Too Easy (7 page)

He stares at the small color portrait of Anne on the right side of his desk and winces. She's so nice. So trusting. The most decent person. . . . She deserves better than this. It's just too nuts. It can't go on.

He studies her, the smart face, the soft smile. Why can't
they
have what . . . what he and Kathy have? It hurts to think about it. They're both waiting. Maybe that's it. For the other one to do something, to take the lead, be aggressive. Is that it? Robert isn't sure. They're too well bred? They're too timid? What the hell is it?

For a few minutes the lust fades away. A rush of guilt takes its place. He feels sad . . . he feels like a failure. He can't pick up the phone.

No, I'll call Kathy, meet her on 26, cancel, tell her it's no good. Got to cool this down.

I'll explain it to her. Kathy, you are wonderful. Maybe the most wonderful woman in the world. But I am married and we really ought to keep our balance.

He imagines what'll happen. She'll look at him with this slightly pitying expression. He knows he'll feel like a weakling.

She'll say what she said once before: “Maybe, Robie, I'm basically a more serious person than you are. Women usually are, don't you find? It's never just fucking for us.”

He'll feel like a real jerk.

Then she'll smile and joke, “Of course, sex is nice, too. Stand closer and I'll tell you what I thought up. You will
love
this. . . .”

Then he'll feel like an engorged penis, six-feet, one-inch long.

He snatches up the phone.

Be a man, he thinks. It's the best sex imaginable. That's good. I
deserve
this. A gift from God. I love Kathy. I really do.

Damnit, man, call Anne, tell her you'll be late. Anne, Anne, Anne. . . . We have to talk. . . . I'll tell her the truth. Anne, this is bigger than I am. I can't say no to this. . . .

Or maybe I just jerk off in the bathroom, calm down, then I could talk to Kathy rationally. Kathy, please, let's be reasonable about this.

Maybe meet her on the street, so even if she gets to me, we can't do anything. Yeah, what about that?

Robert leans his elbows on desk, pressing his hands back through his long hair, rubbing his face. The skin feels hot.

•
 Anne comes back from a meeting with her immediate boss, a woman named Estelle. A woman who smiled and said, “Don't worry, dear, your future at this company is assured.”

Translation: No promotion for you, drone, now get back to work. And why is there no promotion? Because, Anne guesses, Estelle wants a man in the slot. Oh, yes,
slot.
Good word.

Anne settles heavily at her desk, sighs, mutters, “Damn you, Estelle, I deserved that. . . . Oh, God, forgive me my trespasses as I forgive those . . .” She tries to go back to work.

Instead she stares at a large framed photo on a side cabinet. Her and Robert, two years ago. Look at him. Isn't he something? That big sincere face, the longish brown hair. A real man, or real enough for me, and yet a real person. They say women are slow to fall in love. Took me about two
dates. And I thought, yes, if I can swing it, he's the one. Then you spend a year trying to let it happen. Pretending you're surprised by the discovery that
I love you.

And now what have I done? Am I losing him? Could such a thing happen? She stares at herself in the photo. She hardly comes up to his chin. She appears, she thinks, serious . . . contained . . . quiet . . . intelligent. Yes, all that. But pretty or glamorous or sexy? She stares. Not sure. Uncertain. Or have I driven him away because I'm so dull? Oh, dear God. A tax specialist. Well,
what
could be more boring?

She thinks of him at the paper in Manhattan. A dynamic, exciting job with smart, offbeat people. The pulse of the city driving them all. She's seen it, seen him in action. And here I am in dreary little White Plains, sinking in spread sheets. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Many of which have hardly any connection with reality.

She laughs.
Whatever that is.

She works in a slow, distracted way, suddenly realizing it's past twelve thirty and she hasn't accomplished very much. She decides she doesn't want company just now, that she'll go out for lunch alone. She walks three blocks to a small coffee shop, not the kind of place that lawyers are likely to go to. The streets are wet and chilly. Everything seems gray and sullen.

No, she decides, it's just me; the streets look just like they always look on a damp day in March.

She sits toward the back, orders the chicken-salad plate. A light lunch for a light appetite.

I mustn't be rash, she thinks. But I also don't want to be a fool. . . . Be a fool or look foolish? Interesting distinction. Well, I don't want either, now that I think about it, so the heck with that distinction.

It all seems very complicated. Life, living, going on. . . .

Well, there is one thing. . . . She can't imagine herself confronting Robert.
Asking
him straight out. Hey, what's going on? No, she cannot do this.

She imagines the scene, just a bit, and it immediately becomes impossible. Flying off the roof of the house is more probable.

If you ask, she thinks, everything could blow up in your face. Who knows what drastic action he might take? Or what hurt he might feel? A marriage could be wrecked, or at least poisoned. You could end up far worse than you started.

Or he looks you in the eye and lies. And then where are you? He'll be more on guard, more cunning. Life will be even tenser.

Maybe it's better to lie to
myself
, just seal off the door to this room. Is this what most wives do? I bet it is.

Well, could she hint at her suspicions? Even that is difficult to imagine.
Geee,
dear, is that lipstick on your collar? Oh, wine? Of course it is.

The thing is, she decides, I can't get ahead of myself. Here I am with my miserable little suspicions, my damaged little feelings. Thin air probably. My own fault, in any case. And what? I'm going to ruin a marriage with a single sentence? It's crazy even to think about it. I don't have any evidence at all. Not really.

Anne pays for the lunch and goes back out to the street. She has some time. She decides to walk a few blocks, clear her head. It's quite cold. Good, she thinks. I'll take physical pain any time.

Evidence
—now there's a friendly word. Not exactly friendly. In fact, ominous. But I know the word; I've used it a thousand times. I'm comfortable with it. Either there's evidence, somewhere in the world, or there isn't. What could be simpler than that? Well, not simple. But fundamental. Yes or no, on or off. The reason the computers work, the basis of all intellectual progress. Either something is or it isn't.

She finds this litany reassuring. She walks along unseeing, repeating the phrases. Evidence. There is some or there isn't.

Evidence.

But how does she get this magical stuff? She's up here in
White Plains. They live in Bronxville. The evidence, if there is such a thing, is in Manhattan. Well, most likely.

Anne walks six blocks up Dumont, turns over to Sullivan and then starts back along Granby toward work.

She considers things she's seen or read about. . . . Looking through his suits. For what? A matchbook? Hah! The man's working in the city of Manhattan. He could have anything in his suits. He got good grades in college. What's he going to do, carry around some girl's name? Maybe a little note—I LOVE CINDY. Come on. Alright, what about his address book? His briefcase? His papers? Same difference. Robert's a careful, organized man. He's not going to keep the evidence handy, where any moron of a wife can find it.

Well, alright, I'll look!

She laughs bitterly. This is
being
a fool or
looking
like a fool? One? Both? In any case, something dreadful. Something sneaky and devious and underhanded. Oh, God, and what if I find this evidence I'm talking about? Then the nightmare begins, right?

The firm's building is up ahead. Modern, solid, huge, oddly comforting. Never mind. The last thing she wants at the moment is to go back to work.

Anne thinks of her house, going from room to room. Is there someplace where he might leave a trace? What about the cars? The yard? She goes back into the house. The phone? Well, she could glance at the bills, see if there are any unusual numbers. Then what? She's going to call the numbers, say hello, are you the floozie messing around with my husband? Not too likely. Besides, Robert calls everywhere on business. There could be a dozen numbers I don't know. And, let's see, 212 and 914, I think the phone company treats them as the same. The Manhattan numbers aren't even listed. Well, I don't think they are. . . .

Anne returns to the lobby, goes up in the elevator, not feeling any better, but not any worse either. Truth is, she realizes, I'm a lot more angry with my boss than I can bear to
admit. Basically, it's probably sexual discrimination. But so what? I'm going to charge her before the state's human rights commission? Fat chance. I'm going to tell the CEO? Oh, sure. Goddamn you, Estelle, I deserved that job.

Alright, she thinks, getting back behind her desk, let's take it out on the numbers. . . . Crunch some numbers. . . . Drive a truck through this loophole here. . . .

A call comes from a lawyer on another floor. “Yes, sure,” she says. “No, Bingham has the file. . . . Get back to me when you're ready. That one's going to court, I'm afraid. . . . Yeah, bye.”

Anne hangs up, then stares at the phone. Imagine, he could actually call her from our house. Well, that's what I was thinking—without thinking how crummy it is.

From our house?

Anne laughs at herself, imagining some hysterical woman on a soap opera saying, “I can't believe they did it
in our bed!”

Well, come on. It
is
crummy, isn't it?

She stares at the phone some more, remembers there is a way to check on this. Some of the firm's phones have recorders on them, voice activated. Just in case clients forget their instructions. Maybe her own phone is on the system. The bosses are vague, they want a little paranoia.

Maybe not cheap, Anne thinks, but doable. At the moment that's a big recommendation.

She shrugs, tries to put it out of her mind. No, she thinks, it's not a bad idea. It's eminently doable. I just have to do it.

•  •  •

The next day Anne leaves work a little early and drives to Ardsley, a small community fifteen miles to the northwest. She found the name in the Yellow Pages, tried to think of anyone they know there, any connection at all. Nothing.

She parks two blocks from the store. Still thinking of turning
back. Deciding instead she'll proceed as though it's no big deal, proceed until there's some real obstacle.
Then
she'll turn back, give up this foolishness. This—to be more honest—treachery.

She walks by the small shop twice, checking out the small commercial street, the feeling it gives her. There isn't one, she decides. Just a store called Sensible Security. Just a potential customer coming to ask a few questions.

The man behind the counter is old enough to have some white in his thick hair. He's heavyish, with slow, thoughtful movements. He glances at her with a polite, concerned expression. All of this Anne finds reassuring. There's really no reason to turn back.

Anne explains what she might need, in general terms. The man looks at her with the blandest expression imaginable. She realizes that people must come in all the time with bizarre personal problems, problems they lie about outrageously. Still, he doesn't seem suspicious or critical. He listens, he answers.

In the store hardly five minutes, Anne decides that this is the man. She has the sense of falling. . . .

“Alright, then,” she says, “let's be more specific. No one must know about this but you and me. Ever. No third person whatever. Is this possible?”

“I can promise that.”

“Oh, if someone walks in the door now, I'm going to walk to the back. You would understand?”

“Of course.”

“I would pay you in cash. There would be no bill, no other record. . . . Well?”

“Well, I'll record the cash sale. However, I can somewhat miswrite the name and address. Or you can make up a business name. No law against that.”

“Now, I would contact you. You would never contact me. I think that's important.”

“Of course.”

“You would come to the address and personally install the machine. Correct?”

“Yes, as agreed.” A little smile.

“You have a vehicle . . . how would it be marked?”

“I have a car, unmarked. Or I could come by taxi.”

Anne thinks about her street, wondering who might notice this arrival, what chance occurrence could lead to somebody asking Robert about the strange car in the drive.

The street curves somewhat, so that only a few houses on the other side have a good view of her house's front. One couple she doesn't know. A second couple works, and so does a third. Well, it's probably better to do it publicly, in a routine way. A car stops for ten minutes, delivers something, who would notice.

“How long will the installation take?” she asks.

“If you have landlines and you're sure the wiring is in the basement, not much time at all. I suggest that you check the situation carefully, looking at things from my point of view. Basically, you just clip it on. And hide it. The model I recommend is all solid state. Quite compact.”

“How long would I need to learn to operate it?”

“I'll show you now.”

“No, I'll need to think about all this. Your background is what? Police? Electronics?”