The Cunning

by Robert Bloch

  Warren moved slowly past the canvasses. No Room at the Inn, as Joseph and Mary, in Biblical garb, turned away from the flamboyant façade of a high-rise motel with its discreetly lettered rental notice—No Children or Pets Allowed.

  Then, The Adoration of the Magi, with the holy infant haloed in his crib, surrounded by the Three Wise Men. The Magi wore medical jackets; one of them examined conditioned reflexes with a rubber hammer, the second offered a bottle of formula, and the third bent over the Christ child administering a vaccination.

  A youthful Christ counseled the scholars in a laboratory dedicated to nerve gas and bacterial warfare. A bearded Christ in white robes attempted to recruit apostles from the crew of a nuclear submarine on the lake of Galilee. A lonely Christ stood hopelessly wedged by a crush of frantic sales clerks and voracious female Christmas shoppers in a department store.

  “I’m doing the preliminary sketches for a Last Supper now,” Tom said. “But of course the big job will be the Crucifixion. Picture this: the crowd in the foreground, all in modern dress, milling around a refreshment stand set up at the far right for the sale of beer and hot-dogs. On the far left, virtually ignored, two bums carrying picket signs protesting the use of non-union carpenters. Before the central cross, a television crew with camera focussed on Joseph, who is being interviewed by a newscaster. Beside him stands Mary, sorrowing, her eyes intent on the bill being presented by a local mortician.

  “In the background, the three crosses. I haven’t made up my mind yet how to portray the two thieves—there are so many obvious choices to select from. But the figure of the Savior will be completely conventional, except for the halo, which actually rises from some distance behind his head. You can probably guess what that represents. Of course no one is paying any attention to it—nobody in the picture is looking at Christ at all.”

  Tom cocked his head at Warren. “Well, what do you think?”

  Warren opened his mouth, but another voice erased his answer.

  It was Jerry’s. She peered through the doorway, glass in hand. “I think you’d better come out now,” she murmured. “They’re here.”

  “I’ll be running along,” Warren said.

  “Nonsense—stick around.” Tom put his hand on Warren’s shoulder. “Didn’t you say there was something you wanted to talk over?”

  “This isn’t the time for it; you have company.”

  “Well, it’s noon and you might as well grab a bite here,” Jerry said. “There’s a ton of sandwiches and somebody’s got to get rid of them.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, why don’t you call Sylvia and ask her to join us?”

  “Really, I—”

  But Jerry was already tugging at the extension cord. “Come along, Tom,” she said. And, to Warren, “Here you are.”

  Taking Tom by the arm, she moved through the doorway, leaving Warren alone with the phone in his hand.

  ELEVEN

  Sylvia sat at the kitchen table writing a note.

  Darling—

  Forgot to tell you I have a few errands to run before my appointment this afternoon, so I’m leaving now (1 o’clock) and taking the car. Hope you don’t mind—there’s cold cuts in the refrigerator for you and some of that apple pie from last ni

  The phone rang, and Sylvia hesitated, pen poised. For a moment she considered ignoring the call, but then, on the other hand, you never know. She put down the pen and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.

  “Sylvia?”

  It was Warren’s voice. She was sorry she had answered, but too late now.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “I just stopped by to say hello to the Norwoods. They’re having a few people over for brunch and they asked me to stay.”

  “Then you won’t be eating here?”

  “That’s not why I called. They want you to come too.”

  “Didn’t you remember I have a hair appointment this afternoon?”

  “I know. But I thought you might leave early and drop in on your way.”

  “Tell Jerry I’d love to but there won’t be time. I’m just finishing the beds now and I still have to get myself put together. We’ll be seeing them tonight anyway.”

  “Want me to come home?”

  “No, you stay.” Sylvia spoke quickly. “Give me a chance to put the house in order before I go.”

  “When is your appointment?”

  “At four, but I have some shopping to do on the way. If I get home by six-thirty that still gives us plenty of time to dress.”

  “Six-thirty?” His voice on the other end of the wire had a rising inflection.

  “Warren, are you all right?”

  “Of course. It’s a little noisy here—just wanted to make sure what you were saying.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, as long as you’re back in time to change.”

  “Okay. Watch your driving now—there are a lot of nuts loose on weekends.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. And you have fun,” Sylvia said.

  “Will do.”

  “Good. Give my love to Jerry and Tom and I’ll see you later.”

  She hung up, reached for the note, crumpled it and dropped it into the wastebasket. He’d never see it there.

  Unless, of course, he made a practice of going through the trash.

  But that was absurd. Warren wouldn’t do such a thing. Or would he?

  Sylvia bit her lip, as if to punish the mouth that could give utterance to such a question. And that was absurd too, because the question was unspoken.

  Unspoken, but also unanswered. There had been a time when she knew, or felt she knew, just what to expect from Warren in any given situation. And now—?

  She didn’t know what Warren would do, not from one moment to the next. The restlessness, the aimless wandering, the long silences and the still longer, almost interminable exchange of small talk, as though he were forcing himself to be pleasant. To speak, but say nothing.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake coming here in the first place. They could have moved almost anywhere, taken a house out in the country, settled in a small town, pulled up stakes and gone to another state or even abroad if they found a place they liked. But when they talked things over, Eden had seemed like a logical choice. Warren was actually the one who’d made the decision.

  “The only point in retiring is to get away from the whole Puritan work ethic. And you can’t do that if you live out in the sticks. What’s the sense of quitting a job to become a slave to a house? Weeding, spraying, mowing lawns, shoveling snow, doing all your own repairs, running back and forth to the nearest town for everything—we’re just not cut out for that. And a small town’s not much of an improvement, either, unless you can break down the barriers, get accepted by the community. And for what—going to church socials, joining the local service club? It’d be the same if we moved out-state, and worse abroad because of the language barrier. Let’s face it, you and I are strictly urban types. What we need are the comforts of civilized living without the pressures.”

  So they’d settled for Eden. Eden, where somebody else cut the grass, where security patrols provided protection for your property, where all the household problems were solved simply by picking up the phone.

  And, as Warren had pointed out, the fact that it was a retirement community didn’t mean they were forced to live like senior citizens, or even with them exclusively. Plenty of younger couples, people their age, had made the same decision and come here for the conveniences the city lacked. In this haven, free from smog, congestion, rush-hour traffic, screaming infants and screaming, infantile young adults, it was possible to pick and choose one’s friends, one’s daily pattern. Warren had been right about the work ethic thing, too.

  “Know why they call it Eden?” he’d said to her. “Because it’s the only place in the world where not working isn’t considered a crime.”

  But that had been at the beginning, while they were still settling down.

  What had gone wrong since
then? When had he started to change?

  Looking back, it was hard to find the exact moment, because the transformation had been so gradual. But now it was complete and Warren had become a stranger—a secretive stranger. She couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

  Then why are you ignoring it? Sylvia shook her head, but it didn’t help, any more than biting her lip had helped to halt the thoughts.

  You know when he changed. He changed when you did. When you became the silent one, the one with the secrets. Don’t try to project your own guilt on him. The real truth is that you’re not telling him the truth.

  You haven’t, and you won’t.

  She rose, picking up her purse, and moved to the back door.

  Outside, in the carport, she found her fingers trembling as she inserted the key in the ignition. For a moment she hesitated, and it took conscious effort to force her fingers to move the switch into reverse.

  No help for it. If someone saw her backing out, told Warren she’d left hours before she said she was leaving—but no, they wouldn’t. In any case, she had to take that chance.

  And what was one more chance among the many she’d taken these days? Just as long as Warren didn’t suspect—

  Sylvia eased the car down the driveway and started off, glancing at her watch. Almost time, and she’d better hurry because he wouldn’t like being kept waiting.

  TWELVE

  “I’ll see you later.”

  That was the last thing Sylvia said before she hung up. And it wasn’t until Warren cradled the receiver that the realization came to him.

  If she was going out and he returned during her absence, he wouldn’t be seeing her later. He wouldn’t see her at all. He’d never see her again. Just this last, banal bit of telephone conversation before the line went dead forever.

  He stood there in the studio, listening to the faint babble of voices from the living room down the hall, conscious of the perspiration breaking out on his forehead, soaking the palms of his hands.

  Impulse told him to leave, to run home and see her now, before she left. And then—

  And then—what? Tell her goodbye forever, blurt it all out, shock her, hurt her, reduce her to tears?

  Maybe a part of him did want just that. The childish part, saying, “Nobody loves me—I’m going to kill myself and then you’ll be sorry.”

  But he wasn’t a child. Nor would she react with hysteria. She’d get on the phone and call a doctor. And then—

  Warren took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. That’s what he was really afraid of; not her tears but her self-possession. Sylvia could always be counted on to be sensible. She’d do the right thing, and it would be so wrong.

  Warren balled the handkerchief between his hands, then wadded it back into his pocket. Better to leave well enough alone. “Have fun,” Sylvia said. Perhaps their conversation wasn’t so meaningless after all; at least he could give it a try.

  Oddly enough, he was hungry now. He turned and started down the hall toward the living room.

  Passing the kitchen he almost collided with Jerry as she came through the doorway carrying a tray of sandwiches.

  “Is she coming over?”

  “I forgot she has an appointment at the hairdresser’s.”

  “I forgot too.” Jerry tossed her mane and grinned. “That’s why I don’t have one.” She moved into the hall, hefting the tray.

  “Here, let me carry that.”

  “Don’t bother, I can manage. Just come along and mingle.”

  She swept forward into the living room and Warren followed, halting in the doorway.

  The noise hit him first. A laugh to the ear, a hard statement to the chin, a punch line to the solar plexus.

  Figures feinted, weaving all about him, bobbing through shreds of smoke, clouds of perfume, wisps of alcoholic breath, reeks of perspiration.

  Warren blinked and stepped back, fighting against the visual impact of too many grimacing faces, too many hands jabbing in gesticulation.

  Jerry had already disappeared into the crowd. Warren glanced around, seeking a glimpse of Tom, but he seemed lost in a room filled with strangers.

  Item, one white-haired woman in a two-piece sunsuit with a neckline that not only plunged but literally hurled itself from the twin precipices of her breasts. Item, one conservative tweed business suit, with man to match. Item, an elderly man with his hair cut in bangs over his forehead; a little old boy who looked like a little old girl. Item, a fat lady with green eyes fighting off the attentions of, item, a thin gentleman with bloodshot eyes. Item, a wrinkled, wispy-haired man who came plunging out of the group, glass in hand, and moved to where Warren stood against the wall.

  “Clark—how are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Warren studied the face, wondering where he’d been seen it before.

  “Remember me? Roy Crile—we met over at the Bascomb’s last summer.”

  “That’s right.” Warren recalled him now; retired librarian or something of the sort, a member of one of Sylvia’s discussion groups.

  “Here.” Crile held out the glass. “Tom told me to bring you this. Scotch and water, he said.”

  “Much obliged.” Warren took the glass, his warm palm welcoming the icy impress. “Where is Tom?”

  “Behind the bar.” Crile gestured vaguely toward the far corner of the room. “I was just saying—”

  Warren couldn’t make out what he was just saying. All he heard were scattered sentences and fragmented phrases, brief crests on the wave of conversation.

  “—but the plots of these skin flicks are all so trite, just a lot of hard-pore cornography—”

  “—understatement, like describing Moby Dick as a novel about acupuncture—”

  “—so I sent him a wire and told him to wrap it around his neck—”

  “—thirty years ago they kept telling you to get hot, and now they tell you to stay cool—”

  Warren blinked as the babble assailed him. This wasn’t the sort of sentiment he expected from the inhabitants of Eden, nor could he recognize familiar figures amidst the gaggle of guests. Straining, he heard a part of Crile’s explanation.

  “—most of them outsiders, Jerry’s friends.” Crile nodded toward various members of the group as he identified them. Warren made no attempt to catch the names, but he was able to resolve their roles.

  The white-haired witch in the sunsuit was an editorial assistant for one of the greeting-card houses purchasing Jerry’s work; her conservatively dressed companion was the firm’s owner. The elderly effeminate wrote verses to accompany Jerry’s illustrations; the fat woman and her thin molester both functioned in the sales department of the outfit.

  “—don’t know about you, but I can’t take too much of this,” Crile was saying. “Let’s see if it’s any quieter in there.”

  His accompanying gesture indicated the doorway on the far side of the room, and Warren followed him toward it, shouldering his way through the crowd. Tom waved from behind the bar and Jerry gave him a quick smile as she passed by en route to the kitchen, but neither made any attempt to check his progress.

  The room to which Crile led him was the study, and it was definitely much quieter there; bookcases bulked the walls on three sides, deadening the sounds from beyond the doorway. There were no paintings hung here, no unfinished canvasses or sketches visible, and only the presence of a small drawing board in the corner told Warren that this must be where Jerry did her work.

  The fourth wall framed the glassy expanse of a sliding door overlooking the patio, and it was here that Crile moved to sink with a grateful sigh to the sofa facing the vista beyond.

  “For this relief, much thanks,” he murmured.

  “Amen.” Warren lowered himself into a chair opposite his companion and took a sip of his drink. “Why does Jerry do these things? She’s going to a party tonight—”

  “Business,” Crile said. “As I understand it, there’s some sort of annual sales convention of greeting-card firms at t
he International Airport Hotel this weekend. By inviting this group over she’ll probably be able to negotiate her assignments for the coming season. Our Jerry may look like a rattlebrain, but appearances are deceptive.”

  “Appearances.” Warren stared through the glass door at the huddle of housing beyond the patio’s rim. “That mob in there—overdressed or underdressed—parlor intellectuals—”

  “Role playing.” Crile shrugged. “I suppose none of them care to be identified with the assembly-line production of synthetic sentiment, and I can’t say I blame them. Would you want to dedicate your life to manufacturing commercial condolences, get-well cards for lepers?”

  “They’re not the only ones,” Warren said. “Sometimes it seems as if most business today is conducted over a martini. I used to be an accountant, and clients had me attend their conferences. Almost all of these were cocktail parties, and even the board meetings usually ended up at some bar where the actual decisions were made. Do you really have to get drunk to make a deal nowadays?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Crile said. “Perhaps it’s always been that way.”

  “But where’s the reality today?” Warren nodded toward the architectural array beyond the glass door. “Certainly not out there. Do you suppose it would help if we still had houses? Not jerry-built crackerboxes like these things here, but houses that have stood long enough to actually be lived in. Genuine homes—places where children are born, old people die—”

  “Birth and death are realities, no matter where they take place,” Crile said. “House or hospital, what difference does it make? We alter the roles we play, change our life styles only in accordance with a change in values. Ancestral manors have no particular status now because the emphasis has shifted from construction to destruction. Today we seem inclined to ignore our benefactors and idolize our destroyers. Nobody knows the name of the architect who designed the house he lives in, but every child can identify Mr. Bowie’s knife, Mr. Remington’s rifle, and Mr. Thompson’s sub-machine gun.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”