“Mack!” she interrupted. “I’ve got a place to live now. I’m at Mr. Weilman’s.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“You do?” she said, laughing, pleased that he had tracked her down.
“Frances told me,” he said.
“Oh. How’d she find out?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Well, when are you coming to see me? You said you would!”
“I know,” he said, so tersely she realized Frances must be nearby.
She closed her eyes. “Will you come here? Please? I miss you,” she said in a small pinched voice.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Is everything all right? Are you okay?” His voice had fallen to a whisper.
“I need to see you,” she gasped. “You said you would.”
“Don’t. Martha, please don’t.”
“I mean as friends. I mean we can just talk. That’s all I want. I just want to talk to you.”
“No, I can’t. It’s better this way. Believe me. You know why. I’ve told you why.”
“Because of her! Because you love her!” She was crying.
“Martha, listen to me. The night you left here, she asked me again if anything had ever happened. And if it had, she said she wanted me out, right then and there.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? If I tell her the truth, then I’m gone. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”
“Well, what good does it do if I can’t even see you? You might as well be gone.” She looked up. “So go ahead and tell her! I don’t care, I’ll even tell her myself!”
“Look, stop it! Just calm down. I’ll come see you tonight, and we’ll talk. Be on the corner, and I’ll pick you up at eight.”
An hour later, when Mr. Weilman came home, she found him in the kitchen, pouring the sodden paper cups of lemonade into new cups. He put them in the freezer, and then he began to wipe off the countertop and cupboard doors. He worked in silence, and then he sighed. Laura Barrett had been waiting for him outside. She had told him what had happened. Martha tried to explain why she had made the children leave. Her voice grew thinner and thinner. “They could’ve turned on the stove and started a fire.” She leaned wearily against the table and closed her eyes. She knew she was right. Of course she was right. But, as always, she had turned it into something wrong.
“You don’t like children, do you, Martha?” he asked quietly.
“I like children!”
“No, you don’t. Admit it. You don’t.” He put the dishrag in the sink and turned around. “But I do. I like them very much,” he said, fixing her with a stern eye. “Do you understand?”
First she put on the dress she had worn to the PlastiqueWare party, then she took that off and put on a brown plaid skirt, but the wool felt too picky, so she took that off and threw it onto the heap of rejected clothes. She was getting that panicky feeling again. She had to stay calm. Nothing could go wrong. She wanted Mack to see her calm. Finally she changed into black pants and a pink shirt. She even put on lipstick and eye liner.
Mr. Weilman had continued to be not only quiet for the rest of the day, but sad. It occurred to her now that there hadn’t been another child in the house all afternoon. He ought to be grateful for the peace and quiet, she thought, coming down the stairs. He was in his den, asleep in his recliner, his chin on his chest, with the newspaper blanketing his lap. This was the only room that still had all its furniture, and it seemed cluttered and dark compared with the rest of the house.
She touched the old man’s arm lightly and called his name, but he didn’t respond. The corners of his sagging mouth were white with spittle. “Mr. Weilman,” she said, lifting his cold hand. “Mr. Weilman!” she called in alarm. Was he in a coma? Had he had a stroke? A heart attack? “Mr. Weilman, please wake up!” Was he dead? She patted his cheeks and his eyes shot open.
“Wha … wha … don’t hit me!” he cried, cringing from her.
His fearful look saddened her. “I was just trying to wake you up,” she said. He stared up dully as she explained that she was meeting a friend and probably wouldn’t be back until late. “I’ve got the key, so you can lock up and go to bed,” she said.
She hurried along the dusk-stilled street, past the plain wood houses and the tired voices of children whose mothers were washing away the day’s grime before putting them to bed.
She turned the corner, then slowed down, disappointed not to see Mack’s old car. A low white sports car inched toward her, its hubcaps flashing like spinning blades under the streetlight. She darted behind a tree, and the sports car pulled up to it.
“Martha!” Mack called, leaning to open the door for her.
Tanned and with his hair cut short, he looked wonderful; handsome, she thought; the scab on his chin the last trace of his fight with Getso. His navy-blue blazer, white polo shirt, chinos, and loafers made her wonder if he was wearing Steve’s clothes. But he was much taller and broader than Steve. Seeing how dressed up he was, she regretted changing into pants. She hoped they weren’t going anywhere too fancy.
“You got a new car?” she said, settling into the soft black leather seat, which molded itself to her body. She folded her arms to hide the stain she had just noticed on her shirt.
“It’s Frances’s new car,” he said, turning the corner. “As a matter of fact, I’m on my way to pick her up at the club.”
“But I thought we’d … I thought we were going to talk.” He was dressed this way for Frances.
“We are,” he said, pulling into the high-school parking lot. The tall arc lights flooded the empty lot and surrounding grass and buildings with a luminous pink cast. She looked up at the dark granite blocks, hating the school as much now as she had when she had gone there. The tennis courts were on the other side of the high hedges, and she could hear the rhythmic whack whack of a match being played.
“Okay, let’s talk. What would you like to talk about?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Anything.”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Have you been looking for a job?”
“No. Not yet.”
He nodded, staring out the window and not saying anything. “Now, see, if you had a job, we’d have that to talk about.”
“We can talk about your book,” she said. “How’s your book coming?”
“Pretty good,” he sighed, then hit the wheel. “Actually, I’m a little bogged down right now. This last week’s been rough. Between going away and all Frannie’s company, it’s been hard getting much work done.”
“That’s all she really cares about, you know, her friends and her parties. You should write somewhere else.” She leaned toward him. “I just thought, Mr. Weilman has three empty bedrooms. You could take one.”
“I’m very happy with my … with this arrangement. It’s me. I just have to discipline myself more.”
“I hope you know she’s not really going to pay all that money to your editor, don’t you?” she said bitterly.
“She says she is.…”
“Well, that’s a lot easier said than done!” she interrupted. “You don’t know how cheap she is!” she said with a nervous laugh.
“But I believe her. She really wants this for me. She says she wants me to have a fair shot.” He put his arm over the back of her seat. “I don’t say this to upset you, Martha, but your aunt is a very kind and a very generous woman.”
“When she wants something!”
“I guess we’re all a little bit like that.”
“I’m not!” She looked at him. “I’d do anything for you. Anything.”
“Martha.”
She stared at him. “I will. Anything you want. Anything you ask me, I’ll do it for you, Mack. Anything.”
He looked away, then took a deep breath and turned to her. “Martha, listen to me.” His face under the lights was washed with sweat, and his eyes glistened. “I did a terrible thing
to you.…”
“No, don’t say that!” She covered her ears.
He grabbed her wrist. “I said listen! I want this straight! I want you to understand. I took advantage of you, and I hate myself for it. I despise what I did and I despise what I am. But there’s nothing I can do about what happened. Nothing! I was drunk! I was sick and twisted and foul and disgusting.” He brought his face close to hers. “But I’m not now. THAT I can change. I can be good. I can finally do something! Martha, I can write. It’s all I care about. It’s the one thing that matters. It’s the only time I ever feel anything. It’s the only time I feel human. It’s the only thing in my life that’s real. It’s all that I want. Do you understand?”
“But don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you want a happy life?”
“There’s no such thing!” He shook his head. “Not for me. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He held up his finger. “The one thing I want is to write. Frances is making that possible. And nothing and no one can get in the way of that.”
“You mean me. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He nodded, and she didn’t know what to say.
“Are you still going to come and see me?” she asked hopefully.
“No. There’s no point to it. It’s not fair to you.”
“But I love you!” she blurted, unable to contain it any longer.
He started the car, and her head jerked back as he tore out of the parking lot.
Twenty-two
Two more weeks had passed, and she was still staying with Mr. Weilman. She missed Mack, and yet every time he answered the phone she would hang up without saying anything. At night she would close her eyes while she lay in the tub, picturing him at Mr. Weilman’s front door, begging her to let him in. And oh how she let him dangle night after night in that doorway while she pretended to make up her mind.
Though Mr. Weilman denied it, she was certain Frances called every few days to check on her. One way or another she would manage to stay in charge, even if she had to send spies to do it. At this very moment, Julia Prine was in the den with Mr. Weilman, supposedly to drop off flyers from Harmony House. There was an art auction next month, and Mr. Weilman was one of the chairmen.
Martha was in the kitchen, washing the sinkful of peanut-butter and jam knives and all the spoons the children had used this morning to make lemonade. When Julia came, Martha had locked the door and told the children they couldn’t come in because Mr. Weilman had company. She was enjoying the quiet. For a few days after that incident with Joshua Barrett, the mothers on the street had declared Mr. Weilman’s house off limits as long as Martha Horgan was there. But it didn’t take them long to get sick of having their own kitchens torn apart and their toilets plugged up with huge wads of toilet paper. One by one the children had straggled back. The house had become the neighborhood way station, and Mr. Weilman was happy again.
Most of the mothers were her age, and some of them had even gone to high school with her. She hadn’t realized who Laura Barrett was until she saw her watering her front lawn with her son, Joshua, the brat. Laura Barrett’s maiden name, Hopewood, had been paired in alphabetical sequence with Horgan all through school. Laura had made it clear at an early age that they might have to sit together or work on the same science project but no one could make her like Martha Horgan.
The thought of these women having lives that were so ordinary and so remote from hers was fascinating. When she was growing up, the second she climbed off the school bus and entered the isolation of her home, the pain of her school hours seemed light-years removed. Now being so near these women was as exciting as it was bewildering. From the second floor, she could see just about every house on the street. During the day she slipped from window to window, watching them unload bags of groceries from their station wagons and tear down their front walks to pry apart scuffling children. At night, she saw them greet their returning husbands, who for the most part were slimmer and younger-looking than their wives. The man diagonally across the street, in the pale-green house, didn’t usually get home until after midnight. At first she thought he worked long hours, until she began to notice how his car was parked in the morning. Sometimes the front wheel was up on the curb. Sometimes half of the car would be sticking out of the driveway into the street. Last night he had left it in the middle of the road. His wife had run out this morning at five and backed it into the driveway, and then she ran inside, looking up and down the street before she closed the door. So this was it, she thought, watching Sandy Lark from the yellow house tiptoe through her side yard barefoot in her bikini to get the mail; this was how everyone lived, everyone but her.
She dried the last of the silverware. She could hear the children. During the day, even though she usually avoided the kitchen, their presence still permeated the house, with the terror of their screams and shrill laughter and constant tears at every window.
Hearing footsteps, she spun around and checked to make sure the door was still locked. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling dizzy and lightheaded, the way she had all week. The house’s airiness seemed to be turning on her. She wasn’t sure what it was; there wasn’t enough confinement here, or maybe there just weren’t enough rules.
“Martha!” Julia said from the doorway. “How are you doing? I was just telling Ben I haven’t seen you in ages.”
What else had she told him? That if she gave him any trouble one call to Harmony House would get her out of his hair? “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you working?”
“No!” And she didn’t want any make-believe job at Harmony House either, thank you.
Julia looked at her watch. “How about lunch? Do you feel like getting out? We could drive up by Killington. I don’t have any appointments un …”
“No. I have to get Mr. Weilman’s lunch.”
“Then let’s take him with us.” She started for the door.
“I don’t want to go! I’m not even hungry. Take him. I don’t want to go.”
“Well, we’ll do it another time, then.” Julia looked at her. “Martha, are you all right? I mean, are you happy here?”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“Frances tells me she’s worried about you.”
“That’s her problem.”
“To tell the truth, I’ve never seen her so happy.” Julia looked at her. “I think she’s really serious about this Colin Mackey.”
Her tears rose with such blind suddenness that she bumped into Julia on her way out of the kitchen.
Later that afternoon, Wesley Mount called to ask if she might like to go on a picnic with him. A picnic! No. Absolutely not. She couldn’t, she told him, and after she hung up she realized she hadn’t even said goodbye.
After dinner, Mr. Weilman talked her into accompanying him on his nightly walk downtown. He had asked her every night this week and she had refused. But now that she was down here she didn’t mind at all. They walked slowly, because he had been feeling weak all day. The stores were closed, and there were only a few cars passing by. She was amused by his running commentary as they paused at each window. “Now, there’s a handsome suit, reminds me of a suit I had.… Look at that camera; you know, there’s a tribe in South America … Doilies, lace doilies, it all comes back, doesn’t it? See the bank, the Granite Trust over there? They had the first elevator in town. People came for miles around. They’d stand in line for a chance to go up and down. Come on. Let’s see if the lobby’s open,” he said, taking her arm.
“I hate elevators,” she said.
“Really?” Mr. Weilman said, cocking his head the way he did with the children, as if they required a level of hearing far more profound than anyone else. “Why would you hate elevators?”
“They give me a funny feeling. I’m always afraid I’ll get trapped inside.”
“Well, what would you do if you were in a skyscraper and you had to get to the fiftieth floor?”
“I’d go up the stairs.”
“You’d climb fifty flights of stairs rather than use an elevator?” He laughed when she insisted she would. “Have you ever done that? Climbed that many stairs?”
“I’ve never been in a skyscraper before.”
“Never? How about in New York City?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“What big cities have you been to?”
“Burlington. And once I went to Albany.” Both trips had been in her early teens, to doctors, who wanted to continue seeing her. Her father had viewed their proposed treatment as gimmicks to keep wringing money out of him. Sitting and talking never cured anything, as far as he was concerned. Wasn’t there some pill or an operation or something that would set her straight, he would ask, absolutely disgusted to be told no. After all, if something was broke he fixed it. There was always a way to make things right. We’re not talking about a balky engine here, Mr. Horgan. We’re talking about a psychological condition that’s only going to get worse. We’re talking about your daughter. Marthorgan.
Mr. Weilman had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands clasped to his chest. “Would you like to go to New York City with me? I love the city. My wife and I used to go all the time. I’d love to show it to you. Would you come with me? We could take the bus and we could see a show and …”
“No! I can’t, Mr. Weilman.”
“Of course you can. We’d have a wonderful time.”
“I can’t.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t.”
He looked at her. “Please tell me why.”
“I don’t go to new places. I just can’t. I can’t.”
“But why can’t you? What happens? What are you afraid of?”
She stared at him while she tried to put it into words. “It feels like pieces of me are falling off. Like I’m losing myself. These parts of me,” she gestured, “I can feel them dropping off.”
A Dangerous Woman Page 31
