That’s how it had been on the night he stole the baseball, and every night afterward he lay awake reliving the sensations of it all, one by one. The pause inside the kitchen door, the rattling Coke bottles, the creak of the bottom stair, the smell of soap, the feel of his fingers on the pebbly wall, the snoring from the parents’ room and Ralphie’s wheezing, and then the crazy feeling of standing in the room with somebody asleep and you knowing and he not knowing and then not scaring the shit out of him even though you could if you wanted to but instead just stealing the baseball that proved you were there, and then leaving, while somebody was up and awake and peeing right next door, and you were in their house and they didn’t know it and you just left, stepping out into the cool dark, no harm done.
No harm done, that was the big thing. Because what, after all, was wrong with it? Nothing, really. It was just fun, it was funny. And so why not do it again?
But he knew that was crazy and he put it out of his mind.
Still, what harm?
He broke into the house next door to Ralphie’s, though it wasn’t really breaking in. He just let himself in, with a key; it was definitely not breaking and entering. This time was more scary than the first, because he had known Ralphie’s house well, but this one was altogether new to him and he didn’t know his way around. All he knew was that they didn’t have a dog. He counted on that. He closed the door behind him and stood inside the little kitchen entryway and he was suddenly paralyzed with fear. What was he doing? What if he got caught? If he’d been caught in Ralphie’s house, he could have said he was just playing a trick and they’d have believed him, but in this house they’d be convinced he was trying to rob them. He stood in the entryway, trembling, and he promised himself, or maybe God, that if he got out of here safely, he’d never do anything this crazy again. He let himself out, put the key back under the mat, and ran all the way home.
It was crazy, insane. Never again.
The next night he went back to the same house, walked through all the downstairs rooms, touching the furniture, the walls, the potted plants on the windowsills. He felt no panic this time. It was exciting, because you might get caught, and it was sexy in a way he couldn’t quite explain to himself, but mostly it was—well—just fun. And harmless. He didn’t take anything and he didn’t damage anything. He just walked around inside the house, he helped himself to a piece of hard candy from a dish on the dining room table, he sat down in front of the blank TV and pretended he lived there. I mean, what was so bad about it, he said to himself, what was the big deal anyhow? But he told nobody what he’d done, not Ralphie or the gang or even the priest in confession.
He put it out of his conscious mind; it was just something that had happened once—well, twice, if you counted Ralphie’s house—and he refused to think about it. Two weeks went by, and then a third, and when it crossed his mind, he couldn’t believe he had ever done it. A month later, though, he gave it another try. It was easy. People in his neighborhood left keys under the mat, in potted plants, on the ledge above the door. Everybody was trusting or just careless. Once, during a heat spell in July, he had found a door ajar.
Then, in August, he was caught in the Sanderses’ house. He was letting himself out the back door, just a little excited, just a little bit triumphant, when he was suddenly confronted by Dr. Sanders, who was on his way in. “Philip?” he asked. “Can that be Philip?” They looked at one another blankly for a moment and then Philip smiled and said, “Hi, Dr. Sanders. I guess the jig is up.” As usual, he was lucky. Dr. Sanders was a professional colleague of his father’s, they worked together in the same medical complex, and though Sanders didn’t call the police, he did talk to Philip’s father the next day to urge that the boy see a psychiatrist. And who better than himself?
So Philip saw Dr. Sanders once a week, professionally, and by October he had come to realize that these night visits to other people’s houses were simply a manifestation of his need to matter, his desire to be special, his longing for intimacy. And what else? he wondered, though he did not raise that question. He and Dr. Sanders became friends as Philip entered his new and more stable years. He put his housebreaking phase so completely behind him that he almost believed it had never happened. His parents never mentioned it again, nor did Dr. Sanders, and so far as his friends knew, he had done it only once, on a bet, as a joke on Ralphie.
Philip studied more, his grades shot up, his teachers began to notice that he was quite a talented young man. He might eventually become a doctor like his father, or he might enter the priesthood, or he might—if it weren’t for a certain natural shyness—find a place in politics. Certainly he was going to become something interesting. And he did. He married right after college—with no mention, of course, of his career as a housebreaker—he studied medicine, and he moved to Chicago, where he got a very good job at the university hospital. In a few years he began to specialize in endocrinology. Which led him—naturally, he felt—to psychiatry and the physiology of depression. Then a job offer at Harvard—it would mean that at last he had everything, so who could say no? And now he had a Chair. Oh, let us never forget the Chair. Ta-daa! Not to mention the whispers that he might be the next Dean of the Medical School.
“Thus far, my life,” Philip said aloud, and smiled to himself. He was lying on the couch in the small family room, remembering, with what seemed like pleasure. He reached for his glass, which was empty, and then he reached for the remote control and flicked on the TV. Test patterns, lousy movies, infomercials. He flicked it off.
He stood up and looked around the room. Who lived here? What could you tell from just looking? They had taste, probably a little money, they liked to read. Furniture getting a little shaggy. But two very good McKnight prints. He got up and walked into the kitchen and from there to the big family room they used only when the kids were home. He looked at the dining room and the living room. Formal, but not too formal. Lived in.
He went into the kitchen and made himself another drink. Scotch. Easy on the water. This was absurd, of course. He would have a headache tomorrow, but what the hell, it was a celebration. They had given him a Chair. Because he was a good psychiatrist, a good teacher, a good husband and father and citizen. He did not fuck his colleagues’ wives or children. He did not seduce and abandon patients. He did not steal.
But he did break into houses. Or he had. Once upon a time. When he was fifteen. And he had never forgotten it, not really.
He stood at the kitchen sink and looked out the window. It was a dark night, very little moon, and there was a light breeze. He could go for a walk. He could clear his head. Sure.
He finished his drink, turned out the light, and then went back to the window and stared out into the dark. It was chilly at this hour. He’d need a jacket if he went for a walk. And he’d have to change his clothes.
“No,” he said aloud. He would not go out for a walk. That was crazy. That was asking for trouble.
He would go to bed. He moved quickly to the front room and mounted the stairs and looked into the bedroom. Maggie was in deep sleep. “Maggie?” he said, and there was no response at all. He took off his suit and hung it in the closet. He hung up his tie, his shirt. He tossed his underwear in the hamper and put on his pajamas. He got into bed.
His heart was beating very fast. “No,” he said again, and looked over to see if Maggie had stirred, but she was out, completely gone. “No,” he whispered, but he got up and got dressed in his jeans and running shoes and, without another glance at Maggie, left their bedroom and went downstairs. He took his black windbreaker from the hall closet, his keys from the tray on the refrigerator, and stepped outside. He locked the door behind him.
It was colder now. He felt good. He would not go for a walk after all, he would go for a little drive. Insomniacs did that all the time. So why shouldn’t he?
He drove through Harvard Square to Mass. Ave. and then, without even thinking, he hit the Alewife Brook Parkway and decided to take it—why not?—and
in a short while he was in Winchester, very near the Aspergarters’ house. It was a wealthy neighborhood with big houses and wide lawns and low fieldstone walls. And, no doubt, security systems to protect the Klees and the Mirós and the Mondrians. All the lights were out. He drove slowly past the house and made a bunch of left turns and passed in front of it again. What dull secrets lurked behind the banal masks of the Aspergarters? Would anyone care? Would anyone want to know? He turned back toward home and as he passed from Winchester to Cambridge he noticed again, as he always did, the sudden change from real wealth to middle-class affluence, from the world of Klees and security systems to McKnight prints and keys under the mat. The difference annoyed the hell out of some people. It meant nothing to him. Money was something he couldn’t understand as a value in itself. It had nothing to do, finally, with who you were. He was in Harvard Square heading for Brattle Street when, for no reason at all, no reason he could think of anyhow, he circled back again and drove out to Winchester. The Kizers lived in a new development. Big showy houses, with high walls and foolproof security systems. And dogs, certainly. He turned left on Meadow and then right on Woodlawn, and drove past the Kizers’ house. He’d never been inside, but he knew the development because he and Maggie had once thought of moving out here, but Maggie said it was too expensive, what with the kids going off to college, and so they had stayed in Cambridge.
A dim light was burning downstairs. He looked at his watch—3 A.M. Could Hal be working? It seemed unlikely. He doubted if Hal ever worked, really. Hal had other interests. He drove to the end of Woodlawn, a cul-de-sac, and parked several houses down on the opposite side of the street. He walked back to the house, through the huge open gate to the driveway, and from the safety of the evergreens he peered into the front window. It was Hal’s study all right, but nobody was there. Several books lay open on the desk.
He went down the long curving driveway and around to the back. There was a fake Tudor portico and a sheltered entrance and a door with a long glass panel. Anybody could break in here in thirty seconds. He looked for wiring, a panel of some kind with buttons on it, some minimal security system at least. He knew there had to be one, but he could see no sign of it. If he forced the door and an alarm went off, he’d have a fucking stroke. He put his hand on the doorknob. Nothing. His heart was beating double time. What the hell. He turned the knob slowly, he leaned hard against the door, he waited for the screech of the alarm. Nothing. Not a sound. Nor did the door give.
He looked under the mat. No key. And there were no potted plants either. He felt the ledge above the door. Sure enough.
He took a quick look around him. The night was cold and quiet. Not a sound. The smell of mint from the side garden. He breathed in the scent of it and held his breath.
He should go home now, right now. He should get back into bed and thank the gods he had escaped from a crazy pointless act that could change his life forever. It was madness. It was lunacy.
He slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and the door opened. There was no alarm. There was nothing. He stepped inside.
The house was very quiet.
2
Maggie was in deep sleep and then, a second later, she was fully awake. This had been happening a lot lately. It had something to do with the pills she took.
Philip lay beside her in bed. He was sleeping on his back, his hands folded across his chest like an Etruscan death figure. He had a gorgeous profile: hooded eyes, a hawkish kind of nose, a wide full mouth. His good looks still surprised her. To be truthful, what surprised her was that somebody who looked like Philip would have married her. He was short, though, and that’s all he thought of when he considered his own looks. He had no sense of his appearance or of his accomplishments or even of who he was. Or of who she was. Instantly she was swamped by one of those irrational waves of hatred—she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, she wanted to escape—and then, just as quickly, it passed, and she was left feeling empty and guilt-ridden and afraid to be discovered. Poor Philip. She looked over at him. If he only knew what he was stuck with.
Had she been impossible last night? Well, today would be different. Today would mark the beginning of a whole new life for them. She would cut down on the pills. She would stop drinking altogether. She would … Well, no more resolutions, she would just do it.
She slipped out of bed and put on her robe and slippers. Philip was sleeping soundly. She did her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. She put on a touch of lipstick. On her way from the bathroom she noticed his jeans on the floor next to the bed, his ratty old black windbreaker on top of them. He must have gone for a walk last night. She hung up his jeans and jacket. She looked at him and saw that he was not wearing pajamas. He always wore pajamas because otherwise he caught a chill. Poor old Philip. He must have sat up half the night drinking and then, after his walk, just tumbled into bed. He’d have a filthy hangover when he woke. She was lucky, she never had hangovers.
She went downstairs and put on the coffee. She leaned against the counter and looked out the window. A black squirrel streaked across the patio and a moment later a fat white cat appeared from the bushes and went off in the direction of the squirrel. A bird called, complaining.
“Nature,” Maggie said, “red in tooth and claw.”
Which brought her back to last night’s party. She had been very good. She had drunk only two glasses of wine and she had made conversation, or at least she had tried, and she had gazed lovingly at Philip while Aspergarter praised him in that condescending way of his. “Philip Tate’s distinction. His brilliance. His generosity and his dedication and his wisdom. And, of course, his lovely wife.” Lovely wife, my ass. She could be a chimpanzee for all they noticed. These smug, self-satisfied, arrogant, detestable men. She hated them and their condescension. And the women shrinks were even worse. She hated them all.
Without thinking, she shook two aspirins from the bottle on the counter and swallowed them, not bothering with water.
The coffee was still not ready. She began to tidy up. She put the bottle of scotch in the cereal cabinet and ran a damp sponge over the table and then wiped it down with a paper towel. She took the glasses from the counter and put them in the dishwasher. She scoured the sink. The coffee was ready now and she filled a cup and took it into the little family room. She turned on the television. Cartoons: it must be Saturday. There was a full glass of something on the end table next to the couch. Scotch, with almost no water. She put down her coffee and took a sip of the scotch. She made a face—it was very strong—and she lay down on the couch.
She flipped through the channels until she came to a program on home improvement. Renovation plans were being carefully explained by a middle-aged man and a younger woman, blond of course, both of them beautifully groomed and wearing jeans. They were going to tear out the walls of an old farmhouse to bring in light and air. Very nice.
She took another sip of the scotch and curled up to watch them work.
They were going to replace a blank wall, the man explained, and install a row of windows looking out onto what would eventually become a duck pond. He pointed to an artist’s rendering of how the place would look when it was all done. Pale greens and yellows and a lot of white. Light and air. Lovely. Lovely.
She stretched out more comfortably on the couch and watched them attack the plaster walls with crowbar and chisels. She took another little sip of scotch. She turned the sound lower. She closed her eyes and saw the lovely greens and yellows of the duck pond and the grass.
It was all so peaceful. So quiet. So good.
She fell asleep, a smile on her lips.
Upstairs in their bedroom Philip too was asleep. He was hot and uncomfortable. He pushed the lumped-up blanket from his neck and rolled over on his side. He was rising, reluctantly, to the surface of consciousness and he made one last attempt to dive deeper, to stay unconscious. Suddenly he sneezed.
He opened his eyes and glanced at the other side of the bed. She was up alread
y. He could smell coffee and there was light streaming in the window. And then the pain struck, a hammer blow between his eyes. That party. The tension generated by Aspergarter’s praise. The worry about Maggie and what she might drink, what she might do. His head was pounding. He would never drink again. Never. He needed coffee. He would have to—somehow—drag himself out of bed.
Only then did he realize he was naked. He made a halfhearted thrusting motion with his hips and ran his hand down his chest and stomach to his crotch. In the old days he and Maggie would have got it on right away. Hangover or not. They’d let the coffee wait and just do it, slowly, gently, and then with a nice hard fierceness, and afterward they’d lie there getting their breath back, sticky and satisfied and exhausted. He smiled to himself despite the headache. Maybe they’d get it all back one of these days. Maybe this was the middle-aged adjustment everybody went through. It happened. You had to live through it. Life was the best thing going, if you considered the alternative.
He sneezed again. Why was he not wearing pajamas?
And then it struck him. He had gone to bed wearing pajamas but he had taken them off and put on his jeans and his black windbreaker and gone for a drive in the car. At two in the morning. Or three. He had driven over to Winchester and then around back streets until he found himself at the Aspergarters’ house. He had started home, but instead he doubled back to the Kizers’ place. There was a light on in Hal’s study. He had parked the car. He had searched for a key beneath the mat and above the door frame and he had found the key. He had turned it in the lock and stepped inside. There had been no alarm.
Philip covered his face and groaned.
He couldn’t have done it, it was a nightmare, it was unthinkable. He would not think about it. It did not, it could not have happened.
Having Everything Page 2
