by Warren Adler
"But when? And where? And how frequently?"
"The keys imply very frequently, I'm afraid."
"Why afraid?"
"Just a figure of speech," he stammered.
"Of course. To validate our own ignorance." She looked at him archly until she noted the thin humor.
"Mysteries within enigmas," she sighed. "Keys! Mr. and Mrs. Calvin Marlboro! Like..." She paused. "If I could cry, I wonder who it would be for. Them, or us."
"And if the crash had not happened, would we ever have found out?"
"Probably not. We were too myopic and unaware. All we would have gotten was a pink slip. That's another reason why we owe it to ourselves," she said.
A great weight of sadness suddenly descended on him. He felt acutely foolish, embarrassed, violated. He began to shiver, and his lips trembled.
"Are you cold?" she asked gently.
She extended her arm across the gap between them, and his hand reached out to meet hers. He grabbed it, like a drowning man might grab a lifeline.
"You are cold," she said, rubbing his hand between hers.
"Cold hands, warm heart," he said.
They held each other's hands for a long time. It was she who disengaged first, standing up. But her touch had been physically warming. Something more, as well, but too incongruous to define, he decided.
"We'll sleep on it," she said. "I'm tired now. I'd better go home. Home?" A rattling sound escaped her lips, as if she were trying to laugh. He stood up and faced her. There was little space between them. He found himself looking deeply into her eyes. He did not want her to go, but he said nothing to delay her. He helped her put on her coat.
"You think we're getting any closer to the heart of this?" she asked.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"At least we're doing something—not being passive." She shook her head. "Never again," she said firmly.
"Never," he replied.
For a long moment their eyes locked. Wounded survivors, he thought. Ambulatory, but barely. And still full of pain. When she left he listened until her footsteps faded. Then he felt cold again. And empty.
20
When she was alone, tossing and turning in the bed in the guest room, Vivien's mind reeled with speculations. Now that she had a detailed image of Orson's paramour, her imaginings became more frenetic. Periodically, Edward's face surfaced in her mind. Remembering the touch of his hand gave her goose bumps. Yes, she decided, they were smart to be involved in this together. After all, it affected them equally.
The idea did not present itself until the morning light filled the cracks of the blind. "Of course," she said, sitting up with a start. But soon the satisfactions of logic gave way to the old rage, which rushed at her with renewed fury.
"Of course," she cried.
She was dressed by six, surprisingly energized. It had always been like this when her purpose was single-minded, clearly defined. What she needed now was confirmation. Then she would tell Edward.
At seven she was in front of the polished double doors of Orson's law offices. Still on the door was "and Simpson" in brass lettering. Bradley, Martin, Conte, Barnes and Simpson. Bradley, who had founded the firm during Roosevelt's time, died years ago. The door was open, and she went in.
"Mrs. Simpson," Miss Sparks said with surprise. She had glasses attached to a chain around her neck, which she removed as she talked. Prim and graying, a cashmere sweater worn casually on her shoulders over a white blouse, she looked the quintessential executive secretary. A cup of coffee was steaming in front of her on her desk, along with a half-eaten doughnut. Yet her presence implied that Orson did, indeed, work during those early morning hours. With effort, Vivien remained calm.
"Would you like some coffee?" Miss Sparks asked.
"No, thank you."
Beyond Miss Sparks's desk she could see Orson's office. The morning sun glinted on the polished desk top, devoid of papers. So they had not lost any time, she thought, feeling a stab of anger, Miss Sparks had attended the service at the crematorium. Vivien had caught a brief glimpse of her.
"I'm so sorry," Miss Sparks said.
"I thought I'd come by and pick up my husband's personal things."
"I've packed them in a carton," she said apologetically. "We were going to messenger them over." Miss Sparks's shrewd eyes observed her. Her visit seemed awkward now; her confidence was swiftly eroding. She wished Edward were here with her.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Miss Sparks said. A great deal, Vivien thought. This, too, was part of Orson's other life. Here, she had always been the stranger, the wife, the intruder. In this other world, Miss Sparks held the reins of power. She, Vivien, was always the supplicant—a presence to be deflected. How good she had been, how obedient.
"Do you always come in so early, Miss Sparks?" Vivien asked. It occurred to her at that moment that she no longer had to observe the amenities. Miss Sparks appeared to be considering a reaction.
"It's the best time of the day for me," she answered sensibly, looking at her watch. "Two hours before most of them arrive. Then things get hectic."
She had said "for me," Vivien noted. Not "for us."
"I'm organizing his pending cases." She put on her glasses. "He had a great deal on his plate." She paused and removed the glasses again. "We all miss him, Mrs. Simpson. What an awful tragedy."
Vivien could sense Miss Sparks's extreme caution. The wagons had already closed the circle as far as the firm was concerned.
"I suppose you both got a great deal of work done at this hour?" Vivien asked, determined to be casual.
"He liked highly detailed preparation. That's why I came in so early. Got into the habit. I wanted to be ready for him when he came in." Her response was crisply informative, without any hint of suspicion.
Vivien was pleased with her own pose of detachment. She nodded and turned away, hiding her expression, her heart pounding.
"It left him more time for his morning jog," Miss Sparks said. "We were a good team. He was the kind of man who made every minute count. Wasted absolutely no time. By ten, when he came in, everything would be set." Her pride was talking now.
In a perverse way, Vivien felt her own sense of pride in her deductive instincts. It gave her the courage to expand her inquiry. Ten in the morning. There it was. Spots exploded in her vision, and she felt faint.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Simpson?"
"Fine," Vivien said, clearing her throat to mask her sudden weakness. "Still shell-shocked a bit." She made an effort to smile. She gulped deep breaths, summoning her strength, which miraculously rose to the occasion.
"Miss Sparks," Vivien said sharply, "I thought you knew everything."
Miss Sparks's lower lip flapped open. Then she put on her glasses and looked at Vivien.
"I swear to you, Mrs. Simpson..." She lowered her voice. "I swear to you. I had no idea. I can't imagine what he was doing on that plane. I did think I knew everything about his working life. I know how terribly awkward this must be for you, but I assure you..."
Vivien let her drone on. She had gotten what she had come for.
"I do believe you, Miss Sparks." So she, too, had felt the sting of betrayal.
"I can't understand it. I always made his travel arrangements. Always."
She could see that the partners, certainly Dale, had given her a hard time and that her days at the firm were numbered. Still, she felt no pity.
The confirmation carried more impact than the revelation and, in the street again, she felt the full impact of her rage. The clarity of her logic made her dizzy, and she had to lean against a lamppost for support.
More than a year. Orson had given up his morning jogging more than a year ago. She remembered that it was winter, like now. He had stopped abruptly. She had been mildly curious. Better to do it in the evening, he had explained. She fought down a wave of nausea and dashed into the lobby of an office building. Finding a phone, she called Edward's number. There was no answer. Then she looked
at her watch. Only eight o'clock. She remembered, with some irony, that he went to his office early. But she forgot the name of the congressman he worked for. She called Capitol information and found him.
"I'm sorry," she began.
"Don't be, Viv," he said. "I'm glad to hear your voice."
"There's something I want you to know"—her voice wavered—"but not on the phone." Somehow to say it publicly seemed obscene, a dirty little secret. It was something to be imparted privately. "Dammit, Edward, it gets worse and worse."
"I called you first thing this morning," he said. "I was worried." He sounded embarrassed by the concern.
"I went to Orson's office. I think I have some answers."
A half hour later she picked him up in her car in front of the Rayburn Building.
"Let's just park somewhere," he told her. She headed down Independence Avenue and turned left toward the Fourteenth Street Bridge, planning to reach the Virginia side where things were more familiar.
"Must we cross that?"
"How stupid of me."
But there was no way to turn around. Instead, she headed the car into the curving road that led to the Jefferson Memorial.
"It's okay here," he said. She parked the car in the deserted parking lot, cutting the motor. They did not get out. From where they were they could see the frozen pond glistening in the sun and across it the barren cherry trees, waiting for spring. Above them loomed the graceful giant statue of Jefferson, surrounded by a circle of Greek pillars.
"If it gets too cold, I'll turn on the heater."
"It's okay," he said.
"I don't quite know how to put this," she began, facing him. "Mornings," she blurted. "They met in the morning. Every weekday morning."
"But she was sleeping..." he began. Then understanding filtered into his mind. "So it seemed," he said sadly.
"He never got to the office before ten."
"My God." She saw his fists clench.
"He left the house at seven. That left three hours."
"As soon as I was gone," he said angrily. "She must have jumped out of bed. Our bed. Then went to his. How revolting. How utterly revolting."
"There's more."
He evaded her eyes.
"Remember I said he used to jog every morning? Then he switched to evenings?"
"Yes."
"That was a year ago."
"A whole year!"
"I'm afraid so."
"I'd bend over her, kiss her. It was an unfailing ritual of my life. I always left the house with this good feeling...."
"They were very clever," Vivien said. "Choosing the morning. The innocent hours."
"The lousy lying bitch. How could she?"
"And he?"
"And for more than a year."
"Degrading, isn't it?"
He did not respond. The unthinkable seemed remarkably rational. Inadvertently, they had moved closer together in the car. One of his arms was stretched across the back of the seat, his hand touching her shoulder. She felt its pressure but made no move to extricate herself.
"Nobody knows anybody," he said after a long silence. "There's the lesson of it."
"A whole year," she mused. Just to contemplate the idea of their own ignorance was an embarrassment. No! She was not going to insult her self-worth. "Just imagine what they had to do to keep us from knowing. It wasn't just a single lie. They had to create another person to go through the routine with us."
As she talked she became aware of the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. While it felt comforting, it made her uneasy, as if it were she who was being unfaithful. She looked around her. The situation had all the trappings of a clandestine tryst, a midday affair: the deserted parking lot, the male stranger beside her, the odd sense of sensual anticipation. She imagined she could hear Margo's knowing giggle.
Then another thought intruded. When she turned, would it be Orson beside her, the handsome craggy face, the watchful eyes—hiding the Machiavellian intelligence, all the mechanisms of Byzantine plotting, behind an accusing gaze—as if she were the guilty party, and he had arranged the entrapment? Suddenly she moved away, beyond his reach.
"What is it?"
Edward's voice recalled the reality. She looked across the pond at the barren cherry trees, dormant and waiting like herself.
"What is it?" he repeated. His elbow still rested on the seat's rim, but his arm was up, like a teenager frightened on a first date.
Somehow the image softened her, and she moved back toward him, waiting for the arm to come down. Yes, she decided, she could understand his need to touch another human being. And hers, as well. She wondered if she was receiving more than simple comfort, whether she needed more than that. It was irrelevant, she decided. And, considering the circumstances, a bit odd.
He lay his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. His hand caressed her shoulder. Despite her sensitivity, the uneasiness passed.
"Maybe it was we who invented them," he said.
He breathed deeply and sighed.
"More like they invented themselves."
"A whole year." He shook his head in disbelief. "There must have been something. Something! Surely you must have picked up vibes, felt something intuitively."
"So much for woman's intuition. Mine must have been in mothballs."
"I was too self-absorbed. Working my ass off. It wasn't even in my frame of reference. You were a housewife. Your world revolved around him...."
"Makes me the dumbest, I guess."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"What way?"
"The way it sounded. Like it was an accusation against your ... gender."
Enough, she cried within herself. She was too exhausted to defend the role. Besides, she now hated what she had been, the trusting wife with the lamp always lit in the window. It hurt to think about it.
"Theirs was a crime against, well, against the concept, the bond of marriage," he said, "against commitment. Like"—he paused—"embezzlement. Stealing without the owner's knowledge. An inside job." The idea seemed to excite him, and he went on. "Think of how devious they had to be. They had to know our every quirk and habit, our routine, our way of living. They had to cover their tracks in advance, take advantage of our trust, and conspire against us. God, how well they played us."
"Like musical instruments."
"A regular quartet."
"Everything had to be precise, in perfect harmony. One sour note, and we'd both suspect." He paused. "Or would we? How thickheaded they must have thought we were. Two naive pinheads."
"No denying that. They were right, of course."
A muffled sound escaped from his throat, a kind of sardonic chuckle.
"What is it?"
He shook his head.
"Too crude to say," he muttered.
"We can't have secrets," she said lightly. Her hand had brushed almost playfully against his chest.
"All right. We shared bacteria. The four of us."
"How gross." She suppressed a giggle. The idea was ludicrous.
"Like herpes." He began to laugh full throated. His body shook. "I'm sorry," he said when he had settled down, wiping his eyes. "It's not happy laughter. More like hysterics." He seemed apologetic.
"I can see," she said. "Black humor." An idea suddenly imposed itself. "But why did they choose Florida at precisely that moment?" She answered her own question. "Maybe to make a decision. Maybe they needed a place to think. A place away from us. Orson was like that. The lawyer's mind."
"But they had a place," Edward said.
She felt a sudden cramp.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not."
He reached over and opened the window, letting in the cold air. She breathed deeply until she felt better.
Another car rolled into the lot, passed them, then moved to the other side of the monument. Looking through the mirror she saw two heads move toward each other, silhouetted against the white background. He
raised his eyes to the mirror.
"Cheating spouses," Edward said. "Last week I might have said lovers."
"Last week I wouldn't have noticed. Or cared."
She saw the heads disengage and turn toward the rear of their car to watch them.
"They must think we're doing the same thing," she said.
"Why else would a couple come to this place"—he held his wrist up—"at eleven A.M. on a weekday in winter?"
Through the rearview mirror they could see the people still watching them. Finally the couple turned again, locking together.
"Obviously a common occurrence. We just weren't tuned in," she said, still looking through the mirror. "Imagine the pressure of going through life worrying about getting caught."
"It didn't seem to worry them."
Resetting the mirror, she turned to face him. In the stark whiteness, his face was pale and his cheeks a trifle hollower than they had been when she had first met him. Underneath his eyes were dark rings. She wondered if he, too, saw signs like that in her. A sudden cramp gripped her again, then passed.
"Edward," she said after a long pause.
"Yes?" A nerve palpitated in his jaw as he looked out at the frozen Tidal Basin.
"I'm glad they died."
"Me, too."
She said nothing more, gunning the motor.
21
When Edward returned to the office, the Congressman and most of the staff were out to lunch. Jan Peters sat at her desk reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich.
"You okay?" she asked. There was no avoiding her desk. From the moment he had arrived her scrutiny had been merciless.
"You should have taken more time," she had told him that morning. That was before he and Congressman Holmes had had their little chat. To the Congressman, time away from the office constituted a mortal sin, whatever the circumstances. Not that Edward expected compassion, but the Congressman could have dispensed with the syrupy sentiment, which was laughably transparent. As they say, it went with the territory. Besides, what would he have done with his day? He was not mourning Lily. If anything, he should be mourning his own lost life, the end of his innocence. Even self-pity seemed shallow. At least there was Vivien. Viv.
