gaminess out of the meat. Before she closed the door, her eyes lingered a moment on the mixture and she thought again of the incident with the meat pastry on Christmas Day.
'Bastard,'
she cried.

Opening the garden door, she again called for Mercedes. Oliver had never really liked the cat, and Barbara had always felt he had gotten Benny out of spite. Nor did he understand how it was possible for a woman to have a relationship with a female cat. She was sure Mercedes was the only one of the family who really understood her and it was to Mercedes that she had poured out her secret thoughts. Mercedes was wise and true, more perceptive and sensitive than the others. She could always be counted on for affection.

Once she had jumped on Oliver's bare buttocks while he and Barbara were having sex, drawing blood and pain. He had insisted the cat be declawed, but since Barbara had already yielded on spaying, she refused.

"You can't take away her claws,' she had rebuked. "She wouldn't have anything to fight back with.'

'Or to attack me with,' Oliver had protested. The irony hit home now. Men just don't understand the female animal, she thought.

But she had suffered with Benny sleeping in their room
for years, barking at every rustl
e or creak of the house, sometimes humping her leg with that ugly, distended red thing. The children showed
little
interest in caring for either animal and they became his and hers by default.

'Hasn't she come home?' Anne's response to Barbara's inquiry was neither convincing nor encouraging.

'Why else would I have asked?' Barbara said politely, avoiding a confrontation. Besides, Ann had quickly turned away.

Barbara was not, of course, reassured and Mercedes did not come back. Unable to sleep that night, she dressed early and went down to the kitchen to finish her rabbit
pate.
Again remembering the meat pastry she tasted the mixture to be sure no one had tampered with it. The memory inflamed her and she beat the eggs with uncommon zeal, mixing them into the flour to make a smooth paste. Cooking was surely her therapy, but it did not calm her now. Sometimes, making a dish could absorb her entire concentration. Now she found it difficult to focus her attention. It was a struggle to line the loaf pan with bacon slices, pack in the meat, press down the corners to avoid air holes. She even forgot to top the loaf off with bacon slices, bay leaves, and parsley stems, and had to remove the pan from the oven to finish the chore.

When it was back in the oven, she went out into the streets, searching for Mercedes, sensing it was futile. Was it possible that Oliver had destroyed the innocent Mercedes in retaliation? It was difficult to get herself to believe that he was capable of destroying her helpless pet. Brooding over that possibility unnerved her. Still, she couldn't find Mercedes. She had also lost track of time. It was four hours later when she returned and she could tell by the odor of singed meat that she had forgotten to set the oven and had ruined the
pate.
That only increased her irritability.

She called Thurmont.

'I think he's destroyed Mercedes,' she blurted into the phone.

'Your car?' 'My cat.' 'Are you sure?'

'I'm getting there. She hasn't come back in two days. That's never happened before. Ann is an anointed martyr and is being noncommittal. But Mercedes was an innocent animal. I can't believe he was capable of doing something so monstrous.' She felt a sob begin in her chest.

'It's only a cat, for crying out loud.'

'You men don't understand what a cat means. There's some strange chemistry, a different kind of love.. . .'

'Have you got any proof?'

'Well, Mercedes is gone. That's proof enough. I put her in Ann's care. I figure that Oliver's anger pushed him to it. Look what he did with that man's equipment, for crying out loud.' Her lips began to tremble and she could not find her voice.

'Just don't do anything stupid,' Thurmont said. But she could not respond and hung up. Unable to control her sobbing, she went upstairs, took a Valium, and fell into a deep sleep.

She awoke to the big clock in the foyer chiming eleven, which confused her, but helped bring back her sense of time and with it the depression inspired by Mercedes's disappearance. She heard Benny's bark and Oliver's tread as he came up the stairs. She dashed out to the hall to meet him.

'You did something to Mercedes,' she cried. She could hear Eve's stereo playing in the background.

'That's quite an accusation,' Oliver responded. He looked rumpled and unusually tired.

'I demand an explanation,' she said, feeling the hatred rise. Her entire nervous system seemed to vibrate. 'I didn't think you were capable of that.'

'So you've already tried and convicted me.'

'She was an innocent. She was all mine. That's why you did it.'

He looked up and down the corridor.

'All right. Come down to the workroom so the kids can't hear.'

Her knees shook as she followed him, watching the back of his head. His hair seemed grayer now. She remembered how upset he had been when the first speckle of salt appeared among the jet-black strands. He was twenty-eight, and she had teased him about it. 'My old man,' she had called him. 'As long as you grow old with me. The best is yet to be,' she had said. A lump rose in her throat and she wiped the memory from her mind. She would not let sentiment destroy her resolve.