The Best Thing for You

by Annabel Lyon

  Just the heat, that’s all, her husband was saying a moment later to the knot of concerned passersby who had gathered round. He had got her to sit on the curb and was squatting next to her, fanning her with his big paddle of a hand. Saying: Just the heat and the excitement.

  I should go home, she said.

  He looked torn, then, as she had planned.

  I heard some people saying the streetcars are running again, she said. We could split up, if you like. I’ll just head home if you want to get your camera from the office.

  I can’t let you go alone, he said uncertainly, glancing at the man Smith, who had abandoned the unconscious woman and was now posing some pretty office girls with tambourines against a wall and snapping away while they stuck out their chests and giggled.

  I’m fine now. I’ll just go home, that’s all. She took his hand and looked into his eyes and said seriously, I’m fine.

  Go to Mother’s house, he suggested. It’s closer.

  By the time she got to her mother-in-law’s house it was midafternoon. The excitement in the streets grew sparser as she left downtown, though here and there she encountered a clutch of housewives listening to the radio on each other’s front lawns and teenagers stuffing toilet tissue through the open windows of parked cars. When she saw the house at a distance her need for solitude broke like a fever. If she had to smile one more time or wave one more time, if she had to dance or sing, if she had to perform for one more person –

  Finally, said a voice, as she fumbled her key in the front-door lock.

  Baby and Buddy, Stephen said. My God.

  Stop it.

  He prodded her with a finger, the butcher’s boy, like she was a cut of chicken. He tried to be sardonic but he had dog eyes. He had skipped school and come straight to the house this morning, he had said, as soon as he realized what day it was. He had been hurt, she could tell, that she had not automatically done the same. Hours he had waited, hiding in the shadow of the shed, with all that nonsense in his mind and his heart and his pants. Now it was early evening.

  We can’t meet here any more, she said. Outside another car sounded its horn.

  I wish you had a car, she added, going up on her elbows.

  He didn’t look at her but his eyebrows went up. So do I, he told the ceiling, and she knew he was gazing on a world of private desires that did not touch her at all. But there was not supposed to be any such world.

  We can’t meet here any more, she said again, and then, Don’t you know any nice girls at school?

  Nice girls, he said. Sure, nice girls.

  Outside a shrill white whistle sliced the air, followed by a bang and the sound of footsteps sprinting to silence. Kids, she said, and he: Fireworks.

  Downstairs the front door slammed.

  Anna? he breathed.

  She mouthed, Get dressed.

  Another explosion, so close that the room was briefly flooded with milk.

  Anna! her husband called.

  They dressed in furious silence. His shirt was grimy at the nape, and staleness wafted from the folds of her dress when she picked it off the floor. Theirs was a small story, a loveless cliché, with only a little bitter lust at the pith.

  Anna! her husband called, his voice closer, bottom of the stairs.

  Coming! she called.

  I came to see how you are, he called. You didn’t answer the phone.

  You’re going to help me with something, she whispered to the boy.

  He nodded dumbly.

  Don’t come up! she called down to her husband. I’m coming! Put the kettle on, would you? Isn’t it wonderful?

  In the swarming silver point half-darkness she took a pair of white cotton gloves from the dresser and whispered, Put these on.

  They glowed serenely on his hands, like mitts.

  Take this, she said, handing him the china goose-girl.

  Perplexed, he half smiled.

  I’m going to go down there, she whispered. I’m going to turn him around so his back is to the stairs. You’re not going to make a sound. You’re going to wait by the turn in the stairs until you hear me say, That’s fine. Then you’re going to come all the way down.

  My bike’s still in the shed, he whispered doubtfully. I’ve got deliveries tomorrow, I can’t leave it. You want me to use the front door?

  I want you to hit him on the head as hard as you can.

  He started shaking, and her whole body began to sparkle.

  Here you are, he said.

  They embraced. From outside came the sound of more fireworks, tripping a clatter of falling garbage cans and a dog’s snatching bark, and farther away radios and car horns and, she heard now, cheers. His skin smelled of soap and smoke and was warm.

  I’ve come to get you, he said. The paper wants me to stay out all night, but I wanted you to come. I want us to remember this together. Will you come?

  Of course, she whispered.

  Are you cold? He rubbed her back and bare arms. You’re barefoot, he said, noticing. The kettle started to moan. Beneath the moaning she heard the stairs creak once.

  I washed my stockings, she said. They’re probably dry by now.

  Over his shoulder she saw the boy’s white face. He came down the last step and when she turned as though towards the kettle he raised the figurine and brought it down on her husband’s head. It didn’t break. Her husband half turned and caught a second blow on the temple. He stood still.

  That’s fine, she said.

  What’s wrong with it? the boy asked, meaning the figurine. The three of them looked at each other. A second later a goose fell from the figurine’s foot and hit the floor. Her husband sank to his knees.

  Hit him again, she said, but he tipped over then and lay still.

  She had expected to feel different. She had expected some blood rush or clarity but it was simply the world in yet another possible arrangement. The kettle whistled until she stepped over and took it off the burner. The sound died sulkily.

  Why didn’t it break? she asked.

  It did, the boy said, and a moment later a rain of china chips and shards poured from his hands. His grip had held it together.

  Her husband moaned once but his eyes stayed closed.

  We should make it look like a robbery, the boy said.

  God bless the movies, she said. Get his wallet.

  Outside another rocket exploded. They both ducked. My God, the boy said, laughing. You live, don’t you?

  He’d have done you worse.

  He drew his foot back as though to kick the prone man, lips drawing back from his teeth simultaneously, as though foot and lip were drawn by a single marionette string, then abandoned the gesture and squatted down to peer at him. His head’s going to hurt tomorrow, he said.

  No it isn’t.

  She was rifling the kitchen drawers, leaving some ajar. The boy patted at the man’s pants and withdrew a leather wallet and a vial of pills.

  Now what?

  Take the money out and drop it.

  The wallet dropped by her husband’s face, stirring a hair or two on his forehead. What do I do with this? the boy said, holding out some paper money.

  Keep it.

  What about these?

  Give them to me.

  What are you looking for?

  Outside a radio came on loudly, dance music.

  Go up and rob the bedroom, she said.

  Shouldn’t we leave?

  Anna, her husband said in a low voice.

  She found the twine. Hold him, she said.

  As she worked she seemed to see their six hands like a knot of larval creatures writhing in a nest – the boy containing the man’s weakly struggling hands between his own while she wound the twine around and around the fat white wrists.

  They got him into the basement between them, though his weight got away from them at the bottom. He fell the last few stairs heavily and once again lay still, near a decorative iron drain plate set like a navel in the concrete floor. There was
a slight slope all around it, as though it had been gently depressed by a giant fingertip, pulling the floor with it. A few milky chips of china still adhered to her husband’s cheek from the dragging across the kitchen floor.

  Get the light, she said. The boy jerked the string and squeezed past her to the kitchen. She stood for a moment looking down into the blackness.

  Baby? her husband’s voice said. She realized he could see her up above him, framed in silhouette by the light of the kitchen.

  She suffered him a long look, then closed the door and threw the bolt.

  Go up and rob the bedroom, she repeated, because the boy was staring at her.

  She stood alone for a moment trying to enumerate the crimes committed so far. She didn’t think breaking the figurine counted for anything. So there were the two blows, assault; tying the hands; and locking the door. That counted, probably. But these last two would be erased, they would not exist by tomorrow. He would probably sleep for a while now, her husband.

  The boy returned with a few spiked flowers of her mother-in-law’s jewellery, earrings and brooches, most of it paste, she knew, but for the one charm bracelet of horrible clanking sterling silver. She was probably wearing her rings.

  Tomorrow you’ll have to get rid of these, she said. Bury them or throw them in the ocean. Did you make a mess?

  He nodded.

  That’s good. That’s what a robber would have done.

  Who’s going to find him?

  I am. Tomorrow.

  Think he’ll remember anything?

  I don’t think so, she said.

  He’ll think he was hallucinating.

  She embraced him then, spontaneously, for the narrow earnest machinery of his thinking. He was still innocent though she was not. She had a black dye contained in her own skin and despite the past ten minutes or half-hour or whatever it had been he was still untouched, unstained by her. She knew he could still reconcile all they had done, so far, with self-defence, or passion. Perhaps they had escaped love only narrowly after all.

  I have to go now, she said. There’s one more thing I need you to do.

  We can’t both leave at the same time, he guessed.

  Well. Yes. That’s it. Now, listen.

  Far away, below them, something glass smashed.

  Jesus, the boy said, almost giggling.

  Outside someone was sliding the loud radio’s tuning dial, sucking down stripes of static and music and announcers proclaiming peace from the ether. Somewhere a string of rockets popped serially, like corn.

  I need you to stay here tonight, she said. And just before you leave I need you to go down there and untie his hands. Take the string with you and get rid of it when you get rid of the jewellery. Make sure you get all the bits.

  Oh Jesus, the boy said, finally realizing.

  He’ll be sleeping. You won’t have to worry.

  From below they heard another glass smash and an odd, high, muffled cry.

  You took his pills, the boy said. He won’t be sleeping. Why do you talk to me that way?

  I’ve done things for you. I took risks, she said. Now it’s your turn. You just have to be patient, that’s all, and keep the lights off. It’s not like you’re alone. You can hear the radio even from here. You can just sit in here while you’re waiting and listen to the good news. I’m not asking you to do anything. Just sit in a chair, that’s all. Here.

  She took a chair from the kitchen table and turned it to face the basement door.

  Sit down, she said. Sitting down doesn’t mean anything.

  He sat down. His mouth had gone slack, spent elastic, and his eyes moved from her face to the door, back and forth.

  All right? she said.

  She walked out of the house then. A Catherine wheel arced into the sky from behind the houses opposite and spun in a fury of flung sparks and dripping tinsel. The revellers had moved, they were a street or two away now, and she could see no sign of them beyond the odd stray rocket above the roofs, though it seemed that throughout her walk home that pleasant warm May night they were always just around the next corner, for the sound of them accompanied her to her own threshold.

  Inside the phone was ringing.

  Ordinarily I would answer the phone, she thought.

  It was her mother. Sweetheart, you’re home! she said. Isn’t it wonderful?

  Yes, she said. Oh, yes.

  Oh! Her mother was crying and laughing at the same time. We’re just heading out, aren’t we, darling? (Her father must have been standing nearby.) Are you alone? We’ll come get you. Where’s Buddy?

  Well, I’ve been waiting for him. But they probably sent him out to take pictures. It wouldn’t surprise me if I didn’t see him tonight at all.

  Didn’t he call?

  He probably did, she said. But I was out a little bit too.

  Leave him a note, her mother said. Shall we come for you? You can’t stay home on a night like this. What will you tell your children? You put your coat on and be waiting, we won’t be ten minutes, will we, darling?

  Yes, Mummy.

  Maybe we’ll see him down there.

  Yes, I should think so, she said earnestly.

  She hung up the phone and took her grocery pad and pencil and wrote, Dear Buddy I waited but now I have gone to see the celebrations with Mummy and Daddy. Isn’t it wonderful? Love Anna.

  She left the note on the kitchen table and went to wait on the sidewalk for her father’s car like any girl on her way to a fancy party.

  The next morning she woke late. Her husband was not beside her, no.

  For a moment or two she stretched luxuriantly, feeling a sweetness in her limbs. Perhaps her husband had already woken and left while she lay in. A lazy puss her mother used to call her when she was younger. Lazy puss in the sun. But his pillow lay plump and uncreased beside her own.

  Would she be concerned at this point? No. Probably she would decide to take a bath. Probably they would be keeping him busy at the paper, developing his photos from the night before. She smiled, rubbing between her fingers the familiar gritty texture of the bath salts, wondering how many of the fellows in the newsroom that morning had jaws that felt like this, in need of a proper shave, how many were yawning and grinning and bashful, exhausted and elated both. He would have got some marvellous shots. She herself had seen just a corner of all the goings-on, just a crumb really, in the restaurant her parents had finally settled on. They had worn paper hats and the owner had given them each a free glass of wine. The faces! So much kissing and singing and happiness. The three of them had sat apart a little, smiling politely, watching. It had been like being a girl again. Oh, but her father had been in a marvellous mood, insisting he wanted a pizza pie. They had laughed! But of course it had not been that kind of restaurant.

  After her bath she dressed slowly, in a pale spring dress of eyelet cotton and a pair of stockings she had been hoarding for a happy day. She tidied the house and planned an elegant meal, soup and omelette, entirely out of leftovers. For once it was not a day for frugality but she didn’t feel like going to the store and shopping as though it were any other day. She just didn’t feel like it.

  By mid-morning he had still not phoned.

  The real estate agent phoned. Oh, no, Anna said. Oh, I’m so glad you thought to call. No, I don’t think we’ll need to today, do you? Gee. (She giggled.) Were you up as late as I was last night? I feel like a ghost. I should have called you, though, and told you not to bother. Well that’s fine.

  When she hung up a wave of nausea drove her to the sink where she leaned retching, but nothing came. She had forgotten about the agent. She had forgotten about breakfast too, though, and felt ever so much better once she’d had a bit of toast. Afterwards she listened to the radio and did some mending and pressing from her hamper. She made Buddy’s white shirts very nice as always. By four o’clock she was wondering whether to start supper when the phone rang again, making her drop the iron. Her nerves, she admitted, were a little on edge.
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  On a normal day I would answer it, she had to remind herself. I will answer it.

  Mrs. Pass, Michael Peretti said. Not disturbing your beauty sleep, I hope? Or your husband’s?

  No, she laughed. I guess not. I mean, I’m afraid Buddy’s not home from work yet.

  What work? No one’s seen him since yesterday.

  Isn’t it wonderful news?

  There was silence.

  Isn’t it wonderful news? About the war?

  Did he come home yesterday?

  Not for a minute! she said. But I guess you boys have been busy getting the story. I was a little surprised he didn’t call, but he’s explained to me about deadlines and getting the job done no matter what time of –

  Yesterday, Mrs. Pass. Yesterday afternoon as he was leaving he said he was going to surprise you. He was going straight to your mother-in-law’s house. Did he surprise you, Mrs. Pass?

  Well, I guess not. He must have got there after I left.

  Maybe he left you a note.

  Maybe he did. Should I go over there and take a look?

  What? Peretti’s voice said. He wasn’t speaking to her. No. I don’t know. Not yet. Fuck Tanner. Look, not now. Mrs. Pass. Are you still there?

  I’m here.

  Shall I meet you at the house?

  I don’t suppose that’s –

  In half an hour. Twenty minutes.

  That’s very kind of you, but I really –

  – outside. Will you –

  I really don’t –

  But I do.

  She saw it would be coy and unnatural to resist further and so said: All right, if it’s so important to you. Do you know the address?

  You know I know the address.

  She hung up. He was insolent, that Michael Peretti.

  The first full fat day of peacetime was a warm one, the sky lushly clouded, gardens rain-glutted and densely succulent. Like corpses in the gutters lay a few squibs from the night before. She stopped on the walk outside her mother-in-law’s house and made a show of digging in her purse for her keys. There was nothing to see from the outside, nothing to smell or hear, no abnormalities at all until she arrived (lightly, trippingly, even) at the front door and found it unlocked. Consternation, yes, self-chastisement (was it her own silly fault, her own birdie-head that had forgotten to lock it?) and then something made her look back over her shoulder and there was her husband’s car parked a little way up the street. She wrinkled her brow as though to say: Now that’s odd.