On Stamford now, a gardener was riding a tractor-mower over a large green barely overgrown lawn. That was yet another thing she had to ask Paul to do.
Mrs. White sped into her driveway and parked. The Pinto spent some seconds chugging before it settled down and stopped for good. Mrs. White took the huge bag with the small container inside, threw open the door, and swung out her legs.
When she stood up she saw Junior, still throwing his ball against the backstop. But Paul’s truck was nowhere in sight.
“Isn’t your father back yet?” she asked him.
He shook his head, tucked into his shoulder for a wind-up. “No.” He pitched.
Mrs. White nodded, but said nothing. She took her giant bag into the kitchen. She stood in the middle of the floor, feeling a little ridiculous, a little disheveled. She looked at the clock. It was ten past seven.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
But Paul was not home. Paul was not here. Crouched in the back of the closet, listening to the approaching footsteps of his prey, his mind was in the woods again, roaming over the forest pathways, stalking silently, chasing relentlessly, scenting the glorious blood of the kill.
Teresa Manchester was at the back door. There was a sound of crumbling paper, as if she were shifting bags in her hands. And then the key in the lock. And then the door opening and closing.
She was setting the bags on the kitchen counter. Paul could hear her. She would be coming to the closet next to put her coat away. Paul balanced himself on his toes, waiting. His eyes were almost glowing with anticipation in the dark, and yet they were still empty. Empty of memory. Empty of love. Empty of every desire but the one—the desire to release the pressure, the desire to make the pain of the pressure inside him stop. The desire to kill.
But not just that. It was not just that. There was The Way. It was not just any kill. It had to be done in The Way.
He thought of Teresa Manchester’s skin. The skin of her arms. The skin on her cheeks. The skin of her breasts. It was soft and smooth and fine.
He heard her footsteps now on the carpet in the hall. She was approaching him. He could hear her sighing. He smiled. She was happy to be home.
He saw the door swing open. He saw the light of the hallway fall at his feet. He saw her shadow in the light. She was leaning forward, reaching for a hanger.
The phone rang.
Paul waited. Teresa Manchester turned to look over her shoulder. The phone rang.
“Oh, just a minute,” Teresa muttered.
She pulled a hanger from the closet and began to put her coat on it. She put the hanger back on the rod. She turned to go back to the kitchen.
The phone rang again and then again.
Paul pushed his way through the clothing and stepped to the front of the closet.
Teresa Manchester caught his motion out of the corner of her eye. She fell back into the hallway as he came toward her. Her eyes—her round brown eyes—were glued to the butcher knife in his hand. She backed away from him down the hall. Paul came after her.
The phone rang.
“Please,” she said.
Paul smiled easily. He liked for her to say “Please.” He knew she would say it again.
His strong hand shot out to grab the woman. But she turned and bolted. His hand snatched the empty air.
Teresa Manchester ran down the hall into the kitchen. Both her hands were extended, reaching for the phone.
The phone rang.
Paul came through the kitchen doorway after her.
Teresa grabbed the receiver and brought it to her face. She heard the dial tone coming steadily over the line. She sagged against the wall with a miserable sob.
And then Paul had her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
For the next ten minutes Mrs. White tended to her stew, occasionally stepping to glance out the window. The sun had set behind the far hill and the sky was turning purple. Junior continued to throw his tennis ball against the backstop.
For the ten minutes after that Mrs. White gazed out the window, occasionally tending to her stew.
At seven thirty, Paul’s truck pulled into the driveway. Mrs. White smiled, breathed one quick sigh, and immediately turned back to her stove.
The voices of her husband and son, raised in a jovial interchange, filtered to her through the window. Then the door opened. Paul was home.
Mary came thumping down the kitchen stairs, calling, “Daddy’s home.”
Paul rumpled his son’s hair and then slapped him lightly on the back of the head.
“Go wash up, champ,” he said.
Junior and Mary passed each other—the boy running up to the bathroom, the little girl running to her father’s arms. Paul lifted Mary up and gave her a hug.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Who’s this? Who’s this?” Mary squealed and giggled.
Paul peered around the little girl’s head, blowing her red hair out of his mouth. “Hey there, good lookin’,” he said to his wife. “Smells good.”
Mrs. White smiled from the stove. Paul came to her and they kissed each other.
“Looks like that stew needs a touch of Mary,” he said, holding the girl over the pot. “Should I toss her in?”
“Nooo,” said Mary.
“Or maybe I should chop her up first. How about that?”
“Nooo,” said Mary again.
Mrs. White laughed once and shook her head.
“Is it time for dinner?” said Paul.
“Just about,” she said.
He put his daughter on the ground and patted her on the backside. “Go wash, cutes,” he said. The little girl went back to the stairs and started running up them.
“Don’t run on the stairs,” Mrs. White called after her.
Paul came closer to her and put one of his strong hands on top of her head.
“How you doing?” he said.
“Fine,” she said. She continued to stir. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he said. “Any beer in the house?”
“We’re going to eat in five minutes,” said Mrs. White.
“Boy, that smells good,” he said. “Looks like it needs some expert tasting though.”
“Never mind. Go wash up and come to dinner.”
“Okay.”
He started for the stairs, but as he went he reached out and gave his wife a connubial pinch. She jumped.
“Paul!”
“Oops,” he said, grinning. “My cook is goosed.”
She turned to him and raised her wooden spoon as if to strike.
“I think I better go wash up,” he said.
“Animal,” said Mrs. White. “Where were you tonight anyway? I was worried about you.”
Paul started for the stairs. “Working late,” he said. “I told you.”
Mrs. White turned her back on him and began to stir the stew. “Well,” she said, “I called Mrs. Sutter—to ask you to pick up some garlic salt—at about six thirty—and she said you weren’t there.”
Paul Jr. came running down the stairs. His father stood at the bottom and crouched down as if to block his way.
“There he is,” he said, “Graig Nettles, rounding second, heading for third. Pete Rose is there …”
Mrs. White turned and raised her voice. “Don’t play with him on the stairs like that, Paul!”
He caught his son at the bottom. “You’re out!” he said quietly. Then: “Sorry. Go sit down.”
The boy trotted off to the dining table. Mr. and Mrs. White stood facing each other. “I’ll go wash up,” he said again. He turned and put his foot on the stairs, then he stared back at her over his shoulder. “You mean Mrs. Sutter didn’t see me? Blind dame, I was right there. Six thirty, I was putting in the last of the floorboards.” He shook his head and snorted. “She probably thinks her garage is repairing itself.”
He went upstairs, and Mrs. White, smiling, turned back to her stew.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dinner was quieter than usual. Paul was clearly worn o
ut and sat hunched over his plate with weary, hollow eyes. Every now and then he would say, “Boy, I’m bushed tonight,” as if it surprised him.
“Well, you worked hard,” Mrs. White would say.
The children did not make conversation and only became animated long enough to fight over the last ladleful of stew. Paul gave a warning, “Hey!” but it was Mrs. White who broke it up before it came to blows by dividing the food—cutting the one remaining carrot and potato carefully in half—between the two.
When the food was gone, Paul sat quietly smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer while his wife sent Junior upstairs to do his homework, and Mary off to get into her pajamas. She returned to the dinner table before going back up to tuck Mary in.
“I think I’m going to turn in early,” Paul said.
“Okay, I think that’s a good idea,” said Mrs. White. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that, I’ll help, I’ll just go to bed right after.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll get them. You go to bed.”
He nodded wearily. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”
She went upstairs and into the little bedroom where Mary slept. It was a tiny cubicle, no more than a walk-in closet, really, that Paul had fixed up. Now there was a small bed surrounded by bright yellow wallpaper with pictures of Raggedy Ann and Andy on it and even a small window Paul had cut out, where the stars shone in through yellow curtains.
Mrs. White sat on the edge of the bed and watched while Mary said her prayers. Then the little girl climbed into bed and Mrs. White put her special doll in next to her under her arm. Mary said good night to Miss Piggy, who sat in a corner of the room, and to the frog—whom she called Kermit—that Jonathan Cornell had drawn for her. Then she said good night to her mother. Mrs. White kissed her, switched off the light, and left.
She went back down to the kitchen and started the dishes, and while she was at them, Paul finished his beer, came up behind her, and kissed her cheek.
“Night,” he said.
“Good night, dear. Tell Junior I want him in bed by nine thirty. No later.”
“Right.”
He all but dragged himself up the steps.
When the dishes were done, Mrs. White, with a large sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of her ample body, dried her hands on a dishtowel, hung up her apron, and started upstairs herself. She paused briefly before the door of her son’s room. He was lying on top of his bed in his clothes, holding a magazine high above his eyes. Over his head a New York Yankee pennant adorned the wall, and beside it, a huge poster of the entire 1981 team.
“Bed,” said Mrs. White.
He glanced under the magazine at her. “In a minute,” he said.
“Junior, now.”
With an expression of exasperation, he laid down the magazine and sat up. Mrs. White, satisfied with that, went into the den.
This was a small rectangular room into which had been crammed a sofa and two easy chairs. They centered on a twenty-four-inch color television. Coloring books, shoes, socks, a tiny computerized baseball game, and a tennis ball almost entirely covered the floor.
Mrs. White stooped over and began to pick up the clothes, then stopped and laid them on a small lamp table by the sofa. Leaving the rest where it lay, she went to the TV and turned it on. As the picture flickered to life she took a ball of yarn and the first length of a sleeve from atop the set and dropped, with these in her hands, into one of the easy chairs.
An eyeglass case lay under the socks on the lamp stand, and she took the spectacles from it and put them on. She began to knit while the voice of Merv Griffin drifted to her. After a while she looked up and began to pay attention to the show. Merv had Alan Alda on, and Ben Vereen was next. It was a good show.
But her mind drifted. Thinking about Paul that afternoon had started her remembering all those old days. She shook her head. I must be getting old, she thought, dwelling on the past. But there it was, nonetheless, almost like a ghost bringing her a message, calling to her from a long way back.…
That time—that time by the lake when Mike had told her about Paul’s troubles—that had been the turning point. Joan couldn’t stop thinking about it. It fatally affected her relationship with Mike. She could not be with him without thinking, regretfully, that she was not with Paul. Her behavior began to bother her. She began to feel cheap and insincere.
But Mike just seemed so—unexciting. He had no trouble at home. He was on his way—with his parents’ approval—to college. He seemed spoiled to her, coddled, inexperienced. All the feelings that she had hidden from him and from herself came to the surface and were magnified. Her unhappiness also increased.
In her history class she began to make her advances to Paul more openly. She smiled at him; she asked him for notes which she knew he never took. She even considered mentioning Mike and saying, “He’s told me a lot about you.” But, at the last minute, she thought it would be wrong. She had not been brought up to behave in such a way. It was crazy and she felt ashamed.
She was gearing up to take action—though what action it would be she had no idea—when circumstances made it easier for her.
It was a weekend in March. As usual she had a date with Mike. At the last minute, however, he called and broke it. He and Paul were going upstate to take advantage of the last of the deer hunting season. Mike was excited about it because he’d never been hunting before. Paul, he said, went hunting all the time and was an expert. He said he’d call Joan as soon as he got home on Sunday.
But he never called. Sunday night came and went without a word from him. When she saw him on Monday, she began eagerly to ask questions about his hunting trip. But Mike would say nothing; he was almost sullen.
“It wasn’t much fun,” was all he muttered. And then, his lips tight and white, he canceled their standing date for lunch.
On the way home from school that day Joan saw Mike and Paul standing on a corner talking. She was at a distance, so she could not hear what they said. But she noticed right away that they were not laughing as they usually did. In fact, they seemed angry. The only word that drifted to her came from Mike. The word was disgusting.
The two young men parted then, but not amicably. As they pulled apart, Paul gave Mike a small, sharp shove with his shoulder. Mike turned, surprised, and pushed Paul back with his palm. The two faced each other. Joan could hear both of them cursing now. After a few minutes they parted from each other, like cats, warily, in slow motion.
That night Mike picked Joan up and took her for a hamburger. He sat in silence during the drive and, in the diner, toyed distractedly with his food.
Finally, overwhelmed with curiosity, Joan asked him, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Mike’s face was pale. “Nothing,” he said.
“There must be something.”
Mike only shrugged, and looked down.
“Is it … Paul?”
Mike raised his eyes a bit quickly. He watched her closely until she felt uncomfortable. Then he said bitterly: “You like to hear about him, huh?”
Joan blushed. “No, not—”
“Hey, look, it’s a free country. I just wouldn’t think he was—your type, that’s all.”
Joan couldn’t help it, she blushed deeper. “Why? Why wouldn’t you?”
Mike glanced away. “You said yourself—he’s a little wild.”
“And you said he was okay underneath. You said he had troubles, that was all.”
Mike continued to avert his eyes. “Yeah, well … some of his troubles are okay, and some of them aren’t. You know? I mean …” Mike sighed. His voice became almost inaudible. “You’ve never been hunting with him.”
Mike just stared at his plate now, at the hamburger that had been split open with his fork, at the particles of meat and red juice that spilled out. Then he pushed the plate away.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.
Neither said a word on the ride home. Mike dr
ove as if entranced. He had to swerve suddenly at one point to avoid a dog, and sitting beside him, Joan grew angry.
She thought it was just male pride. Paul probably got more game than Mike, or something. Mike was probably just jealous. She thought that was small. Maybe—she worked it all out, she could see it almost as if she had been there—maybe Paul had been pushy or something and beaten Mike out of a few shots. But it was important for Paul to excel at sports: he was troubled. Mike, who had once made such compassionate noises about his friend, should have been able to realize that. Joan shook her head as Mike sped along.
“Good night,” Mike said when they reached her home.
“Good night,” Joan said.
The two looked at each other for a minute. Neither made the move forward for a kiss. Joan just got out; Mike just drove away.
After that day they were never the same. There was resentment between them. Neither wished to talk much. Neither wished to touch. Both were preoccupied with Paul: Paul—as Joan now thought of him—the triumphant hunter.
Finally, during a short, cold phone conversation, Mike said, “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
Joan could only agree. “Maybe not.” And she added, after a pause: “I’d like us to be friends though.”
She thought she heard Mike laugh. “Sure,” he answered. “Sure.”
A few nights after that Joan got another phone call.
“Is this Joan Ross?” a voice said.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Oh, well, you probably don’t remember me. I’m in your history class.…”
She knew immediately who it was. The brave, triumphant hunter who had outdone Mike. She pictured him standing in the woods, his muscles bulging from his T-shirt, his hand wrapped firmly around his hunting knife.
“My name’s Paul,” she heard him say.
A familiar and affectionate voice now roused Mrs. White from her reverie. It drifted to her over the noise of the TV set.
“Honey?”
It was Paul calling from the bedroom.
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