“‘And he answered and said unto them: “What did Moses command you?”
“‘And they said: “Moses suffered to write a bill of divorcement, and to put her away …”’”
Mrs. White lifted her head. She strained to hear the words.
The Reverend went on: “‘But from the beginning of the creation, God made them male and female.
“‘For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife.
“‘And they twain shall be one flesh, so then they are no more twain, but one flesh.’”
Suddenly, Mrs. White lowered her face. She brought her hand up to her mouth.
Reverend Allen said: “‘What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’”
Mrs. White was shaking now. Just slightly. Just enough to jostle the person next to her.
“Joanie, come on,” Paul whispered. “Quit it.”
But then, he couldn’t help it either. He was laughing too.
She turned the omelet with a spatula and watched it slide around the pan.
“I’m sure starved,” Paul said.
The toast popped up, burned black and smoking.
“Are you?” said Mrs. White. She smiled to herself.
“Hey,” he said, “there you go again. What’s with you today? You were like a kid in church. What’s so funny?”
Mrs. White laid the food upon plates and carried the plates to the table.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It was just funny.”
She watched Paul grip his fork. She watched him stick it into the omelet. She watched him tear it open. Green peppers and mushrooms and cheese poured out of it.
I hate you, she thought.
“Come on, champ. Eat up,” said Paul to Junior. “We’re gonna take a hike, you and me.”
She heard the sounds of chairs squeaking then. Her husband and her son stood. Two kisses fell upon her cheek. Then she and Mary were left at the table alone.
Mrs. White toyed with her untouched breakfast. She thought about life and her husband and her hatred. She closed her eyes.
With her eyes closed, she saw herself: still in the kitchen, sitting there. She heard the doorbell ring. She saw herself put her napkin on the table and stand up. She saw herself walk to the door and open it. Two policemen were there.
They had Paul with them. His hands were behind his back in handcuffs. He was snarling and spitting, trying to escape. The policemen were holding him.
“Is this the man?” one officer said.
Mrs. White nodded. “That’s him.”
Paul snarled. Then, suddenly, with two quick tugs, he was free. He ran.
“Get him!” Mrs. White shrieked. “Get him!”
The policemen chased him. Paul ran, his hands still tied behind his back. He leapt about as he ran, like a deer.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” one cop said.
“You’ll never catch me,” Paul shouted.
They shot then. Paul was hit in the head. His head exploded in slow motion, as if it were a scene in a movie—the kind of movie Mrs. White never watched. She watched now, sitting at the kitchen table with her eyes closed. Paul fell slowly to the ground.
The policemen approached him. He was twitching, kicking, bleeding, on the ground. The police stood over him. Mrs. White stood with them.
“Finish him,” she said coolly.
The policeman nodded. He emptied his gun into Paul’s chest. Blood came spurting out of him. Paul twitched and danced. His chest blew open. Blood spewed from his mouth. Mrs. White smiled.
“I hate him,” she told the policeman. “I hate everything.”
“Mommy?”
Mrs. White opened her eyes. Beside her, Mary sat with her index finger extended. There was a small spot of blood on it. There were tears in the girl’s eyes.
“Mommy, I hurt myself,” she said.
Mrs. White looked down at the child.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I’m here.”
She tore off a piece of a napkin and placed it on the finger. She kissed Mary’s forehead. Then she took her onto her lap and rocked her back and forth.
“It’s all right. I’m here,” she said again.
CHAPTER FORTY
Mrs. White saw the sun come up the next morning. At the border of the forest the purple night sky turned blue then pale aqua. The last stars faded. Rays of light pierced the branches, fell on the yard. The world turned white and green and blue.
It’s Monday, thought Mrs. White. It’s over.
There was still breakfast to get through. She had to feed the children and get them off to school. She had to feed Paul and send him off to work.
She felt too sluggish to make anything. So she set out a box of cereal and the bowls and milk and orange juice. There were loud, scrambling footsteps on the stairs. Then the children burst into the room.
“Not so fast,” Mrs. White murmured.
They poured themselves cereal and began eating. Paul came down after them.
“Have a good weekend, everyone?” he sang out.
The children mumbled in return. Mrs. White said nothing. She poured Paul his coffee.
This morning she could not keep her eyes off his face. The face she had known for so long. Awakened to for so long. Today he would go to work and never come back. She would never see him again. She tried not to ask herself what would happen then.
She stared at his face while she drank her coffee, while he ate his breakfast. She told herself that she would never see him again. She thought of its being five o’clock, then six, then seven, and Paul not coming home.
The thought caught in her mind. What if he said he was working late tonight? What if tonight was one of the nights he … did it.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. She was calling the police as soon as he was gone. They would stop him.
And, yet, it bothered her. What if it took the police some time to find him? What if—she’d never thought of this before—what if they didn’t believe her?
But they would have to believe her because they would question him and he would break down, the way they do in the movies and then they would know.
But still she wondered: Will he be working late tonight?
Paul ate and chatted happily with the kids, going over the weekend again. Going over every activity. Mrs. White watched his face and smiled.
At last breakfast was over and the kids were rushing out to catch the bus. Paul was gathering his toolbox.
She waited. Waited for him to speak the words, the words that might mean another woman would die. She felt she almost wanted him to say it.
“Will you be working late tonight?” she asked. The words had tumbled out of her before she could stop them.
Paul’s eyes seemed distant. He seemed to be considering the question—checking some inner gauge.
“No,” he said then. “Not tonight.”
He stood at the door, waiting for her to kiss him. She came to him, reached up, and pressed her lips to his cheek tenderly.
“So long, cutes,” he said.
“Good-bye, Paul,” said Mrs. White.
In another moment she saw him in the truck; she heard the engine starting. The engine noise grew softer and softer and then was gone. Mrs. White waited. She half expected the sound to return, the truck to pull into the drive again, Paul to return to the house.
It did not return. Paul did not come back.
It was Monday. It was over.
“My name is Mrs. White, and I know who the housewife killer is. His name is Paul White—my husband, that’s correct—and he’s working at the Jenkins place today. Yes, I’m sure.”
Mrs. White went over the words again and again in her mind as she sat over her coffee. But for long, long minutes she did not move to the phone. She wanted to call the police. But then, she wanted it to be over. She wanted no questions. No trial, none of the muddy details of justice.
Most of all, she did not want the child
ren to know that it had been she who had turned their father in. She did not want to live forever with Junior’s eyes staring at her, accusing her, until he hated her, until he hated all women.…
“That’s right,” she whispered softly. “No, officer, I can’t give you my name, but take my word—it’s him all right.”
She stood up and moved to the phone on the wall. She stared at it. She knew the moment she saw it that she could not do it, she could not call the police and tell them to arrest her own husband. She picked up the phone.
The number was on a decal above the phone. IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, it said, CALL THE POLICE. She dialed the first number.
She was certain it was all a dream, certain that she had never seen the bloody overalls, the deadly knife. She hung up the phone.
She would go back to the barn and check, just to make sure. That was it.
Instead, she snapped up the phone again and dialed the number as quickly as she could. She heard it ringing—once, twice.
No one’s there, she thought.
There was a click on the line.
“State Police barracks K,” said a young, friendly voice. “Trooper Hartigan.”
Tears burst into Mrs. White’s eyes. She started sobbing, choking on her words. But the words rushed out of her.
“It’s Paul White,” she sobbed. “He did it. He’s the one you want.”
“Hello?” said Trooper Hartigan. “Take it easy. Where are you?”
“The housewife killer, it’s Paul White, oh, dear God, listen to me, it’s him, it’s him …”
“Okay,” said the trooper. His voice was suddenly serious and intent. “Just give me your name. Tell me where you are.”
“Paul White, Paul White,” she sobbed, uncontrollably. “At the Jenkins place, Forty-seven Vine Street.”
“Is this Mrs. Jenkins?” said the trooper.
“No, no, no, that’s where he is, don’t you understand, don’t you …”
“You have to tell me your name, ma’am. Please,” said the trooper.
Mrs. White held the phone away from her ear and stared at it, her wet eyes wide with horror. Distantly, she heard Trooper Hartigan’s voice crackling.
“… your name … ma’am … hello?”
Slowly, the tears streaming down her round cheeks, she shook her head at the receiver.
“I can’t …” she whispered. “Don’t you understand? I just can’t.”
The trooper’s voice was cut off as she put the receiver back in the cradle.
Jonathan Cornell walked down over the White property toward the woods. He was whistling. His fishing pole was on his shoulder; he looked like a little boy playing hooky from school.
As he came within view of the kitchen window, he glanced up to receive Mrs. White’s usual wave. He saw nothing. He craned his neck, trying to catch sight of her inside.
He saw her then, vaguely. She was sitting at the kitchen table. She seemed to be hunched over. She seemed to have her head down on her arms.
Cornell shook his head sadly, and continued on into the woods.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Trooper Hartigan hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at the long glass pane that divided the dispatcher’s desk from the waiting room. He was, in fact, a young man, about twenty-six, handsome, with neatly trimmed brown hair and a thin moustache. His eyes were brown with flecks of green in them, and when he was thoughtful, as now, the green flecks seemed to swim about, as if his eyes were taking in everything, registering everything.
In another moment he picked up the phone and pressed the receptionist’s button.
“Get me BCI, would you, Andrea?” he said.
There was a pause and then: “Scott.”
“Inspector Scott, this is Hartigan at dispatch.”
“It’s always so good to hear from you,” said the inspector. “You never write.”
“I couldn’t keep away,” Hartigan whispered. “Just being this close to you is driving me mad.”
“What’s going on?”
“I just got a call on the housewife killings.”
“Yeah?” said Scott. His voice was emotionless. They had had plenty of calls on the housewife killings.
“It was a woman, and she was totally hysterical,” said Hartigan. “Sounded very real. She wouldn’t give her name and all she kept saying was Paul White was the killer. She said he was at the Jenkins place, at”—he checked the pad on which he’d scribbled the information—“Forty-seven Vine Street. She was crying and carrying on, really sobbing, you know? And she just kept saying his name, Paul White, over and over again.”
There was a pause on the other end of the intercom. Hartigan heard chewing noises. Scott, clearly, was eating his bacon and egg on a roll.
With a loud swallow Scott said, “Mrs. White.”
“Sorry? What?” said Hartigan.
“Ten to one it was White’s wife, turning him in.”
“You know her.”
“No, but it’s just the usual thing. Crazy woman, alone at home all the time, maybe he’s stepping out on her, she convinced herself he’s the guy, gets all upset, turns him in. I fully expect to hear from my own wife one day, telling me I did it.”
“You gonna check it out?” said the trooper.
“Nah,” said Scott, chewing again, “we’re gonna ignore it until White finds out his wife is on to him and starts to chase her through the house with a butcher knife, then we’ll follow it up on a hunch and arrive at the nick of time.”
“When do you want the car?”
“Give me ten minutes to finish my roll,” said Scott.
Inspector Charles Scott and Frank Ross sat side by side in the blue Chevy. Scott was driving it slowly over the back roads. He had a cigarette clamped in his teeth and was murmuring around it tunelessly: “What a day for a daydream … a day for a daydreaming guy.…”
Scott was overweight, shaped like a big oval. He had a square head and small features that all seemed crammed together in the center of a large face. His sometime partner, Ross, was much shorter and so was shaped like a circle. His head, geometrically complementary to Scott’s, was also completely round. His eyes were close together and his mouth very wide, and it made him look like an incredibly stupid clown at the circus.
“… and late in the evening when the sun goes down,” said Scott, “… and when there’s nobody else around …”
“Here’s Vine,” said Ross.
“I sit by the window … by the ocean … How does it go?”
“I dunno,” said Ross.
They turned down Vine. It was a tree-lined street with large houses close together. The lawns were beautifully trimmed, and the trees planted to provide a shield between one neighbor’s eyes and another’s window.
“What was it?” said Scott.
“Forty-seven,” said Ross.
“… something-da-something for a hundred years …” said Scott. He took the cigarette from his lips and hurled it out the window.
Forty-seven Vine was a long ranch-style house, with a two-car garage and a basketball net hung over it. It was set very close to the road, so the lawn behind it was fairly large. There was a jungle gym and a swim set on the lawn.
A man in white overalls was on the roof of the house, just above the last rung of a metal ladder. He was removing a section of tile and tossing the tiles onto a dropsheet spread over the pachysandra below him.
Scott looked at the mailbox at the side of the road. The name on it was Jenkins.
“No White,” he said.
“The roofer,” said Ross.
“Oh, yeah—look at that,” said Scott. He had not noticed the man on the roof at first.
They pulled into the driveway and parked the car. The men rolled out on either side, looking like two balloons bouncing onto the ground. The tall fat one and the short fat one approached the house and stood beneath the ladder, watching the man on the roof. Scott smiled broadly. It brought his close-packed features even closer together, makin
g the rest of his big face seem oddly blank.
The man on the roof had glanced at the car as it drove up, but was now concentrating on the tiles again.
“Howdy, howdy,” said Scott quietly.
Paul White called down. “Hi there. I don’t think anyone’s home right now.”
“Well,” said Scott, still grinning, “we’re trying to find a fellow named Paul White. We’re from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, State Police.”
The carpenter looked surprised, then worried. “That’s me,” he said. “Is everything all right? Is it my wife?” He started for the ladder.
“Everything’s fine, Mr. White, everything’s fine,” said Scott. In his mind he made a small check mark: the right reaction anyway. “Would you mind coming down for a second though.”
Paul was already descending the ladder, carrying a piece of the roof in one hand. He jumped down to the ground and stood before Scott and Ross. Scott marked him down in his mind as big and powerful. He hoped this was another blind alley, and that there was no trouble. He had left the city force and moved up here because of a strong dislike of being hurt in any way.
“What’s up?” said Paul.
“Well …” and Scott went into his patented routine: he studied his feet, shuffled them around, scratched the side of his head. “See, we need some help around here, and we think you can maybe give it to us.”
“Sure,” said Paul. “But my wife, my kids, they’re all right, right?”
“Far as I know,” said Scott.
Paul nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It’s just, you get worried, you know, with that killer loose.”
Oops, thought Scott, that was wrong. Most people feel too guilty when they talk to the police to make reference to a crime. On the other hand, he thought, maybe they feel guilty because policemen think things like I’m thinking right now. And maybe they try to cover it up by making a natural reference to a crime like this guy did.…
Sometimes Inspector Scott found human nature fascinating.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, scratching his head again, “that’s just what we came here to ask you about—those killings. See, me and my partner here—this is Inspector Ross, by the way, I’m Inspector Scott—we got assigned to that one.”
Mrs. White Page 14
