by Warren Adler
‘Perfectly.’ She smiled demurely, thinking about her new idea. He studied her in silence for a long moment.
‘You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.’
‘Not swallowed, Harry. I’ve just discovered it chirping in its cage.’
She had never really thought of the conception of Eve as an act of deceit. Loving, she had believed once, was more than just being together. Loving needed something tangible to validate it. And family wasn’t real family without children. It was difficult now to reassess her state of mind at the time. It was too foreign to the present, to the end of love.
What she concluded was that her deliberate conception of Eve had not been out of love but out of fear. Perhaps it was merely intuitive at the time. Perhaps too, subconsciously, she had been frightened that her marriage was all there was or would ever be, a long, endless plateau of sameness. Oliver, off to school each day. Soon he would be off to a job, with meeting people, colleagues and clients. She loved those words, so exotic, full of promise and adventure. He, doing marvellous, exciting things. She, off to work at some dead-end job, doing silly things like demonstrating kitchen gadgets or selling ladies’ underwear. Then, off to home, to prepare their dinner, to wait for her sun to rise. Him. The world was him. At the time, she must have thought it was the most wonderful way to live a life. Yet something, she must have sensed, was missing. Something. She was so sure then that it was a child. What was a woman’s life without a child? Nature had decreed it to happen, hadn’t it? It became her most pressing ambition. To have his child. His. That was why she had named the baby Eve. Joshua had come after that time had passed, merely because it seemed indecent to have an only child, and it was carefully planned that he would arrive just when Eve started nursery school. It was a time to be practical.
Looking at things in retrospect wasn’t really fair, she decided, deriding the idea of ‘fair.’ Nothing was fair. Even the thought came to her in Harry Thurmont’s voice, because he had said that to her and she had been immediately convinced.
‘Fair is weather. Fair is not so good. Fair is a shindig. But fair is not life.’
‘Do you think he has any ladyfriends?’ she had asked Ann one day. Her back was turned as she labored over a huge colander in one of the sinks, laying out leaves of romaine lettuce for a batch of salade nicoise she was making for a luncheon later that day. It was morning. The kids had just been sent off to school and Ann was lingering over a second cup of coffee.
Ann did not respond.
‘Ladyfriends,’ Barbara repeated. ‘I mean it seems logical. What do you think he does every night? After all, a man is different from a woman.’
When Ann still hadn’t responded, Barbara turned toward her. ‘What do you think?’ she pressed.
‘I have no idea,’ Ann answered avoiding Barbara’s eyes. Clever bitch, Barbara thought.
‘He’s still a man.’
*I haven’t had much experience.’
Barbara sensed Ann’s discomfort and proceeded cautiously.
‘Do you suppose he’s seeing prostitutes?’ she wondered aloud. ‘I doubt that.’
The response was whispered, almost furtive.
‘You do? Why so?’ Barbara turned again to watch her cope with her confusion, sure now that Ann was responding to the bait.
‘He just doesn’t seem like that kind of person,’ Ann said, her face flushing. Barbara pressed on.
‘Men don’t really care where they put it. They seem to have a very low threshold of pleasure compared to women. I never did understand it. That thing of his. Always saluting. How do they carry that around with them all the time? Like a popgun ready to go off.’
She had gotten up and brought the cup and saucer to the dishwasher, sliding the rack out and placing them on it. -
‘I hope I’m not embarrassing you, Ann,’ Barbara said. ‘I suppose he’s unhappy as hell. Probably thinks I put a detective on his trail. Not so. It doesn’t really matter. He could even have an affair in this house and it wouldn’t matter.’ She held her breath.
‘It’s none of my business,’ Ann protested, unable to hide her irritation.
‘I know, Ann.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I wish it would happen. Another woman might solve things for us.’
‘What about another man? For you?’
Barbara laughed.
‘I’m not going to fall into that trap so easily again.’
‘Trap?’
‘It is a trap, Ann.’
‘And love?’ Ann asked. The question seemed reckless, involuntary.
‘Love? What’s your opinion?’ Barbara turned in time to see Ann blush scarlet. Good, she thought, remembering love.
‘I have no opinion.’
‘Come now, Ann,’ Barbara snapped. ‘Surely you’ve had that I-can’t-live-without-you feeling. That clutching of the heart, those palpitations of desire.’
‘I don’t think about it,’ Ann replied nervously. ‘I’m too busy with my studies.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘It’s not a priority. That’s all.’
Perhaps she had gone too far. Certainly she had stirred things up. She retreated quickly, sure now of this newly discovered weapon. Yet she was fond of Ann, and using this tactic made Barbara uncomfortable.
‘I’m sorry, Ann,’ she said, half sincerely. ‘It’s beginning to get to me. All this strain. Perhaps if I went away. Maybe up to Boston to visit my parents. And took the kids.’ She was being deliberately hypothetical, waiting for some reaction. But none came. Ann got up and started to move away.
‘What do you think?’ Barbara asked hurriedly.
‘About what?’ Ann asked.
‘About me going away for a weekend with the kids.’
‘I don’t know, Barbara.’
You know exactly what to think, Ann, Barbara thought, laying the anchovies on the salad mound.
15
The children’s excitement at going to Boston masked Ann’s own. She helped them pack and wrote down a great list of instructions that Barbara had given her, mostly about shopping and defrosting, so that Barbara would be able to meet her commitments when she came back Monday morning. Ann had also promised to feed Mercedes.
‘I’ll miss you all,’ she cried, embracing each of them at the door, waving as they ran down the walk to the waiting taxi. She stood in the doorway for a long time, hoping they would see her lone figure.
But when they had gone, she wanted to shout for joy. Alone with Oliver. It was all she had thought about. She hoped she had successfully kept Barbara’s suspicions at bay. But that was merely a detail now. All’s fair in love and war, she thought gleefully. Not that he had ever given her the slightest encouragement, especially after his apology for the incident in the library on Christmas Eve.
‘I’m sorry,’ he had said, revealing both his vulnerability and his guilt.
She took a long, lingering bubble bath, perfumed and powdered herself, and put on a flimsy peignoir. She knew she was no physical match for Barbara. Ann’s figure was spare but well proportioned, her breasts and buttocks small. Serviceable, she told herself, reflecting on her meagre experience. Nothing had moved her as much as that brief moment with Oliver. Nothing.
She hadn’t told Oliver of her conversation with Barbara, which had agitated her. At the same time, it made her feel safer. Oliver, she was certain, believed that he was being watched and conducted himself accordingly. Perhaps now, possessed of the knowledge that Barbara had given her, she could allay his fears.
Nothing would have made her happier than to be the chatelaine of this lovely house. Was it a stroke of fate that Barbara had decided to divorce him so soon after she had arrived in the house? It was incomprehensible that Barbara could reject such a good and loving man. Impossible.
Ann had lit a fire in the library, selected a book from the shelves, and, while the words swam before her concentrated on picking out his familiar step on the sidewalk and Benny’s heralding bark. To calm herself, she opened the armoire
and poured some vodka.
She hadn’t long to wait. He appeared surprised when he saw her sitting in the library.
‘I hadn’t realized,’ he began. ‘I thought you might have gone away as well.’
‘Here I am.’
He went to the armoire and poured himself a scotch, turning to look at her. He shook his head and smiled gendy.
‘You drop a spark on dry kindling and you get fire,’ he said, lifting his glass.
‘Nature’s way,’ she said, smiling.
‘You’re taking advantage of a peculiar situation,’ he warned with mock sarcasm.
‘I know.’
‘It won’t do either of us any good. Certainly not yourself, Ann.’
‘So I’ve been forewarned.’ She was surprised at her boldness. He walked to the window and, parting the drapes, looked into the street. Then he turned to face her.
‘I feel uncomfortable,’ he confessed. ‘That last episode nearly unnerved me.’ He swallowed hard and his eyes roamed over the Staffordshire pieces on the mantelpiece. ‘It took years to collect those pieces.’
‘I know,’ she said.
His hand swept the air. ‘All those beautiful things. This house. I’m not going to let her have it, Ann. She doesn’t deserve it.’ His belligerence was tangible, aggressive.
He sat down opposite her. ‘There’s a lot of pain in this process. Some people might think it’s self-inflicted. I could walk away-. Say good-bye. Kiss it off. And start all over again.’ He looked up at her suddenly. ‘I’ll bet that’s what you think. Walk away and start all over again.’ She was shocked at the accusatory tone.
‘No,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m also a fighter for the things I want.’ But he ignored her, still focusing on the cause of his animosity.
‘She’s just being ornery. A bitch,’ he said. ‘Maybe it was there all the time. This meanness. But I was too stupid to see it.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t get rid of the anger. It’s like a perpetual flame. Every time I think about it I get mad. Mad at myself. Mad at Goldstein, as if it were his fault that he’s putting me through this. Mad at Thurmont because I know the bastard is advising her. Mad at my kids for not taking my side.’ He looked at her.
‘Mostly I’m mad at myself for not having been what I thought I was.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself, Oliver.’
‘My ego died a few months ago.’ He turned away, and she saw the mist in his eyes. She moved toward him and embraced his head, kissing his hair. She felt motherly, incestuous. Opening her robe, she moved her breasts to his mouth.
‘Let me love’ you,’ she begged, knowing he was beyond resisting, aching for comfort.
Her cheeks felt hot and the alcohol had rushed to her head. His body shook with sobs.
‘Cry, darling,’ she urged, caressing him. She felt the power of her womanhood as she reached for his organ, caressing it, undressing him.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she said. He stood up and the joy of seeing him made her shiver with pleasure. Kneeling before him, she kissed him there. His response was immediate.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.
She drew him down to the couch and snuggled beside him. They lay together, hardly moving. She listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
‘Thank you,’ he said when he stirred again.
He opened the armoire and grabbed a vodka bottle by the neck. Then, taking her hand, he led her up the stairs to his room. She had never been inside it since he had moved into it.
The room was dusty and had a foul, musky odor. It was in complete disarray, with files and papers strewn over all available surfaces. She saw a hot plate on the open desk of the Hepplewhite secretaire and unwashed dishes on the japanned commode. Liquor bottles, some half filled, lay about the room. He caught her expression of distaste.
‘What did you expect?’
She embraced him, hoping to soothe him. But he broke away and picked up a Staffordshire figure that stood next to the dirty dishes.
‘Queen Victoria,’ he said, pointing to the figure. ‘Like my life, I guess. A forgery. We got stung in Atlantic City. I keep it around to remind me of my stupidity.’
His tone was ominous and she wondered if she had contributed to his mood. She watched his eyes sweep the room.
‘Look what’s become of my life,’ he snapped.
‘It’ll pass, Oliver,’ she said lamely. But he was not to be placated.
‘I have to hide all my personal records in here. I don’t want her to overvalue the house. I’ve had to research all the receipts and insurance estimates. What a waste of time and energy.’
He brought two tumblers in from the bathroom, poured some vodka, then opened the window and brought in a carton of orange juice. He poured some into the tumblers.
He had spent long hours locked in this room. She had been curious about what he did there, and once she had listened at the door. There was no television set. Few books. It struck her as more of an animal’s lair than a man’s room. Among the odors she picked out was Benny’s doggy smell, noting that he had somehow followed them into the room and now lay sprawled on an Art Deco rug beside the bed. Its beige background was stained, dirty.
She went to the bathroom, complete with bidet, which she used, mirrored walls, marble floors, and gold-plated plumbing fixtures. This room, too, was a mess. .
‘I’m not much of a housekeeper,’ he said when Ann came out. ‘I haven’t had much practice. My generation depended too much on women.’
‘What about the maid?’
‘I won’t even let her in here. Barbara’s ally.’ He looked at her strangely. ‘You think I’m paranoid?’
The question seemed aggressive and she ignored it, sitting on the high bed.
‘So what are you going to do with your life, Ann?’ he asked suddenly, as if dismissing his own gloomy thoughts.
‘Jefferson is my life for the present,’ she mumbled. I’d like to be included m yours, she told him silently.
He looked at her kindly and touched her bare shoulder.
‘You’re a gift, Ann. A gift to the children. A special gift to me.’
Barbara had offered gratitude as well and it pained her now. She felt a sense of her inferiority, but dared not ask him for comparisons.
‘I’m not just giving, Oliver. I’m taking, also.’
He stopped caressing her. ‘Now you sound like her.’
She felt a wave of panic. She had acquired a sense of independence and a posture of equality. It did not seem queer to voice her affection in those terms. She saw the gap now. He was of a different generation, with a different way of looking at women. So that’s it, she decided, feeling odd waves of insight, as well as a sense of alliance with Barbara.
‘Nobody wants to be dependent anymore,’ he said gloomily. ‘Whatever happened to man the hunter, man the protector?’
‘Some people just don’t accept the idea of males being lord and master anymore.’
‘I wasn’t, really. We were a team. I was supportive of all her attempts at independence. How could I have known that the bitch was lying to me all those years? It was an act.’ His features became rigid. ‘Maybe this is an act as well.’ He pouted.
‘It’s no act,’ she said, determined to overlook his anger.
‘I’m a little wary of the sincerity of women.’ He sighed.
‘Now you’re generalizing,’ she replied sensibly, scolding} yet trying to keep an air of lightness between them.
‘Maybe so,’ he agreed. ‘I haven’t known too many women. And the one woman I thought I knew I didn’t know at all. That’s what bugs me the most, the imprecision of my understanding of her, of what she was feeling and thinking all those years.’ He looked at Ann, then gave a sigh of resignation. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to believe what a woman tells me, or shows me.’
‘I can understand that,’ Ann said. ‘We’re a clandestine gender. Lots of dirty little secrets that we’ve been conditioned to suppress.’
/> ‘So have men,’ he replied quickly.
‘Well, then, now that we understand each other…’ She reached out to him and drew him to her. They made love slowly, tenderly, with less greed and transience than before. This time he did not preempt the act. Finally, he rolled over and lay beside her, their fingers locked together. Turning toward him, she watched his eyelids flutter.
‘There is one thing,’ she whispered. ‘Why the house? Why? Considering that the family has already been split apart. It’s only a thing. And all the possessions inside it are things. Why all the pain over the house?’
His eyelids fluttered open.
‘A thing? You don’t understand. It’s the whole world. Why should I let her take the whole world with her?’
‘But it’s also part of her world,’ Ann said gently.
‘It can’t be shared any longer. Not like this.’
‘Then why don’t you simply sell it and split the value?’
‘I’m willing to give her half the value. I paid for it. My brains. My sweat. Christ’
He was frowning and she had the impression he was talking by rote, like an actor going over his lines in rehearsal. Suddenly he stopped talking and was staring at something on top of the bed canopy.
‘What is it, Oliver?’ she asked. He moved leisurely from the bed and crossed the room. Slowly, with quiet deliberation, he moved a chair to a corner of the room and stood on it. He was naked and the act seemed odd and incongruous. She lifted herself on one elbow to observe him, but before she could speak he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Stretching, he peered over the canopy’s side, then stepped down again. He took a robe from the closet.
With a ringer still on his lips, he quietly opened the door and went into the corridor. By then she was too curious to stay and she followed him into Eve’s room, which was next to his. Ignoring her, he kneeled and began to feel along the baseboard. Then, finding a wire, he traced it along the side of one of Eve’s bookcases. It snaked through a tiny hole near the floor.
‘Bastards,’ he muttered, crawling, following the wire. It led from Eve’s room, along the baseboard of the corridor, then upward again, to the window overlooking the garden. He bounded down the back stairs. She followed quickly behind him. He was lost in concentration. She watched him select a big knife from the wooden box on the kitchen island. Curiosity gave way to fright. She hung back in the shadows while he passed in front of her again and slowly opened the door to the garden.
