The War of the Roses

by Warren Adler

  ‘Save me, Ann,’ he begged.

  ‘All right, Oliver,’ she whispered as he began to undress her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Damn you, Goldstein.’

  ‘Goldstein?’

  ‘He said women in love invariably do stupid things.’

  ‘He was right,’ she said. He grasped her, as a drowning man reaches for a lifeline.

  17

  Josh and his grandfather had shot the rabbits and she had packed them in ice, still unskinned, and driven them home. Earlier, she had eviscerated fifteen of the two dozen at her father’s, bringing home the useful innards in plastic bags. The rest hung on pothooks, like punished criminals, above the kitchen island. She took them down one at a time, slit each lengthwise down its belly, and peeled away the fur. Then she slit open the rib cage, removed the entrails, sliced away at the meat, and put the strips in a large bowl.

  Rabbit pate had struck her as a novel idea and she had persuaded the French Market to try it. She was thankful that the work temporarily diverted her attention from the weekend’s disaster. She had gotten Thurmont’s call on Sunday. Everything had gone wrong. The detective was upset and threatening. He had demanded payment immediately, alleging that Oliver had stolen some of his equipment, the remains of which she had already seen in the trash cans.

  She hadn’t been at all comfortable in what she had done. But, she told herself, she’d had no choice. If only he would understand and move out once and for all. She was surprised, too, that the episode had given her a twinge of jealousy. She considered the perils of male celibacy and knew that, under the right circumstances, Oliver would react. Often when he came home after a long trip, he had fallen on her like a horny beast. She had dutifully submitted, of course, less out of sexual enjoyment than of validating her role as wife again. It was all part of the programming and gave her more reason to detest her former self.

  In a way, she felt relieved that she would not have to confront the detective’s evidence. But that softness in herself angered her and she hacked away at the rabbits as if they were tangible enemies. Who was the real enemy? Herself? Oliver? Ann? She wanted to apologize to Ann. She was not being her true self. Her behavior was merely a device, a tactic. In war, people did things out of character, suspended compassion, kindness, consideration.

  Thurmont had forbidden any discussion of the subject.

  ‘Leave it alone. We blew it,’ he had barked into the phone, forestalling any protests on her part by hanging lip abruptly.

  The evidence in the trash cans testified to Oliver’s wrath. That, too, seemed completely out of character. Oliver had always been cerebral, nonviolent, and rarely had he lost his temper. He was never out of control. It was another trait that she had grown to despise, his cool-headedness.

  ‘Show me an emotion out of control and I’ll show you certain defeat.’ He had burned that lesson into her and she was trying her best to follow his advice.

  She had, she thought, pulled off her first meeting with Ann that morning with expert acting prowess. Not that they had exchanged any more than the most prosaic words about the weather, the weekend. She had begun a long, one-sided account of their trip, as if nothing had occurred between them. Ann had been remarkably cool, although little lip tremors and nervously shifting eyes revealed the tension between them. It was only when Ann went off to school that Barbara’s real anger surfaced. The little bitch fucked Oliver under my roof, in the room next to my daughter’s bed. She ran up a full steam of rancor, which somehow increased the speed with which she hacked apart the rabbits.

  The unusual circumstances had interfered with her morning routine and it wasn’t until she put the rabbit livers and the other meat in the grinder that she realized that she hadn’t seen or fed Mercedes. Barbara searched in the usual bunks around the kitchen, then poked around the cat’s favorite haunts in the garden and the rafters of the garage.

  ‘Mercedes,’ she called, offering familiar signals. She gave up in frustration and went back into the kitchen. Perhaps Ann had forgotten about Mercedes, considering how busy the girl had been, Barbara thought with a smirk.

  After she had ground the rabbit meat, along with veal and pork, and added the onion and garlic to the mix, she called the animal pound, carefully describing the cat to the attendant.

  ‘Call animal removal. She may have been run over.’

  Getting through to them was a bureaucratic nightmare, and when she did finally, it was futile. She was thankful that no dead animals had been reported. But it wasn’t like Mercedes to disappear. She had raised her from a kitten; she had rarely strayed in the daytime, sometimes making a pest of herself as she clawed her way about the kitchen shelves. She would have to ask Ann when she returned. After all, Mercedes had been entrusted to her care. The irony disturbed Barbara. She felt more compassion for the missing Mercedes than for Oliver. If only he had disappeared.

  She mixed wine, cognac, salt, pepper, thyme, parsley, and oil in a small bowl, then added the mixture to the meat bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. Cold took the gaminess out of the meat. Before she closed the door, her eyes lingered a moment on the mixture and she thought again of the incident with the meat pastry on Christmas Day. ‘Bastard,’ she cried.

  Opening the garden door, she again called for Mercedes. Oliver had never really liked the cat, and Barbara had always felt he had gotten Benny out of spite. Nor did he understand how it was possible for a woman to have a relationship with a female cat. She was sure Mercedes was the only one of the family who really understood her and it was to Mercedes that she had poured out her secret thoughts. Mercedes was wise and true, more perceptive and sensitive than the others. She could always be counted on for affection.

  Once she had jumped on Oliver’s bare buttocks while he and Barbara were having sex, drawing blood and pain. He had insisted the cat be declawed, but since Barbara had already yielded on spaying, she refused.

  "You can’t take away her claws,’ she had rebuked. "She wouldn’t have anything to fight back with.’

  ‘Or to attack me with,’ Oliver had protested. The irony hit home now. Men just don’t understand the female animal, she thought.

  But she had suffered with Benny sleeping in their room for years, barking at every rustle or creak of the house, sometimes humping her leg with that ugly, distended red thing. The children showed little interest in caring for either animal and they became his and hers by default.

  ‘Hasn’t she come home?’ Anne’s response to Barbara’s inquiry was neither convincing nor encouraging.

  ‘Why else would I have asked?’ Barbara said politely, avoiding a confrontation. Besides, Ann had quickly turned away.

  Barbara was not, of course, reassured and Mercedes did not come back. Unable to sleep that night, she dressed early and went down to the kitchen to finish her rabbit pate. Again remembering the meat pastry she tasted the mixture to be sure no one had tampered with it. The memory inflamed her and she beat the eggs with uncommon zeal, mixing them into the flour to make a smooth paste. Cooking was surely her therapy, but it did not calm her now. Sometimes, making a dish could absorb her entire concentration. Now she found it difficult to focus her attention. It was a struggle to line the loaf pan with bacon slices, pack in the meat, press down the corners to avoid air holes. She even forgot to top the loaf off with bacon slices, bay leaves, and parsley stems, and had to remove the pan from the oven to finish the chore.

  When it was back in the oven, she went out into the streets, searching for Mercedes, sensing it was futile. Was it possible that Oliver had destroyed the innocent Mercedes in retaliation? It was difficult to get herself to believe that he was capable of destroying her helpless pet. Brooding over that possibility unnerved her. Still, she couldn’t find Mercedes. She had also lost track of time. It was four hours later when she returned and she could tell by the odor of singed meat that she had forgotten to set the oven and had ruined the pate. That only increased her irritability.

  She called
Thurmont.

  ‘I think he’s destroyed Mercedes,’ she blurted into the phone.

  ‘Your car?’

  ‘My cat.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m getting there. She hasn’t come back in two days. That’s never happened before. Ann is an anointed martyr and is being noncommittal. But Mercedes was an innocent animal. I can’t believe he was capable of doing something so monstrous.’ She felt a sob begin in her chest.

  ‘It’s only a cat, for crying out loud.’

  ‘You men don’t understand what a cat means. There’s some strange chemistry, a different kind of love.…’

  ‘Have you got any proof?’

  ‘Well, Mercedes is gone. That’s proof enough. I put her in Ann’s care. I figure that Oliver’s anger pushed him to it. Look what he did with that man’s equipment, for crying out loud.’ Her lips began to tremble and she could not find her voice.

  ‘Just don’t do anything stupid,’ Thurmont said. But she could not respond and hung up. Unable to control her sobbing, she went upstairs, took a Valium, and fell into a deep sleep.

  She awoke to the big clock in the foyer chiming eleven, which confused her, but helped bring back her sense of time and with it the depression inspired by Mercedes’s disappearance. She heard Benny’s bark and Oliver’s tread as he came up the stairs. She dashed out to the hall to meet him.

  ‘You did something to Mercedes,’ she cried. She could hear Eve’s stereo playing in the background.

  ‘That’s quite an accusation,’ Oliver responded. He looked rumpled and unusually tired.

  ‘I demand an explanation,’ she said, feeling the hatred rise. Her entire nervous system seemed to vibrate. ‘I didn’t think you were capable of that.’

  ‘So you’ve already tried and convicted me.’

  ‘She was an innocent. She was all mine. That’s why you did it.’

  He looked up and down the corridor.

  ‘All right. Come down to the workroom so the kids can’t hear.’

  Her knees shook as she followed him, watching the back of his head. His hair seemed grayer now. She remembered how upset he had been when the first speckle of salt appeared among the jet-black strands. He was twenty-eight, and she had teased him about it. ‘My old man,’ she had called him. ‘As long as you grow old with me. The best is yet to be,’ she had said. A lump rose in her throat and she wiped the memory from her mind. She would not let sentiment destroy her resolve.

  He paused for a moment to switch on the sauna, then he moved to a corner of the workroom and leaned against a workbench, fiddling with the handle of a vise. She hung back, fearful of going near any of the tools or machinery. Once she had worked side by side with him, learning how to use everything. He had been patient, teaching her the intricacies. Now the equipment frightened her. He took off his jacket and removed his tie.

  ‘Your little pussy has met his maker.’

  The words, coming so unexpectedly, shocked her and she bit her lip to stop its trembling.

  ‘You had to set up this great production number,’ he continued. ‘In my own house. Using my daughter’s room. It was disgusting. Uncivilized. Bestial.’ For a moment his voice rose, then he quieted his tone, his gaze rising to the ceiling. ‘I would be ashamed to mention such a thing to my children. Throwing Ann at me like a piece of meat.’

  ‘But Mercedes…’ she began. ‘She was just an innocent.’

  ‘So was Ann.’

  ‘Ann isn’t dead.’

  ‘Well, Mercedes wouldn’t be dead, either, if it wasn’t for your absurd caper.’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘I didn’t kill her. I don’t kill animals. Your detective crushed her when he rushed down the alley in his van.’

  She tried to quiet her inner turmoil.

  ‘You are responsible,’ she said, unable to hold back the panic. ‘Maybe indirectly. But responsible. And I suppose you’re glad. You always hated Mercedes anyway.’

  T never liked cats in general, especially females,’ he muttered, starting to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you for this, Oliver. Never.’ Her heart pounded and she felt inadequate to her anger, leaving most of it unexpressed.

  ‘Forgive me? Here you’ve messed up our lives and you talk about forgiveness. I wouldn’t even dignify the word.’ He shook his finger in her face. ‘You’ve become an unreasonable bitch. This thing you’re putting us all through – it makes no sense. Take the money and run. But to want the whole thing, as if I hadn’t existed, hadn’t worked my tail off to pay for any of it. That’s irrational.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about rationality. Was ruining my meat pastries rational?’

  ‘And my orchids? I suppose that was an act of reasonableness.’ He continued to unbutton his shirt, then drew it out of his pants. She remembered how once she had coveted his body. ‘My beautiful god.’ The memory echoed and reechoed, as if it were lost with her irrevocably in an abandoned cave.

  ‘I’m never going to give in, Oliver. Never.’

  ‘The court will decide.’

  ‘I’ll appeal. It’ll go on forever.’

  ‘Nothing is forever.’ He turned away from her and removed his pants and underwear, flaunting his nakedness. She watched as he moved toward the sauna. Before he opened the door, he bent over.

  ‘You can kiss my ass.’

  He went into the sauna and closed the door. She stood rooted there, beyond anger, oddly calm, feeling only hatred. Her eyes roamed his workshop. She was surprised how clearly her mind was functioning now. She saw a brace of chisels neatly lined up against a wall. Selecting one, she removed a wooden mallet hanging nearby and moved toward the sauna. Placing the cutting edge of the chisel in the crack of the heavy redwood sauna door, she swung the mallet against the wooden handle of the chisel, wedging it firmly in the crack.

  ‘Make him well done,’ she muttered as she ran up the stairs.

  18

  He had heard the bang, but paid little attention to it. He had, of course, understood her anguish about Mercedes. The confrontation had been inevitable and he was glad that it was over, at least for the moment. To think that he was capable of killing Mercedes was a misperception. How could she possible believe he was capable of such an act?

  He had been confused by her hatred of him from the beginning, but it was only now that he realized the full extent of it. He was not at all the rejected spouse with whom she had shared what he thought were good and productive years; he was the mortal enemy. Maybe she was unhinged. In need of psychological help.

  He hadn’t really discussed such a tack with Goldstein. How could they prove she needed help? She would never submit to psychological testing. But raising the point might influence the judge. Perhaps she was crazy, had gone off her rocker. He had made her a reasonable offer. Surely Solomon would have ruled in his favor. The optimism mollified him. He was sure that, in the end, he would win.

  The problem was that he was giving in to extraneous matters. He must guard against emotions going out of control. He would simply have to weather the waiting period, summon the patience to hold his line. She, on the other hand, had a tougher row to hoe. She was trying to prove that she had been damaged career-wise and, therefore, that her sacrifice had a value equal to the house and all its contents. A judge would have to be mad to grant such a depraved request.

  The heat rose in the sauna and he felt his pores open and his body ooze into delicious liquefaction. Nothing was better than a sauna to relieve tension. He felt pain and anxiety slip out of his body.

  He had set the sauna to its maximum heat, determined to cook himself into oblivion, so that the cold water of the shower, which completed the process, would shock him into luxurious relaxation. He would return, repeat the procedure three times, then drag himself up to bed and the dead sleep of physical depletion. There hadn’t been any new movies to see and he had stayed in the office doing legal research, more to fill up time than out of necessity. He had bought himself a pizza, which had lo
dged itself somewhere halfway between his mouth and his stomach. She had chosen a poor time for a confrontation.

  The wall thermometer indicated a temperature of 200 degrees, but he continued to lay supine on the redwood slats, feeling the sensation of melting, knowing how quickly the icy water would restore him, prod his adrenaline; then he would recede into sweet exhaustion. In the morning he would wake up fresh, able to meet the rigors of the new day.

  The sauna, he had always found, chased his depression, renewed him. He watched the little bubbles of sweat ooze out of his pores and he reached out and smoothed the oily moisture over his body. The sauna isolated him in the little redwood room and, in his mind, it became a womb, warm and comfortable. Anguish was not allowed in the sauna.

  By the time the temperature reached the red danger point of 220 degrees, he began to play a game with himself. He wanted to reach the furthest point of body heat, then quickly jump out into the shower. The change of temperature would shoot the adrenaline through him, recharge him, obliterate all terrors and anxieties. His body heat rose and he sat up and let the juices that had squeezed out of his body run down his chest and back. The oily liquid oozed out of his buttocks and he slid gently, enjoying the smoothness of the wood against his skin. He knew he was testing himself, pushing his endurance in the heat, if for no other reason than to prove the hardness of his will.

  Finally, he was satisfied that he had fulfilled this promise to himself, and he eased himself off the high bench and pushed at the door. It did not open. He pushed again. Still no movement. He braced his shoulder against it and heard a brief creak, but the door would not budge. Making hammers out of his fists, he beat against the door. He began to scream. The sound echoed in the room.

  He listened but heard no response. Weakening, he dropped to his knees and put his cheek against the wood slats of the floor, where the air was coolest. He rolled onto his back, with waning strength, and banged the door with the soles of his feet. He felt himself growing faint. He realized then that he had not shut off the sauna. Rising, feeling his weakness, gasping for each breath, feeling the heat singe his lungs, he reached up and switched the temperature dial to off.