Too Easy (23 page)

She definitely won't appear unless she believes I don't expect her. That much is logical, and that's about all that is.

Anne shivers from fear and tension. Her abdomen hurts. Anne tries to find something funny in all this. Well, she's going to be one surprised little bitch, if I'm right. . . .

Anne's face creases in a macabre smile. I just have to think of this as high-level negotiation and put some offers on the table she doesn't expect. Pretend she's from the IRS and that my sacred responsibility is to fuck her, as the boys at the office would say. Let's see. . . . Hey, the cops are upstairs. . . . No. Hey, the people across the street are watching the house—they're calling the cops right now. . . . Oh, Robert just called and said, Forget it, the deal's off. He loves me, you scum.

Anne starts crying, wishing it were true, facing the fact it's not. “Love you,” the man said.

Yeah,
bitch!
Hey, I need some bagpipe music. We are going to war here. . . .

Wishing the bitch good luck as she's off to kill . . . me. . . .

Jesus God. Until that second I was hoping. Just kept making more hope. Where did I get it from? And now what? The
adrenaline's up, then it's down. The pain comes, then it fades. I'm just numb. Empty. That's the thing. Even if they don't kill me, I'm dead anyway. Or dying. One of those insect things, you think it's alive, then you see it's just a husk. Locusts, I think. When I was a kid, I was always fascinated by those.

Anne peers out the window. There's
somebody
 . . . Yes, a woman looking at the house. A woman alone! Here she comes through the bright rain. A pocketbook, a raincoat. If she's got a weapon, it's in the coat pockets or the pocket-book. Yes, she's doing it herself. Robert—you cad! Let's see. . . . Hey, not that pretty, after all. . . . Looks like a waitress at a bad coffee shop.

Anne's spirits rise. She walks quickly to the kitchen. She takes the receiver from the phone, wraps it in a towel and puts it in the back of an open drawer. She pushes the drawer shut. Can't have any distractions now.

Then she holds out her left hand and fills her palm with ground pepper, pressing the four fingers tightly down.

She drops the hand casually to her side, shakes any loose pepper to the floor.

“Just a thief,” Anne mutters, “that's all you are. Think you can take my husband and now you want my life, too. You think you can take everything—”

The doorbell rings.

Anne rushes back to the front door, takes a huge deep breath, and unlocks the door.

The woman's there, staring at her through the glass storm door. Smiling in an inquiring way. “Hello? . . . Can I talk to you a moment?”

“Are you selling something?” Anne regards her in a bored way. Is this the voice on the recorder?

“Oh, no,” the woman laughs easily, holding the umbrella out of the way so Anne can see how sincere she is. “We might move into this neighborhood. Down the street. I wanted to ask you how you like it here . . . if you wouldn't
mind. Just take a minute. My name's Phyllis Bender. My husband works at IBM.”

“Oh, well, of course,” Anne says, unlocking the latch on the glass door. “A new neighbor, huh? Well, come in out of the rain.”

“Thank you,” the woman says.

•
 
I'll never see her alive again.
The thought gets into his head by eleven. Then he can't get rid of it. The more he tries not to think it, the more it's there.

Robert can't concentrate on the projects in the office. Stories, messages, meetings, it's all a blur and he's not sure which of it is real and which is something he should have done or intends to do later in the day. He starts trying to construct Kathy's timetable, what she'll be doing at each minute. He rummages in his desk for a train schedule. Let's see, if she leaves on this train, she'll reach Bronxville at this time, reach the house six minutes later, it'll all be over at this time. . . . Oh, God, I'll never see her again.

The big wall clock's at 11:54. It's all starting to happen. . . . He begins wondering if there's some way to call it off. Theoretically speaking. Anne's home, I can just pick up the phone, stop it. Just call her and say . . . what? Let's see. . . .

“Anne, this might be a big shock. Be calm. This woman I know is coming there to talk to you. Tell her to call me before she says one word. . . .”

“Anne, I have a terrible confession. I'm having an affair. Well, not an affair exactly. But this woman thinks it is and she's coming there to talk to you. Don't worry. I love you. All that matters is that you tell her, right at the door, that I called, and she has to call me immediately. . . .”

“Anne, this is Robert. I love you. Get out of the house immediately. Go out the back door. Go to the Griswolds' house. I'll call you there. . . .”

“Anne, this is Robert. Do not open the front door. Not for any reason. There's a crazy person loose in the neighborhood, it's on the news. I'm on my way. . . .”

The minute hand moves to sixteen minutes after twelve. He studies the timetable again. There's a 12:15. That's probably the one. She'll be in Bronxville at 12:45. At the house by 12:52. That's my deadline. . . .

He stares at the second hand. It seems to be whirling. Amazingly fast.

He thinks of the things he can say . . . editing the words . . . anticipating the things Anne will say—“What! . . . Oh, Robert, this is horrible. . . . How could you?”

“Never mind all that, Anne. Let's deal with the present.” Yes, take command. . . . I like the crazy-person idea, but eventually she'll find out there's no crazy person, and I'll have to explain why Kathy was at the door. But I can save her for sure. If she lets Kathy in the house, God only knows. . . .

Hey, what about the cordless phone? I'll tell Anne to take it to the door, hand it out to the person at the door. Don't talk to her, Anne. Don't let her in. Make her stand back four feet. Put the phone out on the stoop. Yes, that's it. Alright, I'd have to tell her the truth, some of it, but at least I can stop everything. Then the truth'll be out. And we'll deal with that. Kathy can say, I'm here to talk things over. No mention
of . . . anything else. Anne never has to know.

Oh, dear God, how did I ever get into this position? I mean, this is really crazy. I'm an accessory. . . . I do love Anne, that's the amazing thing. Maybe not as much as I love Kathy. But if you add everything up, it's not all that different. Maybe she'd have let me go. Why didn't I just ask her straight out? Damn it, Anne, I need this! Lay down the law. That's what I'll do.

The clock's at 12:34. Not much time, Robert thinks. My back's against the wall. The worst call I've ever had to make. Damn. I've just got to. It's just no good. I can't do this. . . . Can't live with it. Probably go wrong somehow anyway. Dear God, please, I need a lot of help here.

A reporter knocks and comes into Robert's office.

“Tom. No way. Big family problem.” Robert waves him back. The same hand keeps going, comes down on the phone, and gets the receiver up to his ear. He winces as he dials. He's shaking from his head to his feet as the number goes through.

Anne's voice, he thinks, let me just hear it.

Busy! Oh, fuck no. I got the courage up, and then it's busy.

Robert waits twenty seconds and pushes the REDIAL button. . . . Busy.

He punches O. “Operator, I need to interrupt a call. A press emergency. Totally urgent. . . . Lady, just make it happen. Life and death. I'm not kidding.”

Good, Robert thinks. I'm on a roll now.

He springs up so he can pace by the desk. Listening with angry impatience to the process of breaking into a call. Two minutes go by before the operator comes back and says, “There's no call in progress. Either the phone is off the hook or there's a malfunction. Would you like to report this problem to Service?”

Robert stares at the phone, the operator's words just a grating whirr. Please no, he wants to scream. . . . Don't tell
me this. . . . What's it mean? Tell me that! . . . “No,” he finally shouts. “I mean yes! You know the damned number. Get it fixed.”

He hangs up the phone. His face feels hot and prickly. His body seems to be collapsing, the strength rushing out of him.

Alright, I call the police, send them there for a domestic disturbance. Some bullshit. Anything, just disrupt Kathy's plans. But no, hell, it'd have
criminal
written all over it. How could I make this call? How'd I know enough?

Robert lurches out of his office. Somebody has a cellular phone, who is it? It's lunch. Where is everybody? Why's the phone busy but nobody's on it? He moves to the center of the open area, shouts. “I need a cellular phone. I've got a . . . big story. Now. Now, damn it!”

There's only three people, all staring at him. One of them says, “Here you go. Hey, you people are my witness. The boss has my phone. . . . Whoa . . .”

Robert snatches the phone and starts toward the elevators. He punches in the number, hears the busy signal. He goes down to the street, walking through the soft drizzle toward Grand Central, carrying the phone in his left hand, punching REDIAL every half minute.

What the hell am I doing? . . . I can't stay still. I'm supposed to be over on Sixth a little later for the alibi. Fuck it. Why is the phone off the hook? . . . Maybe it's all over. They had a fight, knocked the phone off. . . . Yeah, but Kathy would put it back, wouldn't she? . . . It's just one of those stupid accidents. That damned cordless phone we've got. The receiver doesn't nestle properly. . . . Hell, we've talked about that. We're both careful. . . . I've just got to start out. I can't stay here.

He reaches Track 23, realizes all his clothes are damp. But not from the light rain.

“Christ,” he mutters, pacing six steps one way, then six
steps back, “I'm sweating like a man with malaria or something.”

Anne, he thinks, I really do like you. I love you. You have to understand that. This whole thing just got out of control. Can you forgive me?

He stares down the empty track. I could take a cab, all the way up there. No. The train's got to be faster.

Maybe it's all over now.

He pushes the REDIAL button again.

•
 Kathy follows Anne into the house. Now they're in an open sort of foyer, living room to the left, dining room to the right, steps to the second floor ahead of them. Actually, Kathy thinks, a fairly typical old house, and not very well decorated. I'd make it so much prettier.

“What a lovely home,” she says, glancing about, as though admiring the place. Actually making sure the layout she has in her mind is accurate. Feeling pretty good, she thinks, considering. It'll all be over in a few minutes. Easy now. Just do one step at a time. One, two, three.

“Oh, take off that wet coat,” Anne says. Watching closely to see whether the woman favors the pocketbook or the coat.

“Oh, alright. . . . Thank you.” She puts the pocketbook on the floor by her right foot, as if she doesn't want it to get far away, and takes off the coat.

Anne sees she has a good figure. Damn, she thinks. Never mind. You're not taking anything that's mine.

“Oh, just drape it there.” Anne gestures with her right hand at a nearby chair. Doesn't look right, she thinks, I ought to hang it up. . . . It's a good thing people have such lousy manners these days.

“I do hope it's not a bad time,” Kathy says casually. “I mean, you don't have friends over or anything, do you?”

Of course, Anne thinks, she's got to be sure I'm alone. It's like a slow pitch over the plate. Well, hit it, girl. “Oh, just Marge . . . unless she's gone.” Anne glances uncertainly toward the kitchen.

Kathy stares to her right into the dining room. She can see the door that goes to the kitchen. Is somebody in there? “I'm sorry?” She's smiling brightly as she reaches down and picks up the pocketbook.

“Marge,” Anne whispers. “A pest.” A thin smile. “So, you might move into our wonderful neighborhood? Phyllis, is it? You want to sit down?”

Kathy isn't liking this. Maybe there's somebody in the kitchen, maybe not. There's definitely something stiff, maybe even tough, about the way the woman's holding herself, the way she's talking. Something not quite right. A pleasant enough woman, just to look at her. Kathy can imagine Robert with her, on his slow days. Still, there may be something wrong. Oh, of course—she is home because she's having a bad period. She could end up in any kind of mood. Maybe that's it.

Right, Kathy thinks, but now what? Ask a few questions and ease on out of here, that might be the best thing. Or switch tactics, just tell her about Robert and me—Hey, lady, give it up. Or I walk over there and look in the kitchen, settle Marge one way or another, and then get on with it? I've still got all my options, I'm in control. One, two, three. . . . “Well,” Kathy says calmly, softly, “I really don't want to take that much of your time.”

Anne can hardly breathe. Trying to be casual, trying to stay ready. Her left arm is getting stiff from being held in one position. When the woman doesn't want to sit down, Anne becomes even tenser. Oh, it's going to happen
right away?

“Well, how can I help you?” Anne asks in a tight voice, unable to stop herself from glancing at the pocketbook.

Kathy looks at the other woman, then toward the door into the kitchen. “Really, is there anyone else here? I don't want to intrude.”

Anne grins more than she means to. Too much tension. I'm losing it, she thinks.

The two women study each other curiously, as if each can read answers in the other's face.