by Daniel Quinn
“Who?”
“The son of the Godfather. The guy who had half the Mafia assassinated while he was attending a baptism.”
“Oh.”
“Shit. You know how I’d handle it. If I was Michael Corleone, I’d go to New York and kill the bastard.”
Ginny laughed harshly. “Are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”
She shook her head, her mouth twisted in a defeated grin.
“I’m serious, Ginny. People who do what your father’s doing forfeit certain rights, it seems to me. He’s put our backs to the wall, given us no way out—except to kill him. We didn’t set that up, he did.”
“I see. You’re trying to justify it intellectually. And if you manage that, do we zip off and kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Forget it, love. Ruthless people don’t bother to justify hurting people, they just go ahead and do it. You’re not cut from that pattern—and I’m glad you’re not.”
“You mean . . . you wouldn’t go along with it?”
Ginny laughed. “That’s a little like asking a woman if she’ll marry you if you decide to ask her. Definitely out of bounds. I didn’t give you this decision to make, Greg, and I sure as hell won’t react to it in advance.”
“No, I see that. I’m sorry.” He stood up and jammed his hands in his pockets as if they were useless objects.
Ginny stood up too.
“Greg, don’t torture yourself about this. It isn’t your responsibility to make everything come out right. I tried to warn you that you couldn’t make it come out right, but my heart just wasn’t in it. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me.”
He shook his head miserably. “I’ve got to think.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Ginny, making it easy for him, nodded.
XXVI
“DIRECTORY ASSISTANCE. WHAT CITY?”
“I think it would be Saratoga Springs,” Greg said.
“What name?”
“Franklin Winters.”
“I have a Franklin E. Winters listed in Woodford.”
“That’s him.”
She gave him the number, and his hand trembled as he made a note of it. Without giving himself time to think about it, he dialed it and listened to the buzz at the other end.
Ten hours of stewing over the problem had gotten him nowhere, because, of course, it wasn’t a problem: problems have solutions. This was simply a choice he had to make—an unthinkable choice between renouncing Ginny and confronting Franklin Winters with the intention of doing murder. Neither was acceptable to Greg Donner—to Greg Donner as he was. Ultimately, since he wanted to think about something, he thought about what he was, and concluded that he wasn’t enough of anything to handle this crisis. An easier-going man would kiss Ginny good-bye and think, Better luck next time, ole buddy—or blow Franklin’s head off and think, Well, the bastard had it coming. A more righteous man would kiss Ginny good-bye and think, Not even for you will I do murder—or blow Franklin’s head off and think, I’ve done a service to the world.
It was just like grappling with one of Laocöon’s snakes: whatever end of the thing he grabbed left an end free to strangle him.
At two in the afternoon he opened a bottle of bourbon. Whatever he decided would be a disaster, so it didn’t seem to matter whether he decided it rationally or irrationally, drunk or sober. By five he’d degenerated to the point of wondering what his father would do (renounce Ginny, unquestionably) and what a real man would do (murder her father, unquestionably); he alone seemed afflicted with this moral paralysis. At seven he remembered that, after all, there was a third choice—but couldn’t recall what it was; at last it came to him: he could simply decline to make a choice.
He made a pot of coffee, put a frozen dinner in the oven, and, while it cooked, took a long shower. Halfway back to sobriety, he realized it was true: he wasn’t going to make a decision tonight; it simply wasn’t possible. He had to buy himself a respite—and there was only one person to buy it from.
He made another pot of coffee and drank it watching the sky grow dim over the lake. When he was able to make out the glow of lights from the Michigan side, he decided he was ready to tell lies to Franklin Winters.
“I imagine you know who this is,” he said when Franklin was on the other end of the line.
“Sorry. I’ve always disliked telephone guessing games.”
“This is Gregory Donner.”
“Ah. Ginny’s beau.”
Greg, struggling to control himself, let a long breath out through his nose. “You can stop now. You win. I give up.”
“You’re giving Ginny up?”
“Yes.”
“One of life’s little tragedies.”
“Yes.”
“All the same, a wise choice. You would have found her too much for you.”
“Yes.”
“I presume you’ve told Ginny your decision.”
“I’ll tell her in the morning.”
“I see. Then you haven’t quite made up your mind.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then why put it off? You’ll sleep better knowing the nasty work is done.”
“You think so?” Franklin hadn’t given the words “sleep better” any special emphasis, but his meaning was clear.
“Very definitely. But it must be done. You mustn’t leave any grounds for false hope. That would be cruel.”
“All right.”
“You must break it off finally and completely. For all time. Without reservation.”
“All right.”
“You understand that I’ll know if you don’t. From her.”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s all right.”
“Yeah. Look. I want to hear this from you. You’ll leave me alone if I do this?”
There was a disdainful snort on the other end of the line. “Do you imagine you’re personally of some importance to me, young man?”
“No.”
“I think you do, because I’ve taken a certain amount of trouble over you. Let me disillusion you. You are nothing to me, not even a plaything. You were simply a handy tool, and I used you to make a point. Do you understand?”
“Yes. That’s what Ginny said.”
“Naturally she would not misunderstand. As a person, I bear you no ill will whatever. Go in peace. Marry a shop girl and be happy.”
“All right.”
The line went dead, and Greg replaced the receiver. He stood thinking for a moment, then picked it up again and dialed Ginny’s number.
An hour’s rehearsal, he knew, wouldn’t make it any easier.
She answered, sounding exhausted, and he said, “Ginny. . . I’m sorry.”
“I know. It’s not your fault.”
“Is there no way at all? No way to hide?”
“No, Greg. You know there isn’t.”
You must break it off finally and completely. For all time. Without reservation. I’ll know if you don’t. From her.
“Then I suppose it would be best if. . .
“Yes?”
“There’s no point in torturing ourselves.”
“No.”
“What I mean is . . .
“Greg, you don’t have to spell it out. I understand. Good-bye is good-bye. There’s no other way to do it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that any more, Greg. Don’t even think it. There’s nothing you could have done and there’s nothing I could have done—except keep you out of it.”
“I’m not sorry about that.”
“Good-bye, Greg. Be well.”
“You too, Ginny.”
And that was that.
Feeling numb, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink.
I can always take it back in the morning, he told himself.
Or simply let it stand, another part of him answered.
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He hurled his glass against the wall and it exploded in a glittering shower. He stood for a few moments watching the amber stain drool down the wall. Then he took out another glass and reached for the bottle.
XXVII
WHEN HE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, Greg found that his confusion had evaporated during the night, leaving behind a hard crystal of certainty: he’d rather live out his life knowing he was a murderer than wondering if he was a weakling. It wasn’t something he was proud of or ashamed of. It was a simple fact about himself, and he wasn’t going to chew on it to see how he liked it; he swallowed it whole and went on. He showered, skipped breakfast, dressed in a suit and tie, and went to his bank, where he withdrew a thousand dollars. Then he stopped at a phone booth and dialed Ginny’s number.
“Don’t talk,” he told her, “just listen. Everything I said last night I had to say to get your father off my back. I called and convinced him I was backing out, but that wasn’t good enough. I had to convince you as well. Do you understand? It was the only way I could get a night’s rest.”
“I don’t understand. What are you going to do?”
“Plan B, Ginny. I’m putting Plan B into effect.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Listen. Will you listen?” He said he was listening. “It’s too much, Greg. I thought about it too—yesterday, when there wasn’t anything else to think about. It’s too much for one person to do for another. I can’t accept that much.”
“I’m not doing it for you, Ginny. I’m doing it for me, so I can go on living with myself.”
“Look.” She paused. “If I could get us out of this mess by cutting off my right hand, would you let me do that?”
“No. But that’s not the same. If I thought I was mutilating myself, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Greg, please . . .”
“Look, Ginny, I’ve made my decision. Now let’s have yours. If you tell me not to go, I won’t go. Easy. Just tell me not to go, and that’ll be it. Good-bye, and the best of luck to us both.”
“Christ . . .”
“Well?”
“I won’t tell you not to go.”
“Fine. Then I’m on my way.”
“Wait a second. If you’re going, I’m going.”
“No.”
“Then don’t go. I mean it. You’re not the only one around here who has to live with himself. Do you understand?”
Greg laughed. “Yes, I guess so.”
“Besides . . . I have a gun. My mother slipped it into my luggage before I left.”
He thought for a moment. “Yes, that would simplify things. All right. I’ll be there in ten minutes. See if we can get a direct flight to Albany.”
Ginny made the journey to Albany in a furious silence because Greg, when they’d picked up their tickets, had reserved seats on a 6:15 return flight. It wasn’t the reservation itself that infuriated her; that could easily be changed. It was his offhand approach to the thing, his bland assumption that it was all going to be a snap—and this she couldn’t challenge until they were alone three hours later in a parking lot outside the Albany airport.
When they found their rented car, Greg handed her the keys and said, “You’d better drive.”
“Thanks,” she replied in a tone that made him ask if some-thing was wrong.
When they were inside the car, she said, “Yes, there’s something wrong. Are you thinking we’re going to do this in broad daylight?”
Greg was startled that she’d thought anything else. “It’s out in the country, isn’t it?”
“It’s out in the country, yes. But this isn’t Wyoming, you know. The house isn’t sitting in the middle of a section, it’s sitting in the middle of forty acres. There are people around.”
“Can we get in without being seen?”
“Yes, probably.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that a shot’s going to be heard, Greg.”
“Okay. But wouldn’t it be heard at night as well?”
“Yes, but—”
“And wouldn’t a shot at night be more suspicious than one in the daytime?”
“Yes, but—”
“I mean, there are lots of things to shoot in the country in the daytime, but the only thing you shoot at night is your fellow man.”
Ginny collapsed with a bitter sigh.
He said, “Couldn’t we talk about this while we drive?”
She started the car and headed away from the airport. “Why,” she asked, “are we in such a fucking hurry?”
“Because I don’t see any point in dawdling. I want to get it over with and go home.”
“I see. We’ll explain that to Mike and Mrs. Doherty.”
“Who are they?”
“The handyman I told you about. And the housekeeper.”
“Oh. Would they be there on a Sunday?”
“Maybe not. If they are, I guess we can just kill them too.”
“Take it easy, Ginny. There must be some way of finding out.”
“I suppose we could call Franklin and ask.”
He gave her a long, baffled look, which she ignored.
“Ginny, what is it? What’s the matter?”
She kept her eyes on the road ahead for a couple miles. Then she said, “Sorry. I guess this is just my reaction to a bad case of nerves. Go on with what you were saying.”
“Well, what I was saying was: How do we find out where Mike and Mrs. Doherty are?”
Ginny sighed and thought for a moment. “I can call Mrs. Doherty’s house and see if she’s there. I don’t know Mike’s last name, so I can’t call him.”
“I just doesn’t seem likely he’d be working today. Did he ever work on a Sunday when you were there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Besides, we’d see a car or something, wouldn’t we?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then I’m not going to worry about it.”
He reached into the back seat, opened the suitcase that had ridden in the baggage compartment of the jetliner, and took out the pistol Ginny’s mother had given her. He’d looked it over at the apartment, but he did it again now. It was a solid piece of work in blued metal, a Smith & Wesson revolver. He didn’t know the caliber but assumed it was a .32 or .38. He broke it open, took out the cartridges, and examined them one by one. He closed it, pulled the trigger; the hammer drew back, snapped forward with a satisfactory click, and the cartridge chamber advanced. It seemed to be in working order. He reloaded it and put it in the glove compartment.
“What exactly are we going to do?” Ginny inquired.
He’d already asked if she still had her keys to the house; she did. He now asked if there was a spot to park that was out of sight of both the road and the house; she said there were plenty. He settled a few more points and outlined a plan. Then he asked how long it would be before they arrived.
“About half an hour.”
He glanced at his watch and nodded without betraying the fact that his stomach had lurched at the news.
There wasn’t another car in sight when they pulled into a road that looked to Greg like a footpath in a forest. A small, weathered sign at the side read: WINTERS, PRIVATE.
They had stopped at a shopping mall outside Saratoga Springs to check on Mrs. Doherty. Since Ginny’s voice might be recognized, Greg made the call; he learned that the housekeeper was at home cooking dinner and was no relation to a mythical aunt of his in Poughkeepsie. When he returned to the car, Ginny was nowhere to be seen, and he’d fumed for ten minutes until she returned with her purchase: two pairs of rubber gloves. He frowned over them but finally said, “Yes, I suppose so.”
They bounced their way up the road for a hundred yards, and Ginny pulled into an opening in the trees.
“This is about halfway to the house,” she said.
He nodded and checked the time. It was 3:27, local time. He got the revolver from the glove compartment and slid it into t
he side pocket of his suit jacket. Then, feeling ridiculous, he put on the rubber gloves and opened the car door.
Keeping well back in the undergrowth, they circled the house, with the expected result: there was no sign of Mike or any other visitor. Bypassing the front door, which opened more or less directly into the living room, Ginny led them to a side door, which opened into the kitchen. Greg stepped inside with gun at the ready. The room was empty.
After a few moments, the door at the right, leading to the dining room, opened a crack, and Franklin Winters stuck his head in.
He frowned at them with startling composure and said, “I thought I heard someone come in back here.”
Neither Ginny nor Greg had arrived with an opening line.
Franklin threw open the door to the dining room.
“You may as well come in,” he said, and turned to lead the way into the living room.
“Hold it,” Greg said.
Franklin gave him and his gun a scornful glance and said, “Poop.” Then he disappeared into the living room.
Greg gave Ginny a baffled look, and she said, “Don’t let him take charge. He’ll turn it into a social call.”
He shrugged helplessly and followed the old man, who was heading toward an arrangement of three mismatched chairs. One of them was the leather wingback in which he’d taped his video letter to Ginny. He sat down in it and crossed his legs.
“Don’t sit down,” Greg said.
“Why ever not?” he snapped. “If you’re going to shoot me, I may as well be comfortable.”
“Get up.”
Franklin gave him a disgusted look. “Poop,” he said again, and smiled. “I don’t recall ever having used that word before, but it seems wonderfully apt in these circumstances. I wonder if it’s even in use today. In my boyhood it was a genteel four-letter word.” he shook his head sympathetically. “You look damned silly standing there in those rubber gloves, with that gun in your hand.”
Greg felt damned silly.
The old man leaned forward to peer around him. “Ginny, why don’t you make us some coffee?”
Ginny, still standing rigidly in the doorway, said, “Greg, don’t let him talk.”
