Too Easy (20 page)

He seems reluctant to leave. He looks out the window, then back at Anne. “I don't like seeing you upset. . . . I'd like to be able to help.”

I wish you could, Anne thinks. I wish somebody could. She hesitates a moment, trying to think of some way to test him. “What do you think it is, Edd?”

“Well, I'm not sure, of course. . . . Maybe something at home. Anne, I really like you. I . . .”

Then she understands. He's making some kind of pass. She blinks, trying to think fast. “Edd, I like you, too. So let me be frank. There's nothing wrong at home. And I think you're a little out of line here.” She hopes she hit just the right tone of seriousness. Let him think she's annoyed.

Edd stiffens, backs up a step. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . to offend you. Well, if I can . . . Whatever it is, if I can help, you tell me. Promise?”

“Of course, Edd. Thank you.”

He retreats into the hall. Anne shaking her head in surprise. Her heart pounding so she notices it. What'd he have in mind, she wonders. Things aren't right at home, so we jump in the sack? What would that be like? Dear God. Is this what happened to Robert? Somebody says, If things aren't right at home, maybe I can help. . . .

Nothing's what it was, Anne thinks, everything's gotten so sleazy I can't recognize it. Funny, Edd could probably help. I was seeing us as a team for a minute. Solving this together. Maybe figuring out how I should defend myself, if it comes to that. I thought I needed an ally. Now I don't think so. I'm all alone in this.

She grimaces, feeling proud and terrified in the same instant.

Robert, Robert. What has happened to you? To us? What
are you doing? I can't make sense of anything anymore.

She stares finally at the screen. Amounts of money spent for capital improvements, warehousing, executive bonuses, interstate transport. What is all this? she wonders. Does it mean
anything?
My husband's planning to kill me—
there,
I said it! Yes, yes, I really do think that's what is happening. Now
that
means something.

But I'm not even sure about that.
Maybe
he is. How do I figure this out? Robert, dear husband, could you possibly do such a thing? You're thinking of what—a gun, a knife, some arsenic?

She feels a sharp pain all the way down her right side.

“Oh, Jesus. . . . Look, I'm doing it for him.”

She breathes as deeply as she can, trying to ease the pain.

She cannot imagine Robert doing this thing. Not to her, not face to face. “But,” she hisses at herself,
“say
he does. How's he . . . ?” The first image she has is of a deserted road, an isolated spot. He wants to go to a great restaurant but it's over in Connecticut somewhere. “Five star, Anne, just an hour away.” Then there's some kind of accident. Or he wants to take a little trip. Anyplace I'm not familiar with, really, then he . . .
they
 . . . can set up something.

She smiles. If Robert mentions a trip now, I think I'd jump out of the chair. . . . No, I'd let him set it up, then change it all at the last minute, see if he objects.

That's the only thing she feels sure of, that something unusual will happen. Then she'll know. . . . No, she won't know. She'll be twice as tense, watching, waiting, trying to see this thing coming, whatever it is, before it's on top of her.

She shivers all over her chest, going back again to the question that most intrigues her: Could Robert actually think of such a thing, plan it, do it? No, no, no, Anne wants to cry out. No, it has to be this woman, this terrible person he's somehow gotten involved with. It's all her idea. Robert could grow tired of her, of course. But could he
hurt
her? No, it was unthinkable.

Anne realizes she's shaking all over, visibly trembling. She stands up decisively, stretches, tries to quiet herself. “Get a grip, lady.” I've got to think clearly. It's the only hope I've got.

•  •  •

At 4:15 Anne is in her boss's office, getting more orders, basically. Anne starts to leave, then says: “Estelle, I want you to know something.”

“Yes, Anne?”

“I think I was more qualified for that promotion than the person you chose.”

“Well, Anne,” Estelle says, looking at Anne in a smug way, “I'm sure I know what's best for this company,” Still, there's some confusion there, too. Her eyes narrow. What's got into Anne?

“I just want to be on record,” Anne says, thinking, Hey, what's this office nonsense when your husband might be trying to kill you? “I want to be on record, that's all. Perhaps you will at some point review the performance of the individuals involved. . . .”

Anne lets it hang in the air. Estelle stares. What in the world?

•
 Robert leaves his office at 1:15 and goes down to 42nd Street and walks west toward Grand Central. He lights a small cigar and puffs it in an obvious way. He crosses Park and continues on, staying on the south sidewalk. Trying to seem lost in his worries about a big story, hardly aware of the people around him. But he can't resist glancing ahead. She'll be there, somewhere, suddenly, coming from Fifth.

He almost expects her to be larger than everyone else, to be glowing, to stand out somehow. He sees her in his mind as floating toward him, smiling, naked, her arms outstretched.

He doesn't see her until she's thirty feet away. A woman of ordinary size, larger people all around her. The other people moving away from him and toward him in a clumsy choreography that tends not to feature Kathy but to diminish and hide her. The close-cut black hair makes her seem
even smaller than when he first met her.

She's staring straight ahead. Not looking for him at all. Or doing a better job of pretending than he is. At the last second she sees him and says, “Oh . . .
Mr. Saunders . . . how are you?”

“Oh, fine . . . Kathy, isn't it?”

She smiles only fleetingly. “Yes, that's right. Well, duty calls. Bye.”

And she's gone. And he almost turns around to call after her. Please, stop—hug me, kiss me, let me feel you. No, he tells himself sharply, keep walking. He crosses Madison and then Fifth. He stands on the steps in front of the big library. Smoking the rest of his cigar, staring up at the warm blue sky. Solving that big story. Thinking actually about how obsessed he is with this woman, how in love he is. Thinking what a good actor she is. Thinking of the word
rehearsal,
what Kathy calls this. “Today is just for me,” she said. “On the actual day you'll leave more tracks. Tell your secretary you're going out to think, and so on.”
Rehearse
 . . . funny, I never noticed the word
hearse
in there before; are they really spelled the same? I'll have to look that up. He grins uncomfortably. Then he comes down the steps and crosses in front of the library and heads back on East 4lst. In seven minutes he reaches Third, turns left and goes into the lobby of his building.

He comes back to his office, his desk, sits down at what used to be his favorite spot in the whole world. Now that's wherever she is. He feels the tingle of anxiety along his arms, the worry, the fear. But at the moment they are faint and far away. Not a problem, he tells himself.

I'm fine, he thinks. Everything's fine.

He has the sense of falling into a dark pool. But it's not scary, it's pleasant. A dark, tropical pool perhaps. Everything is warm and sensuous. The only texture is the way her skin feels. Her voice is the only sound he hears. The only smell is Kathy's smell. . . .

“Mr. Saunders? . . . Hello?”

“Oh, Wilson . . . I'm sorry.” He focuses on the young reporter in front of his desk. “What?”

“You said we'd discuss the Board of Ed story.”

“Thieves and idiots.” Kathy, so real a moment before, fades.

“I'm sorry?”

“My opinion, not the paper's. Pull up a chair. But I want you to bear down on this crew. We've got to have better schools.”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Feet to the fire, that kind of thing.”

“I'd like that.” He leans eagerly toward Robert, eager for editorial guidance.

Yeah, this is definitely what I'm good at, Robert thinks. And maybe nothing else. The Peter Principle. Everybody finally reaches the level where they're incompetent. Where they're bound to fail. This thing with Anne, maybe that's the level I shouldn't try for. Kathy thinks she can just bop up there on the train, stop by to commit a . . . murder, and waltz right back. “Who's to know?” she says. “Takes less than ninety minutes. A long lunch hour. You can say you saw me somewhere in there, so it can't be me. And the day before, the day after, I'll stop in shops around here, talk to people. Weeks later you think anybody can be sure which day it was?” Jesus, the audacity. Woman's something. If anybody can do it, it's her. . . .

“Mr. Saunders?”

“Yeah?” He focuses on the reporter again. “Just thinking it over. . . . Your story.”

God, I'd give anything to see her today. Have her right here on this desk, legs apart, drawing the skirt up an inch at a time. Slooowwww. No, faster, I have to see it. Every beautiful black hair. . . .

“Mr. Saunders . . . if this isn't a good time?”

Robert snaps at him. “It's a
great
time. Let me think.”

“You're sure?”

“I am positive.” He lets Kathy fade again, reluctantly, just as she lifts the skirt, then the sheer slip, leaning away from him. He feels a rush through his body, lust, anger, panic. He isn't faking his sudden ardor. “Damn it, Wilson, just burn them! The biggest per capita budget in the universe, and the worst results. Sherman through Georgia—be that.”

“What is Sherman through Georgia?”

“Jesus! Are you serious? They teach anything in school anymore?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Well, you can't have it. . . .”

Robert wants to stand up, storm around some. But he realizes he's got an erection and better stay seated. This dope graduated from college and J school and he doesn't know what Sherman through Georgia is. Are things really that bad? Robert feels old. Horny beyond belief and old.

His heart is pounding. Oh, just do it, Kathy. This world's not that big a deal; people getting dumber by the month. If I can't have you, fuck it. He glowers at the reporter.

“Wilson, feet to the fire, okay? I should've stopped when I was ahead. If they all call up here bitching and moaning, then you did a good job. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. . . . Uh, what will you tell them?”

“Only one thing to tell them, Wilson. . . . There's this loose cannon on the paper. Guy's wild. I can't control him. You, Wilson. Get to work.”

The guy retreats in delighted panic. Robert sighs, closes his eyes, sees Kathy's smile.

•
 Anne is in her nightgown, standing in front of the basin, brushing her teeth. Looking at herself now and then in the mirror. Does she look the same? She checks her eyes, whether she can see white above and below the pupils. A sure sign of stress, she's read this. She squints, then relaxes, trying not to fake the results. No, no white. So she's all right? She looks normal? Does this mean people can't tell that she's a lunatic?

She hears Robert moving around in the bedroom, mumbling, looking for something maybe?

Who is he, anyway? This really nice sweet husband she's lucky to have? This demented adulterous killer? How does she find out, except to find out? That is, to let things unfold until she knows for sure. Curiosity, this intense curiosity, fills her like a thin nausea.

I've got to know, she thinks. And then she thinks, And I've got to be ready. And what's that mean? A gun, some Mace,
a nice knitting needle? What do I know? It means
be ready.
They'll do it somewhere else? No, maybe here. More and more, she thinks, Why not here? Anything can happen inside a house, and nobody can know.

She looks closely at her hair. Not a strong color, sort of brown-blond. Mousy, people say mousy. I hate that. I never saw a mouse this color. So what's it mean? They're talking about me? I'm a mouse? Damn it, I don't see that. I'm a well-mannered, well-bred, well-educated person. Where's mousy get into this?

Well, I like the way it's cut. Little swing on the sides there, little bounce. And look at those shoulders. Strong-looking, I think. Somebody calls me mousy, they better have stronger shoulders. Hey, lady, how'd you like a rap in the mouth?

She grins self-consciously through the foam of the toothpaste. Who am I kidding?

Robert is suddenly behind her. Staring at her in the mirror. Smiling, well, almost. He's got his blue pajama shirt on. He holds her shoulders firmly, leans closer and kisses her neck. Now he's licking her bare skin.

She spits out the toothpaste, then palms some water up to her mouth. Aware when she bends that Robert is pressing his hips against her. Not his hips, actually, his erection. His hands are now around her, squeezing her breasts through the silk of the nightgown. Roughly, but it's pleasurable.

“Uuuhhhmmmmm,” he says in her ear. Smiling more now, looking her in the eye, in the mirror. “You feel good.”

His tongue is in her ear. She flinches and cringes. Then she realizes his hands are on her thighs, lifting the nightgown. Getting it up to her waist. One hand sliding around to the front of her. Robert bending his knees, butting his erection up under her ass.

Look at him, she thinks. Wilder and wilder. Just walks in and starts at it. Where's he learned this? And what's it
mean?
Does he love me? Does he even
want
me? Is this acting, so
I won't suspect anything? She feels curiously empty. Dead? she wonders. Dead already?