A Dangerous Woman

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “You poor dear,” he said, taking her arm with such an anxious grip that she was alarmed. As they hurried back, she kept glancing over her shoulder to see what he was afraid of, but there was only the quiet darkness at their heels.

  The next morning, as soon as Mr. Weilman left for the supermarket, the front-door chimes rang, but when she went to answer it, no one was there. She closed the door, and then the kitchen buzzer sounded. Thinking someone had gone impatiently around back, she hurried into the kitchen. The minute she opened that door, the front chimes rang. It went on like that, with her running back and forth between the two doors. She knew it was the children, but if she wanted to catch them in the act she’d have to get ahead of them.

  This time, instead of running through the house, she left the front door slightly ajar and waited with her hand on the knob. Her eyes flickered toward the green tremble of the hydrangea bush in the dining-room window. Twigs snapped and leaves rasped against the screen. So that’s how they got back and forth unseen: they had been tunneling through the thicket of shrubs and cedar trees against the house. Now, sure enough, the kitchen buzzer rang. They held in the button until the electric buzzing had intensified to waves of jagged light in her eyes. All at once, the buzzing stopped.

  “Marthorgan!” a child called.

  She kept her eyes on the dining-room window. There … Now the shrub quaked, its branches dragging across the hazy screen. They were on their way, the brats. Oh, she could just picture them, dirt-smudged and giddy with sweat and terror, creeping up the steps, then, on their hands and knees, passing under the bay window. Footsteps; oh, the bold brats, listen to the thundering herd of them, not even caring.…

  She tensed as a shadow darkened the slit of the open doorway. The chimes played, and she both threw open the oak door and pushed out on the sagging screen door, banging it into him.

  “Get out of here, you brats … you …” she screamed, pushing him away from the door, hitting his chest with both hands, with the helpless realization that, like some careening driverless vehicle, she was out of control.

  “It’s me … Martha … it’s me,” said Wesley Mount as if it were dark and she couldn’t see him.

  “Those brats! It was those brats,” she panted, running to look over the railing at a thin gray squirrel that shook its frayed, dusty tail at her.

  He returned later that night, after calling hours ended at the funeral home. The three of them sat on the porch while Mr. Weilman told Wesley Mount about his peace of mind and his better health since he had stopped his chemotherapy.

  “It’s not for everyone,” Wesley agreed.

  “If I were a younger man like yourself, there’d be no question. But at my age the cure’s worse than the disease.”

  “It’s a quality-of-life issue, no doubt about it,” Wesley said, marching his feet from heel to toe while he sat there.

  Mosquitoes bit Martha’s ankles and arms, and now they were buzzing at her ears. She scratched her head and stamped her feet. She wanted to go inside. “Bite me,” she muttered, waving her hands at her ears, “but they never bite anybody else.”

  Mr. Weilman looked at her and chuckled. “Do you know, I just found out that Martha’s never been to New York City. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know,” Wesley said. “I’ve never been there either. But I’ve been to Albany,” he added quickly.

  “Then we should go. The three of us,” Mr. Weilman said, his pale eyes glittering under the dim porch light. “What a trip that’d be. I know that city like the back of my hand. The places I’d show you!”

  “I’ve got an assistant coming on after Labor Day,” Wesley said, glancing at her. “It shouldn’t take him too long to get the lay of the land.”

  “Then we’re going!” Mr. Weilman leaned over and took her hand. “Now, don’t say no, Martha. Give it a chance. Say you’ll think about it. Say maybe. Come on!” He squeezed her hand. “Please say it.”

  “Well. Well, maybe.”

  Mr. Weilman smiled, then yawned and slapped his knees. “I guess it’s that time. Lately the night never seems long enough.”

  He went inside, and they sat so still they could hear the stairs creaking on his way up to bed.

  “A trip to New York with Ben would be quite an experience, wouldn’t it?” Wesley finally said.

  “I’m not really going. I just said that. I didn’t want to make him feel bad,” she said. She was beginning to feel protective of Mr. Weilman. When lawn-care people or siding salesmen called, she told them he wasn’t home. Yesterday a magazine salesman and a woman selling window cleaner had come to the door, and she had turned them both away. The trouble with Mr. Weilman was, with no intention of buying anything, he would invite every single one of these people in and listen to their pitch, and then he would start talking, and the next thing you knew an hour had passed and they would be making up excuses why they had to go.

  “Oh, of course not,” Wesley said.

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “What a night,” Wesley said, leaning forward to see the stars. “Makes you never want winter back. It’s so long and cold,” he sighed, looking at her.

  “I know,” she said. “It is long.”

  “Too long.”

  “Umm, too long,” she said, wincing. Now what?

  They stared at his limousine, parked just past the maple tree so it wouldn’t end the night filmed with sap or pollen dust. Wesley began to rock, and the porch floor creaked.

  “Think it’ll hold me?” he asked, stopping the rocking chair.

  “Oh yes. This is a good porch. Good and strong. Very good wood.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Go home, she thought. Just go and leave her alone. What did he want? Why did he pester her?

  “They don’t build porches like this anymore,” Wesley said.

  “Why did you come here?” The question burst out of her.

  His head jerked back. “Well … I … I thought … I … I …” He swallowed with a thin strangling sound. “I just … just wanted to see how you were doing and … talk to you.” Suddenly seized by three violent sneezes, he shook out a large white handkerchief and blew his nose. “Allergies,” he gasped, and sneezed again. When he looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and teary. “I enjoy your company,” he said in a congested voice. “I like to talk to you.”

  “Well, I’m not a very good talker—I mean, conversationalist.”

  “Oh, but you are. Really!”

  His earnest expression made her laugh. “No, I think you just like to talk, that’s what I think!”

  “Actually, I don’t. And you may find that hard to believe, since that’s such a part of what I do for a living. I have to meet people. I have to talk to people. I have to talk them through things. I usually say the same things over and over. But then with other things it’s hard.” He was folding his handkerchief smaller and smaller, into a tight perfect square. “I might give the impression of glibness or maybe a certain ease of expression, but socially I’m really quite …” He looked at her. “… miserable at times.”

  “Birdy said you were shy in school.” She bit her lip to contain all the other things Birdy had said, how in high school he had been picked on so much his father finally had to send him away to private school.

  “I still am.” He held out his hands and raised his eyes in an almost prayerful attitude. “Here. Out in the world. But if you and I were in the funeral home right now and you were … Well, when you WERE there and your father was there, for instance, I knew what I was supposed to do and what you’d need and what I had to say to everyone. I could do that.” He nodded emphatically. “I did that.”

  “And you did a good job. A very good job,” she said, nodding, grateful that he said nothing about her breakdown over her father’s coffin.

  He smiled shyly. “Why, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t trying to be kind. I’m just a very honest person.”

  “And I lik
e that about you,” he said, so softly she could barely hear him.

  She could not believe she had agreed to go to the movies with him. She had been a nervous wreck over this for the last two days. She would call him and tell him she was sick, which wouldn’t be a total lie. She had almost fainted getting out of bed this morning. As the day went on, she had felt better, but what if it happened as they were going down the aisle of the dark theater and she just sank into a silent heap and he kept on going looking for seats and nobody knew she had even fainted until someone else came along trying to find seats and they tripped over her.

  Mr. Weilman came into the living room while she was looking up the number of the funeral home.

  “You’re not ready,” he said, obviously disappointed to find her in the same old skirt and baggy shirt she had worn for the past few days. “He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m not going,” she said, dialing. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Getting out will make you feel good,” Mr. Weilman said.

  “Mount’s Funeral Home,” answered the recording. “We are not able to come to the phone right now. At the sound of the tone, if you would leave your …”

  She’d tell him when he came.

  Wesley arrived at exactly six-thirty, the grandfather clock on the landing and the door chimes both ringing at once. She had the feeling he had gotten ready hours ago and ever since had been driving around looking at his watch. He wore a double-breasted blazer with monogrammed brass buttons and a wide red tie. Before she could say anything to him, Mr. Weilman had insisted on taking their picture. He posed them in the front hall, where they stood with frozen, strained smiles while he fiddled with his camera. He was always taking pictures of the children, and yet he never seemed sure how to work his camera. Martha wondered if he ever bothered putting film in it or, like the freezer cups, whether it was just another way of catering to the children.

  Wesley said he was afraid the tickets would be sold out. He patted his face with his folded handkerchief.

  “Smile,” said Mr. Weilman, ignoring him.

  “That’s okay. I don’t think I can go,” Martha said.

  “Be just a minute now,” Mr. Weilman said. “I’m waiting for the red light.”

  “Well, I suppose we could always make the second show,” Wesley said.

  “Here we go!” said Mr. Weilman.

  “I look awful,” Martha said.

  “You always look so comfortable,” Wesley said, turning to her. “I admire that in a person.”

  “Smile, Wesley,” Mr. Weilman called. “You look about as happy as an undertaker!”

  “I never take good pictures,” Wesley said, turning back. He folded his arms.

  “I don’t either,” she said, folding her arms.

  “Oh, I’m sure you do, you’re so pretty,” Wesley said.

  “Say ‘cheese’!” The camera flashed, and it seemed to suck Mr. Weilman toward them in its beam. Wesley caught the stumbling old man and held him upright, while Mr. Weilman insisted he was fine; looking through the aperture for so long had disoriented him.

  After Wesley remarked what a hot, muggy night it was, they drove downtown in silence. She kept searching out her window for something to talk about.

  “I like that statue,” she said of the sculpture ahead on the corner. It was a sleek bronze dog straining back on its invisible leash from a parking meter.

  “Really? I never quite got the point,” he said, stopping at the light. His face was beaded with perspiration.

  “Birdy said it’s how people are in this town. They don’t want to be forced into things,” she said, pleased at how well that had come out.

  The light changed, and he pulled into the parking lot. “I don’t go to the movies much,” Wesley said quickly, as if he thought she should know. He patted his temples and upper lip with his handkerchief.

  The TriStar Cinema was in the middle of the shopping center that had been built on the site of the old railway station.

  “Me neither,” she said, trying to unbuckle her seat belt. She twisted it into her lap to get a better look at it. She tried to shake it open.

  “There,” Wesley said, reaching and pushing in the tab. “That one doesn’t get much use.”

  They walked toward the theater entrance, where two girls were smoking cigarettes in long white holders. They had the same dry frizzy hair, black-lined slits for eyes, and white faces pinched up like mean little lap dogs. Martha tensed, expecting them to say something. She hurried by, surprised at the silence.

  After Wesley bought the tickets, she followed him to the refreshment stand. Seeing such a variety of candy gave her a panicky feeling. She didn’t know what she wanted. Nothing, that’s what she’d say, and avoid saying anything stupid. She was relieved to see that he had already ordered two large popcorns and sodas.

  The minute they sat down, the lights dimmed and the previews began. They were in the fifth row from the front. Martha smiled up at the screen. Everyone was beautiful. Even homely people managed to look beautiful up there. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she looked around. There were only about fifteen or twenty people in the theater. She kept trying to see if she knew any of them.

  “What’s wrong?” Wesley whispered.

  “Nothing.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat your popcorn?”

  “Yes.” She had forgotten about it. “What movie is this?”

  He looked at her. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Blue Lie. It’s a French movie. I was going to ask you which one you wanted to see, and then I got so bollixed up at the ticket counter, I forgot. It’s a mystery. It got excellent reviews. But if you don’t like it, we can get tickets for another one.”

  She assured him this was fine. Just being here was good enough. The movie was starting. The music was so loud the walls and floor vibrated.

  “You don’t mind subtitles, do you?” he whispered.

  “No,” she said, eyes wide on the screen, where a beautiful woman with long dark hair threw back a satin sheet and stepped out of bed completely nude. She walked across the room and opened the closet door, but hanging inside there were only men’s suits and shirts. She picked her own clothes up from the floor, then sat on the side of the bed and began to dress. The camera followed the slow caressing rise of her stockings up her leg to her glistening thigh.

  “I’m sorry,” Wesley whispered. “They said it was a mystery. I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” she whispered, holding her glasses steady. The room flooded with light as a door opened beyond the bed. From the doorway a muscular young man in jeans gestured for the woman to hurry. As she rose from the bed to embrace him, the camera focused on the blur of sheets, then zoomed in on a man’s head on the pillow, his eyes frozen in horror. There was a bloody flap at his throat where it had been slit. Martha screamed and covered her eyes, and behind her someone laughed nervously.

  Wesley grabbed her hand. “It’s just a dead man,” he whispered.

  “I know!” She pulled her hand away, angry with her childish outburst. No one else had screamed.

  During the most explicit sex scene, she and Wesley stared up at the screen. Though not a limb or thread touched, she was so acutely aware of his nearness that her face flushed and her eyes burned. Desire seeped into every corpuscle, and now everything reminded her of Mack. At the end, she tried not to let Wesley see her cry, but the tears streamed down her cheeks. He passed her his scented handkerchief and took her half-eaten popcorn tub onto his lap while she blew her nose. The lights came on, and people were leaving the theater.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered, leaning in to her.

  “It’s just that it was so sad,” she gasped, grateful that he sat waiting until she was ready to go.

  They drove slowly along Main Street to Sewards Dairy Bar, where Wesley ordered two chocolate ice-cream cones. He took a handful of extra napkins, which he tucked under his arm. He passed her cone through the window and then, when he got in
the car, he laughed because she was still eating the popcorn.

  “I always try and make things last,” she explained, wrapping a napkin around the stem of her cone. “Except ice cream,” she said. “That’s one good thing you can’t make last. There’s no dilly-dallying with ice cream.” She licked wide brown swirls as she turned the cone faster and faster.

  She stopped. His mouth quivered as he watched her. She felt stupid. She wished she hadn’t come. She had been acting like a goof, and now he was looking at her the way Birdy used to when she had gone too far, when she was out of control and didn’t know a way on earth to get back.

  “Would you like to eat your cone here?” His eyes widened. “Or I could bring you back to Mr. Weilman’s, of course. Or we could just ride around and eat our cones.” Again his mouth trembled. He wet his lips.

  “I don’t care,” she said, her voice thickening with the ice cream. She kept clearing her throat and swallowing.

  “It’s up to you. I really have no preference.” He pulled onto the road, licking his cone as he drove.

  Stung by his clipped tone, she didn’t say anything. He was annoyed that she couldn’t make up her mind. Well, then, he could just drop her off right here, for all she cared. Who did he think he was?

  Suddenly the dusty windshield was mottled with enormous raindrops. Even at high speed, the wipers couldn’t keep up with the downpour. Wesley put on his emergency flashers and coursed slowly through the glare of rainwater flowing along the road.

  “Don’t worry,” he shouted over the hollow rain beat on the roof. “I’m an excellent driver. I’m very experienced.” He glanced over frowning. “Is your seat belt buckled?”

  A few moments later, he pulled into the driveway of the funeral home. Here, he explained, he could drive right under the portico and keep her dry. Or they could just sit in the car, she thought, looking up at the dripping-wet bricks, and for a second she was afraid she had said it out loud when he said the same thing, only adding, “But this might be a long storm.”

  Seeing her hesitation, Wesley reminded her that there hadn’t been a wake tonight. She scowled. That hadn’t even occurred to her. She had been wondering what they would do in there, what there was to talk about. She wished he’d stop staring at her the way he did when he thought she wasn’t looking; and those sighing sounds he kept making. Like panicky little cries. What? Was he offended? Disappointed? Bored? Oh, this was such a mistake, the whole evening, a terrible mistake she would never ever make again.