by Tedd Thomey
He rolled over on his back and let the sunlight warm his face and chest. He would put a stop to it.” As of today, as of last night, he was through with her. Twice in one evening was too much and even then she wasn’t satisfied. If he didn’t stop seeing her, there was no telling what might happen. And the continual drinking was just as bad for him, and expensive, too. Half the money she gave him went for drugstore booze.
Sitting up, he leaned against the cool trunk of one of the elms and gazed at Virginia and Josie who held paper plates in their laps.
“I asked you before,” Virginia said. “Do you want some of this chicken or don’t you?”
He shook his head. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard Virginia’s words.
“I’m thirsty,” he “said.
“Then have some milk.”
The thought of milk made his stomach squeeze together like a sponge.
“I’d rather have water,” he said.
He followed a sandy path through the trees and up a slope to where the rest rooms and a drinking fountain were located. The water tasted sulphurous and he drank very little. He sat by himself on a green bench in the sun, enjoying his solitude until he noticed a man coming up the path with a decidedly wobbly walk. The man was elderly, in his seventies at least, his cheeks marred with the tiny broken red veins of the alcoholic. In his coat pocket was the undeniable bulge of a bottle.
Ward rose and followed the old man into the men’s room. Halting near one of the open stalls, the man drew the bottle out—it looked like gin—and drank.
“I was wondering—” Ward paused, one part of his mind surprised that he should be reduced to such pleading tones, while another part of his mind indicated it was no longer surprised at the things he did.
“I was wondering,” he said again, “if I could have a sip.”
The old man lowered the bottle, brushed his tongue across brown, ugly teeth and drew air wetly into “his nostrils.
“It’ll cost you, mister.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
Ward drew the coin from his pocket and handed it over. He put the warm bottle top to his lips and drank fast, letting the gin run down his throat so rapidly it burned like acid. The old man reached for the bottle, but Ward turned quickly away, managing another good swallow before the man pulled it from his mouth.
“Damn you!” the old man said. “You damn near killed it!”
Pleased with himself, Ward grinned at the old man’s irritation and discomfort.
He walked back outside and seated himself on the green bench in the sunlight. He felt the liquor moving slowly within him, warming him, seeping into the lower parts of his stomach. He leaned his head back and began to think about Alma. There was no reason to break off with Alma right away. Later maybe, but not right away. Those things she said she did to her husband shouldn’t be considered too seriously. Fantasies, no doubt. Fantasies from all the bad movies she saw and all the magazines she read.
He thought about her yellow garters and the circular marks that remained on her legs after the garters were removed.
“I’ll phone her,” he said aloud, pleased with the authoritative sound of his voice. “As soon as we get home this evening. God damn it, I’ll phone her from McNaughton’s Market.”
CHAPTER 7
Alma sat before her vanity mirror, making up her face. It was early March, a stormy, snowy day, but nevertheless she felt certain that her months of strategy, her months of patience and persistence, were close to bringing results. Within her now was the strong feeling that she could direct him into any unfamiliar channel she chose, so long as she acted firmly and with confidence.
There would be failures, of course, little withdrawals on his part, even anger and outright rebellion at times. And she was bound to make mistakes herself, occasionally; she knew quite well that she was no brain, no genius, so the main thing was confidence, lots of confidence in herself. And if she slipped, if she made errors, there was always her most powerful weapon to fall back on, the one weapon he was never able to resist. Unless, of course, he was too stupified with drink or too exhausted—and those effects certainly didn’t come under the heading of resistance.
She had made what she considered the final test in Baltimore, where they had spent the previous weekend. When she’d originally started lending him money, he had protested first, then accepted. But last Saturday night when she offered him the whole three hundred dollars—money saved carefully out of her weekly allotments from Norman, he had not made even the meekest protest. Nor had he protested when she talked about how she hated Norman and how she planned to give him a sleeping powder and then hit him on the head with a heavy hammer.
It had been really quite astonishing. She had talked on and on about Norman, telling how easy it would be to approach him at night because he rarely awoke after going to bed and he always slept on his good ear. As a result, because he was nearly deaf in his left ear, he always slept soundly. All the time she talked, Ward had merely sat at the table, staring at her sleepily, nodding or shaking his head, finishing the bottle of rye and then asking politely if she’d brought another. She had, of course, and when she drew it from her purse, he thanked her and went on drinking, nodding his head at her, commenting when necessary. No matter how drunk he was, he never looked really drunk. He never became upset or unruly. Even after several hours of steady drinking, his voice didn’t become badly slurred. The only way you could be sure he was drunk was to study the color of his face. When he was quite drunk, his face and neck were thoroughly red. But when he was very, very drunk, his face became pale except for dollarsized spots of red on his cleft chin and on his cheeks.
As she strapped on her golden wrist watch, she noted the time. Twelve-thirty. Just about time for the taxi to arrive.
“Eileen!” she called. “Are you about ready?”
“Yes, Mama.” Eileen spoke from the other room where she was dressing.
“Don’t dawdle.”
“No, Mama.”
Carefully Alma drew her hat, a pink cloche, down over her newly marcelled hair, arranging the brim at the correct angle above her eyebrows. After adding more coral color to her lips, she was satisfied with her image in the vanity mirror, but she did not rise. She remained seated before the mirror for an additional moment, admiring her appearance, thinking again about Bud’s remarkable statement last Saturday night.
She hadn’t been at all certain that he had been listening to the rambling details of her plan to strike Norman on the head while he was asleep.
But then, out of the blue, Bud had spoken.
“Don’t use a hammer,” he said. “Use something else. Something heavier. Maybe a sash weight.”
And that was it. That was the turning point. For the first time, he had made a suggestion. For the first time he had showed a willingness to participate. And he had even gone a remarkable step further. When he had started to make love to her, rather clumsily because he was so drunk, she had put him off.
“Later,” she’d said. “First I want you to try something for me.”
“What?”
“These powders.” She’d opened her purse and showed him the small white envelopes. “I want you to see if they work. Will you do that for me, darling?”
Without a single protest, he had agreed. He had shaken half the contents of one envelope into his glass and then poured in a good amount of rye. He had winked at her as he drank it, trying to look roguish, trying to look very masculine and self-confident. Almost immediately he had fallen into a deep sleep.
He had slept from ten o’clock that night until noon on Sunday. Fourteen hours. And when he awoke—my, what a change. She smiled to herself, remembering how good he’d been. It had been one of their best parties. Every bit as good as some of the parties she’d had with Scotty or Ralph. And far, far better than anything Norman had ever done.
Outside the house, the taxi’s horn sounded. She buttoned her gray Persian lamb coat to the neck
, because it would be cold out, and went into the hall where Eileen was waiting, wearing galoshes, mittens and overcoat. It was too bad Eileen had to tag along today, but it couldn’t be helped. With Mrs. Jansson away baby-sitting, it wouldn’t be right to leave Eileen home nursing the cold that had kept her out of school todav. Besides, with Norman so cranky and unreasonable lately, it might be well to have Eileen along to back up her story óf how they had spent the afternoon.
It was snowing more heavily when they dashed from the house to the red taxi and Alma swore when she snagged her stocking on the high, square running board.
“Oh, Mama,” Eileen scolded, “you said a bad word.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I couldn’t help it.”
“You shouldn’t have, should you?”
“No, dear.”
“Do you know what Daddy says?” Eileen persisted. “He says ladies who swear are bad.”
“And they are, dear. Most of them.”
“Are you going to buy me something today, Mama?”
“Maybe.”
“You really should.”
“Why should I?”
“So I won’t tell Daddy.”
“Tell Daddy what?”
Alma looked sharply at her daughter. At times Eileen seemed far more aware of things than a nine-year-old should.
“That you said a bad word,” Eileen replied.
“Oh, that.” Alma relaxed against the taxi cushions. “You needn’t bother telling him that. Besides, didn’t I tell you what you can have for desert today?”
“What?”
“A double chocolate sundae!”
“A double? Really? With slivered almonds?”
“Yes, with slivered almonds.”
With that problem solved, the remainder of the ride to Truzzillini’s was uneventful. Inside the restaurant, the head waiter, a tall Italian with sparkling brown eyes, led them to a table in the alcove where Bud was waiting. She noted at once that Bud’s cheeks and neck were pink, meaning that he was pretty well along, even though it was scarcely one o’clock.
Politely he rose from his chair, remaining standing until they were seated.
“And how are you today, Eileen?” he asked.
“Sick,” she said, wiping her nose daintily with a small lace handkerchief.
“She’s got a cold,” Alma said.
“Sorry to hear that,” Bud said. “And how are you, Mommy?”
Scarcely before the word was out of his mouth, Eileen giggled and turned to her mother.
“Did you hear what he called you?”
“It was nothing,” Alma said calmly. “A slip of the tongue.”
“Yes,” said Bud. “A slip of the tongue.”
He tried very hard to pass it off lightly, but his cheeks had become pale, and for the next few minutes his hand shook noticeably as he toyed with his fork and spoon. They ordered veal scallopini with mushrooms and spaghetti, small green salads and coffee. During the meal Alma and Eileen chatted about books, tests, teachers and other trivia of school. Bud added little to the conversation. Midway through the entree he excused himself and went to the men’s room. When he returned he walked quite steadily, but there was a distinct odor of rye whiskey on his breath which Alma hoped Eileen wouldn’t notice.
She waited until the large chocolate sundae was placed before Eileen. Then, while the little girl was happily occupied with her spoon, Alma drew from her purse a wrinkled envelope and wrote several words on the back of it with a pencil.
She turned the envelope around so he could read the question: Did you bring the chlor of omi?
He shook his head.
Frowning, she wrote another question: Did you bring the other things?
His eyes did not meet hers. He looked down at his clasped hands and shook his head.
“The nerve of you!” she said.
Shredding the envelope, she threw the pieces angrily onto the table. The more she thought about his deliberate disobedience, his defiance, the angrier she became.
“Who do you think you are!” she exclaimed. “You weak little, puny little—”
She stopped herself before the scene got out of hand. Snapping her purse shut, she pushed her chair back and rose quickly to her feet.
“Come, Eileen!”
She took the child’s reluctant hand and pulled her away from the table.
“But, Mama! I’m not finished! My sundae, Mama! I’m—”
Eileen cried and dragged her feet across the entire length of the fashionable dining room. She did not stop caterwauling until Alma struck her once, smartly, across the cheek. Then, stunned into silence, she stared at her mother and followed close at her heels as they finished their march into the vestibule. At the doorway Alma stopped, looking back over her shoulder.
He was still at the table, sitting rigidly, mopping his forehead and glasses with a napkin.
She let him suffer for a week.
During that time, she would not talk to him on the phone, nor did she show up at the hotel on Wednesday or Friday afternoon. She did not answer his notes, two of them on successive days, begging her to meet him, promising to bring the things she had asked for.
On Sunday, while Norman was out in the garage tinkering with the Essex, she consented to talk to Bud for a minute on the phone. He was in a state of extreme nervousness, very meek during the first part of the conversation and very excited during the last part when she promised to meet him Monday afternoon.
“Remember,” she warned, “if you don’t bring the things, I’ll leave again, just like last week.”
“I’ll bring them!” His voice was almost shrill in the receiver. “I’ll be there, Mommy! It’s been hell all week, thinking about you, wondering when you’d let me see you—”
There was no telling how long he would have carried on like that, beseeching her, imploring her.
“All right,” she said softly, before hanging up. “Three o’clock. Truzzillini’s.”
She arrived half an hour late, alone this time because Eileen was in school and would have supper at a chum’s house. He was waiting for her at the same table in the alcove and he was in approximately the same state of drunkenness, cheeks pink, his forehead shining with perspiration despite the coldness of the day. He was twice as nervous as before, his hands straying to the initialed stickpin on his necktie, to the silverware, to the buttons on his vest.
“Did you bring the things?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The chloroform?” She kept her voice low so the waiter could not overhear.
“Yes.”
“The sash weight?”
“Yes.”
“The gloves, the handkerchiefs and the rope?”
“Yes. Everything except the rope.”
“What happened to the rope?”
He bit his lip nervously. “I forgot it. But I’ll get some.”
“Where are the things?”
“Here.” He pushed the tablecloth aside so she could see the two brown-paper parcels on the chair beside him. “Can we go to the hotel now?”
“No. We have some other things to talk about first. And I want a piece of pie.”
His nervousness increased while she sipped her coffee and consumed delicate forkfuls of butter-pecan pie topped with whipped cream. She smiled at him, but did not let him know it was a smile of triumph. She had been certain her most powerful weapon would not fail her, and it had succeeded better than she’d planned. He was positively jumping all over the place, unable to sit still on his chair for more than a few seconds at a time.
“Please, Mommy.” His eyes looked at her imploringly. “Can’t we go to the hotel now? You have no idea what I’ve been through all week, wondering, waiting.”
“In a few minutes. First we have a few things to settle.”
“Can’t that wait? Can’t we—”
“No, Bud, it can’t. You’ll come out to the house this Friday night, is that clear?”
“I suppose so.”
“Nine o’clock, understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will have the rope?”
“Yes.” Miserably, he gazed down at his fingers which were folding and unfolding a napkin. “Can’t we go to the hotel now?”
“No. You’ll wait outside, on the sidewalk. I’ll try to give the Governor one of the sleeping powders, and if he’s asleep I’ll turn on the lamp in Mother’s room. That will mean vou can come upstairs, do you understand?”
“I guess so.”
“You needn’t worry about mother. She’ll be away for the night baby-sitting. Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
Finishing her coffee, she placed the cup quietly on its saucer. “I guess that’s all. I suppose we can go now.”
At once he stood up and beckoned to the waiter.
“Finally!” he whispered hoarsely. “My God, Alma, how much of this do you think a man can stand?”
She arrived home at five, earlier than usual because Bud had been too excited and nervous to perform well at the hotel. By the time she carried the five-pound sash weight and the other package down the cellar stairs, her arms and wrists were aching. She buried both bundles in the powdery ashes in one of the metal barrels behind the furnace.
When she went upstairs to the kitchen, she was surprised to see Norman seated at the table eating graham crackers and drinking a bottle of lemon soda pop. He was home at least a half-hour early.
“What kind of a place is this?” he grumbled. “Man comes in hungry, needing something to eat after working all day, and there’s nobody home. Where the hell is everybody?”
She threw her coat over one of the wooden chairs and opened the ice box.
“Mama’s baby-sitting,” she said. “Eileen’s having supper at Ruthie Heinrich’s. I’ll have something on the table in a few minutes.”
“Beans and sausage, I’ll bet,” he said sourly. “That’s all you ever fix.”
“Wrong as usual,” she lied. Putting the sausages back on the ice, she took out a package of corned beef and a bowl of two-day-old boiled potatoes.
