She straightened the stack of odd-sized bills and arranged the two leather bankbooks on either side to look like little wings. The big pile of cancelled checks looked simply terrible, and she covered the pile with the two legal-looking yellow bank statements. She was neat! Her Husband couldn’t deny her that much! But now she did not know which way or to who else to turn to.
On Monday she had asked her mother but her mother couldn’t help her. “You know, dear, how I am with figures!”
And then on Tuesday she had gone to see her best friend, Laura Lou. After Laura Lou had looked at everything she had given up completely without even trying. “This is a mess, darlin’, a real mess!”
She hadn’t needed Laura Lou to tell her that! She knew it was a mess. She had needed help and Laura Lou had offered her a martini and a good one, but not accounting experience.
Little Mrs. Little’s last hope had been Miss Tuttle, a girl she had known in school and who taught school herself now. She had had Roger, her chauffeur, drive her over to Miss Tuttle’s house. (She lived in a project housing area of all places). Roger had been embarrassed. There had been all those children around, and Roger had had a time keeping them away from the car.
And then over tea and delicious pecan Brownies little Mrs. Little had completely forgotten all about the purpose of her visit until it was time to leave. There had been so many good things to talk about and she had loved Sally Tuttle so in school. And she felt foolish to ask Sally to take a look at her checkbooks for her. It would look like she had spent her money foolishly, and indeed there had been some foolish expenditures, and why not? God knows He had the money. So they had kissed each other good-by and Mrs. Little had cried a little on the way home in the car. Only stopping at the good French ice cream place and sending Roger in for a double dip chocolate chip cone had stopped her tears.
And now little Mrs. Little became aware of the doorbell which had been ringing persistently for some time now without being noticed or answered. “Oh, answer it,” she thought and then she remembered that the cook was shopping.
Little Mrs. Little floated through the rooms to the door, her long pink negligee trailing her, dragging along the carpet like a train. Size seven was too large and what she really needed was a six and a quarter.
“Come in!” Mrs. Little said cordially to the man in the doorway. He looked like a gentleman and he talked like a gentleman only very fast. As he talked to her so fast she listened half with her eyes and half with her checkbook. Hardly any with her mind because she had made up her mind almost from the time he had opened his mouth.
“And so you see, Mrs. Little,” the insurance salesman concluded, with a practiced smile, “this extra coverage is really mandatory, if you look at it practically, and I don’t see how you can do otherwise.”
Little Mrs. Little closed her eyes and smiled. “My Husband has a fifty-thousand dollar policy already, but your plan sounds terribly attractive.”
“And so economical.” Her tiny pink hand stopped him from going on.
“I’ll take it on one condition.” She opened her eyes and batted her long pink lashes. “Balance my checkbook for me!”
“Why that’s easy!” the salesman replied. “Why the homemakers I call on often ask me to balance their checkbooks for them!”
Five minutes later the salesman chuckled. “And there you are, Mrs. Little! To the penny! If I may make a suggestion, I’d get only one checking account instead of two, and you’ll find it easier to keep in order.”
“Thank you. Write the new policy and come by tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a check for the full amount.”
When the salesman left, little Mrs. Little sighed happily and made a fresh pot of coffee. The new policy would ensure her house, paid in full, upon His death. There remained now the single problem of killing Him and getting the full $50,000 in cash! Oh, but that would be hard! Getting rid of her healthy Husband would be a task! But little Mrs. Little would be able to find a way. She was sure that she oould!
She had balanced her checkbook, hadn’t she?
The End
Chapter Thirteen
Before attempting to evaluate Mrs. Huneker’s meretricious story I read it three times. On the back of the brown envelope I jotted down my impressions and then tried to objectively sum them up:
1. There was a plot, of sorts, but the motivation was much too weak for the projected murder of the protagonist’s husband.
2. The capitalization of “He” and “Husband” throughout the script may or may not have been an attempt to establish the husband either as a deity or a father-figure against whom, the little wife, was powerless.
3. Not once, until the contrived, coincidental arrival of the insurance salesman—who came to her—had Mrs. Little turned to a male to help her solve her dilemma. In each case she had asked assistance from another woman, and each female was as ineffectual as the heroine.
4. There was a feeble attempt at humor in the story, but it was about as funny as a crutch. Had she meant it to be as funny as a crutch, and was that a disguised symbol?
5. Because the insurance salesman had straightened out the checkbooks in five minutes—the same time she had established earlier that her own husband could have done it—had she meant to imply that all men were alike?
6. Did the bills, bank statements and checkbooks add up to a woman trying to set up some “checks and balances” in her own life? And was that woman Marion Huneker?
7. There was no foreshadowing on the abrupt decision to kill her husband. It read more as an afterthought; as a way to resolve the story in a hurry.
8. I found no misspelled words. This couldn’t possibly have been her first short story. Surely, in school, or prior to her enrollment in Hershey’s class, she had written stories before.
* * *
About then, at my eighth note, I gave up my analysis as a bad job. If the story about little Mrs. Little was an allegory, there was no point in trying to puzzle out the meanings, and besides, I had a hunch that it was merely an attempt at a mystery story, and not a very good try at that. I didn’t really know the deceased woman well enough to make a valid judgment on the story. I was trying too hard, and in all probability, attributing powers, subtlety and insight to a woman who had merely tried her hand at a short-short story. The manner in which she had killed her children had been as subtle as a hurricane.
The only clue worth noting, and it wasn’t worth much, was the fact that she had tried to write a mystery-type story, or at least a half-hearted mystery. Why had she chosen that form instead of another; instead of a love story, for instance? Was life itself a mystery to the woman, or had she written the story in mystery form because they were supposed to be the easiest kind to write?
Sitting in that quiet lounge, my nostrils filled with the sweet smell of the pink cake of deodorizing soap in the urinal, my evaluations all added up to one fat zero.
I returned the story to the envelope. A few of her phrases, taken out of context, would add spice to my article about her death, at least, so the story wasn’t a total loss. There was one effect the story had on me that rankled. Never again would I be able to retreat to this hidden lounge for a relaxing hour without thinking about Mrs. Huneker. I would have to find another hiding place…
When I got back to the office I hid the manuscript in the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. There was nothing pressing to do, so I typed a few comments about Paul Hershey, and made some notes for the future questioning of the old mentor. He was feature story material, whether he wanted publicity or not, and at some future date I was going to call on him again and bring a photographer with me. No man who had devoted thirty-seven years of his life to getting his name into print could have a valid objection about seeing it in print again.
I got home at twelve-thirty and Beryl was still up, frying bacon in the kitchen. We had a reconciliation of sorts. I put my arms around her waist and kissed the nape of her neck. She pulled away from me, not in anger, but because she was bus
y.
“Ahhh!” I said. “You smell like you’ve just had a bath, and such sweetness, combined with the fragrance of frying bacon, is enough to drive a man mad!”
“Look out!” She jabbed a sharp elbow into my stomach. “I’m busy.”
“Are you, by any chance, making a bacon-and-tomato sandwich?”
“I am.”
“If I were to put two more pieces of bread into the toaster; would you make me one too?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” she sighed, “or I won’t enjoy mine. Get the bacon out of the fridge and put the mayonnaise on the table.”
“How did the play go tonight?” I asked, as I helped prepare the sandwiches.
“There was a bit of a cast let down tonight, but we’ve got a full house for tomorrow night, and everybody’s all excited about it. I goofed my lines three times tonight, and I felt bad about it because Buddy was watching the play.”
“How did Buddy like it?”
“He complained about the direction.”
“Direction? What does an eight-year-old boy know about direction?”
“Our boy has been brought up on television, and don’t forget it. He said, and this is what he said exactly, ‘There was too much moving around by that man with the cigar. I kept watching him to see what he’d do and then I didn’t hear what you said sometimes.’”
“Movement without motivation.” I laughed delightedly. “He was referring to Fiscur, of course. That’s a damned shrewd observation for a boy to make, and the next time I see Bob Leanard I’m going to tell him about it.”
“I thought it was, too. And now, of course, Buddy wants to get into a play!”
“It wouldn’t hurt him any. If they do anything with children this season, maybe we can ease him in to something.” While we ate the wonderful bacon-and-tomato sandwiches and drank tall glasses of milk, we discussed Buddy and, for a change, our conversation was quite pleasant. Beryl was a good mother, as well as being a good wife. And working six nights a week, I certainly didn’t give her any help with the boy. I felt a trifle guilty—
“Beryl,” I blurted impulsively, “I’m sorry about that stupid review. You were really very good as Julie, but to tell you the truth, the real reason I didn’t give you the review you deserved was on account of the people at the Civic Theater. You know what a bunch of backbiters they all are, and if I’d built you up the way you should have been, they’d have said it was because you’re my wife. This way, you see, you’ll get a lot of sympathy from the theater members, and I’ll be the villain. Believe me, it’s better this way.”
“I love you, Richard,” she said, swallowing a big bite at the same time. “I only took the part to please you—”
“And you did, honey. I was very proud of you.”
“What you think is all that matters. I’m sick and tired of the whole business; the boring rehearsals and all. I’m sorry I kept the part a secret from you, too. That was real dumb.”
“Next time you want to do some acting let me know.” I patted her arm. “I’ll write a part that’ll fit you.”
“I don’t think there’ll be a next time,” she said grimly.
“Wake me at seven-thirty. Saturday, you know, and a busy day for me.”
“I’m going to let Buddy sleep late. He was up till almost eleven-thirty and that’s pretty late for him—”
“I didn’t say anything about Buddy! He can sleep all day. I said wake me up at seven-thirty!”
“Don’t I always wake you? Why are you snapping at me?” She said this so reasonably I almost did snap at her, wondering at my unreasonableness.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’m tired, I suppose.”
“I’m tired, too. Did you ever think of that?”
I was on the point of telling her that if she had stayed home where she belonged, instead of entering into secret alliances with a bunch of would-be actors, she wouldn’t be so tired—but I caught myself, in time. That little business had been settled already. Why bring it up again? And why was I deliberately courting an argument? She wasn’t the guilty party, I was; and knowing I was guilty, I was on the defensive. That was it. But so far, she didn’t know anything about my shenanigans—thank the Lord!
I shifted uneasily; there were thousands of ties that bound us together. She deserved better—well, I would make it up to her.
“Right,” I said cheerfully, although my voice sounded somewhat hollow. “We’re both tired, and we’d better go to bed.”
Although I was in no mood for love-making, a shower revived me somewhat, and as I sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a contemplative cigarette and waiting for Beryl to join me, the pleasure of anticipation gradually aroused my desire. But even my anticipation was marred by the awareness of my guilt. What really bothered me most, however, was the mixed-up way I felt about everything. I wasn’t certain whether my feeling of guilt was sincere because of slipping around on Beryl, or whether it was caused by the idea that Beryl might find out about it. But how could she find out? I’d never tell her—and Gladys would never tell her. And as this load lifted from my mind, I wondered why I didn’t feel any better about the situation…
Beryl came into the bedroom. She held a towel around her waist with one hand, but her full white breasts nodded to me in unison as she leaned over to open the middle drawer in the dresser for one of her nightgowns.
“I really am tired, Richard,” she said, watching me snuff out the cigarette.
“All right.” I smiled. “A good night kiss and a good night’s sleep is all we need.”
“No argument?”
“Of course not.” I affected surprise. “You don’t think I’d force you to do anything against your will, do you?”
She laughed. “I’ve heard tell…” She nodded solemnly.
“Rumors, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing but rumors.”
She slipped into her ridiculous, inadequate shorty nightgown, put her hands behind her, and leaned down to kiss me. Her breasts, like two firm, rubber balls, rolled half way out of the loose fitting top, and bounced in unison—one, two, three, a-lary…
I kissed her warm, soft mouth, marvelling at the sweet, green smell of her skin and hair. “Well,” I said, grinning, pulling my head away as the kiss gave indications of continuing for some time, “Good night!” I rolled over to my side of the bed, yawning audibly.
“Good night,” she replied, snapping off the light.
A moment later she lay beside me, and her chin rested on my bare shoulder.
“I’ve heard tell,” she said softly, musingly, “that some married folks, not even married as long as us, never do make love.”
“I’ve heard the same thing. But I don’t believe it. Do you?”
“Not for a minute!” In the darkness, her hand lightly touched my thigh. The muscles of my leg tautened, and her hand inched higher. I turned toward her, and she pressed herself against me, breathing quickly as I ran my hand down her back to pull her in even tighter while the other hand caressed the round hillocks that arched and quivered in response to the growing underground spasms…
“But not us, Richard? Huh? Ever?”
…around the bend of her hips where the hand lingered awhile contemplating the terrain. Then up…up…up the rising landscape until coming to an unsettled rest on one quaking mound blossoming with a single, pink flower.
“No, not us,” I whispered huskily, covering her mouth with my own; and strangely moved, I repeated over and over again in my head, in rhythm with our love-making, “Never, never, never, never, never…”
* * *
On Saturdays I usually got to the office at noon, which was an early hour to go to work, but on this particular Saturday I reported in at 10:00 A.M., a ridiculously early hour. For the past couple of weeks I had been sluffing off so many little things, they had all stacked up on me. There was a formidable amount of work to be done in my wire HOLD basket. The wedding and engagement stories, which had to be written sooner or later, had built upon each other to an all-
time high.
As a matter of policy, we printed, in the Sunday paper, a story about every wedding that took place during the week. The couple concerned would buy at least a dozen copies of that edition to send to friends and relatives, and why not run the wedding story in the Sunday paper which cost ten cents instead of the daily paper that only came to five?
To obtain information about engagements and weddings the paper had two mimeographed forms for the use of those concerned. When the fathers or mothers or brides-to-be made their assault upon the office to obtain “write-ups” they were handed one of these forms which precluded the overlooking of any pertinent information, e.g. “What was the Maid (Matron) of Honor wearing?” and “What were the presents given to the bridesmaids?” The forms, which Mrs. Mosby had prepared, were so complete that many parents took extra forms home, noticing that they had neglected some very important items in their wedding preparations.
To those concerned, an engagement or a wedding was news. To me, however, they were not news. If an engagement announcement or a wedding was reported a week or so late it made no difference to me. But some of the forms in my basket, with 8 x 10 photos attached, had been there for three full weeks, and they were already too late to make the next day’s Sunday edition, which had been run off on Friday. So I was forced to write these wretched stories now. I was so far behind that I knew a few of the irate mothers had called the M.E. already to complain. And when he got around to jumping me I wanted to be able to tell him that they were written and turned in.
I worked sedulously for four miserable hours and reduced the pile of forms down to the current week before I knocked off for lunch. At two-thirty I returned to the office and made some routine calls to my spies here and there about town. The Monday Morning News was always a sketchy paper, but the news items had to be written on Saturday or I wouldn’t have my Sundays free.
The County Tax Assessor was always good for an item—he loved to make statements. The Postmaster was also a good source of information. If nothing else, he could be quoted as saying that mail deposited at the Post Office after 6:00 P.M. wouldn’t reach New York for two days. There were always enough tourists in town to rerun a statement of that kind. I had other fine spies as well; a cute blonde secretary in the Chamber of Commerce office who hated the manager; an embittered court reporter who was forced to take down the minutes of the City Commission meetings without being paid any extra money for the job; and every single member of the hotel and motel association. They furnished me with the names and activities of their important and unimportant guests alike. And a name printed is a paper sold.
Understudy for Death Page 17
