Too Easy (25 page)

I left it right here, I'm sure. . . .

He stumbles one step backward. . . . Kathy took it!

He puts both hands on his face. It's too much, he thinks. Where is it . . . is she?

He lurches some more, moving back toward the station, to the zone where taxis pull up. He sees one and raises his hand.

Wouldn't that look funny?
Anne said that. Cops are there and I come walking in. Does that look funny? . . . Well, why am I fucking there?

Robert shakes his hand at the cabdriver. No . . . no . . . forget it. I'll sit on this bench until I can figure something out. His clothes all feel moldy and heavy. He knows he'll probably get a cold from all the dampness and stress.

Say I just called you,
she said. Alright, I go to Grand Central, get the train now. And I'd be here in forty minutes or whatever. Not now. Yeah.

Robert's head feels thin and dizzy. Something is not right . . . but what? Hardly a single word is fixed in his memory. And when he tries to reconstruct what was said, the words fade some more.

More life insurance? Oh-my-God-yes, she said that. Robert coughs and then hits his chest. What a thing. . . . But a serious tone. Like conversation. Had to be an accident. She couldn't make a joke about something like that. . . . I mean, if she knew, well, that was a factor. . . .

Wouldn't that look funny? She
said that! I know it. What the hell does that mean? She's standing outside, observing the thing. Saying, Wouldn't that look funny? Funny to who? . . . The police?

Robert leans back, lets his head sag back against the wall. Wouldn't that look funny to the police? . . . She can't say that unless she knows more . . . than she knows.

Something is all wrong. Not something, you idiot. Everything. But something weird. I can't understand this. Oh, Kathy, where are you? There, that car coming into the parking lot. Why can't that be you? You could come waltzing over, explain everything to me. Or you're back in the city already?

No—the car would be here! Where the hell is the damned fucking car? Kathy—did you wreck it? Anne said nothing about a car. Does she know that, too?

I have to wait here. Alright, then I go over to the house.
My wife called, said the police were coming, something about an intruder. She sounded upset so I rushed home. How can I help, officer?

No. . . . Anne said don't talk until we talk. Like I'll fuck it up or something. . . . Fuck
what
up? Yeah, that's definitely the tone. We have to talk, so I won't fuck it up. Thanks, Anne.
We were talking.
Why didn't you just tell me what you have to tell me? I swear to God, I think she . . . meant to leave me hanging. Oh, make me suffer. . . . Come on. That's not Anne.

I'd love to call back . . . get this settled. But she'd just say, Can't talk now. She'd probably be right.

Oh, fuck it. She's alive. That's wonderful. Now if I could see Kathy and the car, everything would be fine. Kathy got far enough to use the car, to be an intruder maybe. Maybe then she failed, and she's upset and just getting drunk. . . . No, maybe this intruder interrupted Kathy's plans, scared her away. Yeah, that makes sense.

What did Anne say right off? What should be wrong? Something like that. Right. Great!
What should be wrong?
That's as good as saying nothing's wrong.

Right. He sighs. Right! Maybe this thing isn't the worst day of my life, after all. The worst hour, for sure. But then the game turns around some. And hell, whatever happened, this forces everything in the open. If Anne knows about Kathy, then we can talk it out. Businesslike. I think the world of Anne. I'm so glad it didn't . . . work out.

Robert shakes his head, then studies his watch. He searches in his pocket for the schedule, so he can know when to arrive. . . . What an idiot. I'll see the next train come in. . . . He tries to laugh. . . . I'll be on it.

•  •  •

The 1:40 roars into the station. Robert is at the end of the platform, so he can mingle with the passengers getting off and walking down to the street.

Alright, he thinks, I'm coming home, just like my wife requested. Hey, all you people, look at me. I just got here.

He finds a cab, gives an address a block away from his house. He wants to approach slowly, see what's going on.

The rain is so slight it's just a mist. The cab's tires make a
wissshhh
sound. Robert feels his body cooling down some. He's more aware of how damp his clothes are. He moves to the left side, so he can see himself in the rearview mirror, see how he looks. Not great, he thinks. He smooths his hair back with both hands. What the hell, I look exactly like a guy who's been running around in the rain. Like almost everybody else. See, something good out of something bad. Maybe we get out of this.

Robert sees two police cars in front of his house, one with a light blinking, two heads in it, facing the other way. Some people standing across the street. What in the hell is going on?

“No, go closer,” he tells the driver. Why's he getting off a block away? . . . Might look funny. “Here's okay.”

He gets out of the cab and starts toward his house. There's a high shrub to get by and then he sees the ambulance in the drive. Jesus. Somebody's hurt.

He wants to run but thinks he should be casual. He makes a conscious effort to be a tired, overworked guy called home early for no good reason.
The wife, you know.
Otherwise, not a care in this world.

Robert saunters past the cop cars toward the front door. Then he realizes his car is in the drive, too. In front of the ambulance. How the hell did it end up here? he wonders. He sees that the front door is open. A cop is standing just inside the glass storm door, with his back turned to Robert.

Robert knocks and opens the glass door. “Hi,” he tells the startled cop, “I'm Mr. Saunders. I live here.”

“Yeah. Come on in.” The cop smiles. “Your wife's a little upset.”

Robert starts to say, “Well, what happened?” Then he
remembers what Anne said. Talk to me first. Okay,
okay.

Robert shrugs as if he expected this, as if he expected all of this. “Right,” he says. “That's understandable. Where is she?”

“Kitchen, I think. They're talking back there.” The cop points out the way to his own kitchen.

Stupid cop, Robert thinks as he steps past the blue uniform into the foyer. He sees two medics in the living room, standing and chatting. He glances down at the white mound on the floor. What?! It's just like on TV or something, got to be a body, who the hell . . .? And this glimmer goes through his brain. It's all he can do not to shout out the question,
Who
is
that?” Ox
run over and pull back the sheet. His body temperature seems to drop ten degrees. He gasps and tries to cover this by coughing. Then he thinks, No, no way, just stay calm.
What could be wrong?
That's what she said. . . .

As he walks rightward into the dining room he makes himself look again. It is a woman, almost definitely. . . . The intruder? Anne said intruder. Anne killed an intruder? How the hell could that be? Somebody killed an intruder? Damn, they don't cover the face unless somebody's dead. . . .

Robert hears the voices now. Men and women, sounds like. He reaches the door to the kitchen, sees three people, Anne, a man at the table with her, and a female cop standing back.

They all look at Robert as he comes through the door. “Oh, Robert,” Anne says, “I'm glad you're here. Detective Gillson, this is my husband, Robert. He came up from Manhattan.” The men nod, then shake hands, say hello.

Robert notices the little tape recorder on the table.

Anne goes on: “Could I possibly take a break? I feel lousy in every possible way.” She comes around the table, not waiting for an answer, and rushes to Robert and hugs him, pressing her face on his chest. “It's been awful,” she mumbles.

Robert holds her, says, “It's all right, Anne. Don't worry.”
Wondering if that makes any sense. Thinking that he has her in his arms, the woman he thought he would never see alive again. Great, wonderful. Anne's still here. But who's that in the living room? It can't be. . . .

Anne raises her head, stares into his eyes. A strange, flat look. As if she's not sure she knows him, or she's waiting for something. . . .

Robert glances past her, sees the detective watching him. He feels he has to say something. “This is rough,” he tells the cop. “Can she take a break? Can I walk her around some?”

The detective's a thin, somehow lazy-looking man. He shrugs as if everything's okay with him.
The good cop,
Robert thinks, writing the story in his head.

Anne squeezes his arm. “Yes,” she sighs, “walk me around. I've got a lot of aches,” she says as if PMS is really her main problem.

They go through the dining room toward the living room. Now they're walking along arm in arm, the white mound ten feet ahead. Robert stares at it and again chills go through his body. Anne doesn't seem to notice it. The medics see them coming. One says, “Ask Gillson when he thinks we can leave.”

Anne leads Robert past the body, into the rear of the living room. Three windows look out at the backyard. A grand piano is there, and Anne and Robert stand behind the bench, staring out at the wet lawn.

“Hold me, Robert.” She snuggles in close to him, tilting her face on his chest. “Listen closely, my dear. Do not say or do anything. Got that?”

“Yes.” Not liking her tone very much.

“My guess is that they'll figure out you know her. I suggest you admit it but play it down to half or a quarter of what it was. Unless you think you can deny ever knowing her. . . . Would you be able to pull that off?”

Her? “Her? Her who?”

“I'm trying to save you, Robert. You're guilty of accessory to attempted murder. Please listen.”

“Accessory to what?” Robert turns slightly so he can see her face better. She seems so composed. Sort of brittle, perhaps, but not emotional. What is she saying? I
know
her? Even if I do, how does Anne know? Who is it anyway? Murder? She's way ahead of me or way behind, I can't figure it. . . .

“Please, Robert. I'm doing the best I can. That woman, Kathy—”

“Kathy?!”

Anne sees the strange pinched look in his face. He hasn't gotten it yet. “Robert-do-not-move-or-raise-your-voice. Yes, that's Kathy.” She feels his body twitch. “But it's important you didn't know she was going to do this. She did it on her own.”

All Robert can think is: That's not Kathy. It's impossible. Somehow there's a mix-up here. Anne kill Kathy? There's no way.

“Robert, please concentrate. Rub my back. About the car . . . I brought it back. You couldn't get it started. I took you to the train this morning. All right?”

“Right, right. Why do you keep saying . . . her name is Kathy?”

“About the knife—”

Robert gasps, “The knife?”

“Forget about it entirely. She found it here.”

Robert looks stricken now. His mouth hangs open, unable to make more words. The knife . . . the knife . . . Anne knows about a knife. Kathy had a knife. . . . What does it mean?

“Now I suggest you don't talk to them until you have a lawyer. Stall a day or two. Get your thoughts together. But I think it might be appropriate if you went over and asked to look at the body. Then you're completely amazed that it's her. And, of course, shocked. Just say ‘Oh, my God' a lot.”

Robert is staring at her. He seems to be catatonic. Anne
has a sad feeling that all this effort might be wasted. She'll try to save Robert and he'll drag them both down. Well, I'll tell the truth—I lied to save my poor love-befuddled husband. What else should a wife do?

Anne hears people moving near the front door.

“Robert, am I getting through at all? They might be about to carry her away. . . . Kathy. Go ahead. See for yourself.”

Robert stares at her some more, his eyes blinking. He pulls away from her, turns toward the body, almost stumbling. “I can't believe this,” he says over and over as he moves toward the sheet. A cop and two medics are looking at him now. He's thinking about everything Anne said, and how if she's right, then this is Kathy. And if it is, then he should be surprised she's here, Anne's right. . . . He glances for a second back at her. “I can't believe this. None of it.” He lurches closer, until his shoes almost touch the hem of the sheet. He looks at the form, then at the faces watching him. He sees Gillson coming in from the dining room.

Robert starts breathing deeply, his eyes getting wilder, not acting, just not hiding what he was feeling all along. “My wife thinks I might know this person. I've got to look. I have to. Is it okay?”

The medics look at Gillson and he shrugs and says, “Said her name was Phyllis Bender. You know her?”

“No.” Robert's face fills with gratitude for a few seconds. See, a mix-up.

“But the wallet says Kathy Becker.”

“Oh, no! This is horrible. . . .”

“Yeah, we need an ID—”

Robert squats down and pulls the sheet up a few inches. For an instant he thinks it might still be someone else. There are two moles or something. The face is so pale except under the eyes. The eyelids are red and clenched shut. She's been crying, he thinks. He lifts the sheet a little more, so he can clearly see her mouth, her chin, the rise of her breasts. . . . The blood there. . . . Oh, yes, it is. It is. . . .

The two words repeat themselves, like some odd prayer for her, for the rest of his life when he won't ever see Kathy alive. It is. It is all over. It is her. It is . . . beyond reason. There's no way this can be Kathy. So strong, so full of life, so clever and resourceful and brave.