The Cunning

by Robert Bloch

  And then, of course, he had the garden. The maintenance crew came around and looked after the lawn, but he took care of the patio himself.

  Wonderful way to relax—planting things, watching them grow. That was something he hadn’t planned; getting interested in soil and mulch and compost. Spraying and clipping, transplanting, digging, putting in those roses and hydrangeas. Yes, and talking to the flowers if he wanted to. A lot better than talking to a lot of strangers, always asking questions and trying to stick their noses into your business.

  Because he had no business now. And this was what retirement was all about. Doing what you pleased, when you pleased. It pleased him to plant things, see them bud and blossom and flourish under the sun. In a way, that’s what was happening to him—he’d been transplanted here, and now he was putting down new roots, starting to grow. So he had found Eden after all. His garden in Eden. Creation, a whole new life.

  Joe turned, glancing across the patio at the French windows, instantly alert to the hint of movement beyond them. Strange how old habits never die.

  But that would be Irene, going through the den on her way to the kitchen. Up early, because this morning she had—let’s see now, what was it?—her physical therapy class.

  No, that had been cancelled. All of today’s program had been cancelled.

  Joe scowled as he remembered.

  For the past month or so he’d noticed the change; she was getting restless. At first he thought maybe they weren’t spending enough time together, what with her being on the go this way, morning noon and night. But actually they did see a lot of each other—breakfast every morning, lunch almost every day, and always at dinner. And, actually, she was only booked up for two evenings a week. So when you came right down to it, they were together a lot more than they ever had been in all the years before he retired. Seemed like she was the stay-at-home then, while he was always off and running. Lucky if they ate together more than a couple of times a month; he almost never got home before midnight. For a long while it was like they had to have an appointment to go to bed with each other, and outside of a few winter months in Miami there wasn’t much chance of going out on the town.

  Looking back on it now, Joe wondered how she’d ever stood it. But she didn’t seem to have minded; at least she never complained. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t hit it off; they always got along together and she knew she had nothing to worry about in the sex department. He’d made up for his absence the best way he could—anything she wanted she got, and if business came first she understood it had to be that way, right from the beginning.

  But now there was no more sweat about the business, no more headaches over the future, no more problems about seeing each other. And all at once she was uptight.

  Joe knew better than to pressure her about it; sooner or later she’d speak her piece. And she did.

  “I want to give a party.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Joe, listen to me. We’ve been here almost six months now, and I’ve met all these people. Not just in classes. I’ve been invited to their homes, we’ve had lunches together. There’s such a thing as social obligations, you know—”

  “Sure, I understand. So take them out to lunch. That’s a pretty good restaurant they’ve got at the clubhouse. Why don’t you set something up there?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I know how you feel about strangers, but some of these women have become very dear friends. I’ve met their husbands too, and they’re really quite nice, most of them. I’m beginning to get the feeling that people are wondering why they haven’t been invited to our house. They all know I’m married, and it’s only natural for them to be curious about you. Frankly, it’s getting a little embarrassing.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about that. But you know I don’t want to be involved.”

  “That’s just the point. They’re beginning to ask questions.”

  “You don’t have to tell them anything. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  “But it can hurt you. Talking behind my back, imagining God knows what—don’t you see that?”

  “Yes.” He did see, and wondered why he’d been so blind before.

  “All we have to do is invite them once and we’re off the hook,” Irene said. “Just so they can meet you, see you’re not somebody with two heads.”

  “Okay, whatever you say. I suppose I ought to order some liquor. What do they drink, Geritol?”

  “Never mind. We’ll have them in after dinner and serve a midnight buffet. One of the girls up at the clubhouse gave me the name of a catering service. They’ll handle the whole thing from start to finish.”

  “When?”

  “I thought maybe a week from Saturday.”

  So here it was. A week from Saturday, with the catering people due this morning. That’s why Irene was up so early.

  All right, let her have her party, let them come.

  But they’d better not step on his roses.

  THREE

  A quick look at her dashboard told Jennifer it was almost eight o’clock when she arrived.

  One of the new guys—Charlie somebody, she couldn’t think of his last name—was on the main gate and he waved at her and smiled. Big broad shoulders, curly hair, looked maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She wondered if he was married, not that it mattered a good goddam right now.

  Still, you never know about these things, and it didn’t hurt to smile back. Correction: it did hurt, but she smiled anyway. And drove along the mall, past the golf course, checking the time on the dashboard clock against her watch.

  Her watch only said ten minutes to. Maybe the dash clock was wrong, something was always going wrong with this clunker. Something was always going wrong, period. Including her period, period. What a lousy time for it to start!

  Jennifer turned off the mall and headed for the administration complex. There was no traffic at this hour, only a sweeper chugging along. With the exception of the maintenance men lugging some trash out of the bathhouse, she didn’t see a living soul. Everybody slept in late here on Saturdays. Everybody but her. Why couldn’t she get onto another shift?

  No point worrying about that now. She pulled into the employee parking area, checking to see if Toland’s or Beckley’s cars were in their slots. But she was the first arrival. Thank God for that, anyway.

  Five of eight on her own watch. She parked, climbed out, crunched across the gravel to the back door of the reception center. Her feet hurt. Everything hurt, and despite her shades, the sun was murder on her eyes. Well, it was her own fault; she should have known better last night. But her feet weren’t hurting then, she was feeling no pain. And seeing how it had ended, she ought to be damned grateful she did have her period this morning.

  Jennifer started to get the key out of her bag, but Art was already waiting, holding the door open for her.

  “You made it, huh?” He gave her a big grin, but she didn’t bother to smile back. Art Sale was one of the older security officers, been there ever since the place started. Nice guy with a wife and three kids, living in town just across the way from the service entrance.

  He locked the door and followed her down the hall into the lobby.

  “Want some coffee?” he said.

  That rated a smile. “God, do I ever!”

  “Okay, just as soon as I finish my check-out.”

  Art moved off down the corridor to the left, past the executive offices, and Jennifer sat down behind the switchboard. She put her bag under the chair, kicked off her shoes, put on the headphones and plugged in.

  Eight o’clock on the nose. And a stack of reminders on the spike a mile high already. Christ, what a way to start the day! But at least the board wasn’t lit, not this early. Thank God for small favors.

  She unspiked the memos, rifled through them. Call for 8722, 1946, 1531—that bastard, let him oversleep and miss his plane, the old creep!

  Oh-oh, there we go, incoming already. “Eden Estates, good m
orning. Just a moment please, I’ll connect you.”

  And who was that? Who in hell would be talking in an English accent at eight-god-forbid-in-the-morning? One of those high voices that split your eardrums, particularly when you’re hung over. Never again, not on a weekday evening, and never, never with any more flyboys. Airline pilot, he said, but he turned out to be nothing but a lousy radio operator. Probably used that pilot gag a hundred times, but no more for her. She’d had it.

  The English accent was talking to Frances, over at the sauna, setting up an afternoon appointment. Jennifer cut off, started on the memos. 8722. “Good morning. Eight o’clock.” Some woman answering, thanking her; probably had an early class over at the clubhouse.

  Now, 1946. Wait a minute—the board again. “Eden Estates, good morning. Oh yes, Mrs. Pfeiffer. Mr. McShane in physical therapy? I’ll connect you.” And wouldn’t you like to be connected with him, you old bat? Sitting up there in that big condominium with all your loot, waiting for somebody to come along with a spade and plant you.

  God, that was no way to think. But at this hour, with a splitting headache—when did it break up, three-thirty, four, something like that?—and not even a cup of coffee to start the day with yet! Too much. They could take their switchboard, take the whole place and—

  “Eden Estates. Good morning. I’m sorry, Mr. Toland is not in yet. I expect him around nying.” That was a hoot. Ny-ing. Why had she ever taken that diction course anyway? Fat lot of diction you needed on this job. What you needed was a steel head and a cast-iron stomach. Yes, and a brass ass too. Where in hell was Art with that coffee?

  Jennifer looked at her watch. Was it really only ten after eight? God, how was she going to get through the day?

  FOUR

  The clock kept ticking faithfully as Warren went into the bathroom. It had been properly wound to perform its function. Its hands made the movements appropriate to every minute, every second.

  Warren ticked faithfully through the daily routine of the toilet, face and hands performing with mechanical perfection. He showered, he shaved, he dressed, moving with automatic precision; the complete creature of habit, faithful servant to his body’s demands.

  It wasn’t until he stood before the bathroom mirror, combing his hair, that he became conscious of the pounding of his heart, the sudden sounding of a warning drum.

  But that was the body, and only the body. It wanted to survive for its own selfish reasons. So that he could continue to be its slave. To wine and dine and pamper it, attend to all its infantile needs of elimination and cleanliness, to clothe and house and support it, play pimp to its lusts. It was the body that degraded you with every menial task. The body turned life into a futile, never-ending struggle to trim its nails, shave its stubble of beard, cut its hair, inspect it and medicate it and see that it got enough exercise, enough rest, enough air and warmth and light. And in the end, if you served it faithfully and well, it betrayed you. One became not its servant but its prisoner—a prisoner in a crumbling cell, a prisoner to be tortured by pain and the pangs of decay, and the slow, lingering fear that Warren’s body was summoning now.

  Warren turned away from the mirror, turned away from the fear. He walked back into the bedroom, noting that Sylvia still slept.

  For a moment he was prompted to awaken her; at least he’d have the momentary reassurance of her face across the breakfast table. But he’d only be seeing a mask, and of course he’d wear a mask too. He didn’t want her to see the face he had just seen in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t frightened any more, but he couldn’t insure himself against the body’s treachery, and his features might somehow betray him.

  So he went on into the kitchen alone. He’d fix breakfast himself, go through the motions. After all, it was only for a few hours more. That was the comforting thought, the thought to hang onto right now.

  Because right now Warren’s body was trying a new trick. Suddenly the surge of fear subsided, only to be replaced by a complete sensory awareness. As he moved to open the kitchen window, it was as though the breeze from beyond brought with it a wealth of sensations.

  The quality and capacity of his feeling was all-encompassing. He felt the firmness of the floor under his feet, the way his socks stretched against his ankles, the tautness of trousers along his inner thighs, the tightened shorts at his crotch, the binding of his belt, the surge of silk beneath armpits, the hard surface of the window ledge, the very grain of its wood beneath his fingertips, the impact of air on his freshly shaved cheek, the quality of redness on the retina as his eyes sought the sunlight across the sky over Eden.

  Yes, and the moist exudation of perspiration along the back of his neck, the wisp of hair blowing across his forehead, the inspiration of air through the nostrils, the coursing of blood, twitch of muscle.

  But that was merely more of the body’s treachery. He got the message, all right—it was pleasant to be aware, alert, alive. To go through all the familiar, friendly motions of starting a new day. Put on the kettle for the water. Grease the skillet, break the eggs, watch the whites crisp and curl while the yellow yolk blossoms like a sunflower. See the toast pop up, rise and shine on signal. Butter it, bite into it, taste it, swallow, enjoy. Savor the sugar in the coffee, accept its caffeinated comfort. The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast. But are you really ready to give up all this?

  Suppose he wasn’t ready?

  Suppose it was just a mood, a melancholia born of boredom or of some temporary glandular imbalance. The male menopause—why not? Perhaps all he needed was a shot of hormones.

  But he’d been to the doctor, had a complete physical, just a little over a month ago. Sound of wind and limb, and that’ll be eighty-five dollars please, payment due upon receipt of statement.

  Of course, he may have gone to the wrong doctor. Finlay was a good internist, but the only thing he looked for inside your head was a tumor. Maybe if he saw a shrink—

  He’d considered the notion before; considered and rejected it. There were only two ways of working with a psychiatrist—lying, or telling the truth.

  Lying was a waste of time. It was no use seeking psychiatric aid if he avoided or evaded the real reason for his visit. Fooling the doctor only meant fooling himself, and that was no help.

  Telling the truth raised other questions. When it came to respecting the confidence of a patient, just how far did medical ethics go? Say you’re a shrink and some stranger comes in off the street to confess a murder, tells you he has an irresistible impluse to kill again. Do you just let him walk out of your office and keep your mouth shut, even if you believe him? And what about suicide?

  Warren could see the doctor sitting there listening. Nodding quietly, completely calm, all sympathy and understanding. Not trying to talk him out of it, not humoring him like a cop coaxing some nut to come in off a window ledge, then signaling to the men with the restraint jackets and the butterfly nets. It wouldn’t be that crude; just a soft sell about deferring action until after a series of sessions to get at the roots of his problem and consider other solutions. And if Warren rejected the suggestion, no panic. Just goodbye and good luck, think it over, here’s my home phone number, call me if you need me, any hour of the day or night. All very professional, very low profile.

  But what happened after he left the office? How fast would the call get to the police, how long before the APB was issued, how soon would he be picked up?

  And then he’d meet the men with the butterfly nets after all. Maybe they’d use sedation instead of strait jackets, maybe he’d end up in a high-priced private sanatarium instead of a public snake pit. But that wouldn’t change things. Even if hell has seven circles, it’s still hell. Complete with sanity hearings, wet packs, and chemotherapy. Hell for him and hell for Sylvia, too. In a way she’d suffer more than he would, and she didn’t deserve it.

  Of course, she was going to suffer as it was—no matter how she really felt behind her mask, there was bound to be a shock. And the mask would slip; there’d
be tears, hysteria, and perhaps a few sessions with some shrink for herself. But in the end she’d cope. His way out would be her way out. Between the savings and the insurance there was more than enough to keep her going; the money wouldn’t be squandered on his care. She’d be free to have a whole new life for herself. At least he owed her that much.

  He owed himself that much, too. Because he wasn’t crazy. Bored, perhaps, dissatisfied with life, certainly, afraid of a futile future with its prospect of pain. But aren’t most men bored, dissatisfied, afraid of suffering and senility? All a matter of degree. The seven circles of hell exist outside of asylum walls as well as within.

  Warren carried the breakfast things over to the sink, rinsed them off and put them in the dishwasher. A foolish gesture, but part of the established pattern. And it was important that he adhere to the established pattern today, of all days. No point in doing anything that might arouse Sylvia’s suspicions.

  He crossed into the living room, opened the closet door and took his jacket off the hanger. As he did so he glanced toward the bedroom, listened for a sound. Sylvia was still asleep.

  For a moment he considered waking her before he went out. But arousing her would be arousing suspicions. She was used to his going out for a morning walk, picking up a few odds and ends at the shopping center, coming home in time for lunch. And today it was essential to stick to the routine.

  Usually Sylvia had a class or a meeting to attend, but this morning, he remembered, was free. Late in the afternoon she’d be going out to keep an appointment at the beauty parlor because of tonight’s party. Some couple named Marks, over on the heights—he’d never met them, but Sylvia knew the wife through one of the clubs she belonged to. Not that it mattered; he wouldn’t be attending the party and neither would she.

  Because late this afternoon he’d be home alone. Alone in the sunset. And then—

  Warren slipped out of the front door, closing it quietly behind him. He already knew what he’d be doing then.