No Word From Winifred

by Amanda Cross

  “But the anger kept growing. People use the word obsession, but they don’t know what they’re saying. I’ve now read about obsessive types and that’s me. There was nothing in my head but Winifred. Oh, life went on. Obsessive people can appear to be functioning just fine; that’s why they get away with it for so long, and everyone’s surprised as hell when they burst forth into some insane act. What it ended up with was—I had to find her, I simply had to. It wasn’t all that hard, either. I got out of Biddy the postcard she’d had from Winifred—I terrified her into giving it to me, did she tell you that? Probably she didn’t. Wonderful, decent Biddy. People don’t expect a woman that stacked to be that decent, but that’s just another of the fool ideas we all live with. I went to the post office I got off the postmark on the card, and I asked where I could find her. It was that simple. But in the end, I didn’t see her. I still had that much control. I was afraid—I’m not sure of what: that I’d kill her, that I’d make such a scene she or someone would call the police. Anyway, at least I could think of her where she was.”

  He stopped talking for a moment, and gulped his beer. Kate refilled his glass, but he didn’t notice her; he was away, he was back in his story.

  “I tried to keep away from that farm, but in the end I knew I had to see her. I went back there. I hovered. No one ever saw me, you know. I’d become a sneak, a con man. I couldn’t see her anywhere. That didn’t mean that much; but then the farmer came out to do the milking—I was there damn early in the morning. I don’t suppose you know about obsessions. It was Winifred’s job to do the milking, I’d figured that out. I crept around to her A-frame, but I couldn’t see in; there didn’t seem to be anyone there. And then I saw the mailman arrive and put mail into the farmer’s box. He was still in the barn. There was no one in sight, so I grabbed the mail out of the box, one of those rural-delivery-type mailboxes. The mailman hadn’t even shut the box tight; it didn’t make any noise when I opened it. There was a card from Winifred with a picture of the hotel where she was staying. She must have picked it up in the hotel lobby. It just said she was staying there, but liked her A-frame better. London was great. She’d be back in a few days. I read it, and it took all the strength I possessed to put that card back. I’d have given my life for that card, if it had been addressed to me.

  “Then I went crazy again. Finally, I called her at that hotel in London. I kept trying till I got her. I told her unless she flew back on the next plane, I’d kill Biddy and the children. The way I sounded, I don’t doubt she believed me. She was right to believe me; I was mad. She said she would take the next plane back. She did. Winifred always kept her word. I just hung around the airport from the first possible moment she could have arrived. I met every plane from London. I’d told her I’d meet her at Kennedy; I said I’d be waiting. And I waited.”

  For the first time since Martin had begun talking, Kate thought of Reed, hearing all this. What would he make of it? What was she making of it? I’ve never heard a confession before, she thought. I’ve never understood why confessions are so convincing; why we believe them, why priests believe them, and why they seem so real on videotape, as Reed says they do a good part of the time. We go through life, and there’s so little we know. Martin, who had paused for another gulp, another stare out the window, spoke again.

  “I’d made a reservation at a hotel in the airport. When she came through into the baggage area, I saw her as though she had a spotlight on her. I think I could find her in a crowd of thousands, I could spot her anywhere. She didn’t have any baggage checked through, she said, only the shoulder bag she had with her. I took her off to the room. When I saw her there, when I took her in my arms, I started to weep—bawl, I mean—as though I’d never stop. She held me. She didn’t say much. I don’t know what she understood. I didn’t tell her all this, I didn’t tell her much of anything. I made love to her—my God, it didn’t even occur to me to ask her if she was hungry. I didn’t ask her anything. I clung to her as though we were on a sea, and she was all there was in sight that floated. Then I fell asleep, into the first sound sleep I’d had since the day I saw them both there, laughing in that goddamn restaurant. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke up because she was shouting ‘Martin, Martin’ and pulling at my arms. And I was on top of her, choking her; I was trying to kill her, and I was asleep. Can you picture that? I was killing her in my sleep.

  “Something broke inside me then. I knew that if I didn’t take desperate measures—what are the words that don’t sound cheap, that haven’t been overused in a hundred stupid films and books?—someone would be killed. I was out of control. So you pictured me burying Winifred in the basement. Well, you weren’t far wrong. I’d have buried someone, or killed myself.

  “Winifred understood that. ‘What can I do, Martin?’ she said. ‘Just tell me what I can do.’ And I said: ‘Go away, far away, as far as a plane can take you. And stay there; don’t ever come back. Promise me you’ll never come back.’ ‘If I go,’ she said, ‘how will I know Biddy will be all right, and the children?’ I told her it was a bargain. I promised her, and I meant it. If I knew she was out of reach, out of everyone’s reach in my world, not in any country where Biddy could get to her, or run into her, not even in the hemisphere, I could manage. I could promise her Biddy and the kids would be all right. ‘Where shall I go?’ she said, just like that. I told her I didn’t mean right that minute, I meant in a while. ‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s arrange it now. But how will I pay for the ticket?’ I told her I’d put it on my American Express card. I’d found put when Biddy went to California that you could pay for travel over five or six months. I’d manage that. So we just walked out of the hotel room. She had her flight bag on her shoulder. She spent some time in the bathroom, and that was the only preparation she made, for going around the world. We went to Pan Am, which seemed a likely airline, and there was a flight to India leaving in a few hours. We bought her a ticket. She had her passport. It must sound insane, told this way, but that’s how it happened. ‘I’m used to traveling light, and to impulsive moves, Martin; don’t worry about me. I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like in other parts of the world. I may not stay in India. I may go who knows where. But I won’t return to America or Europe—not, at least, for as long as I can see ahead. All right, Martin? Will you try to get over this obsession? Try anything there is: religion, psychoanalysis, whatever will help. Will you do that in your turn?’ ”

  Martin was calmer now. He turned from pacing, turned from the window, and sat down opposite Kate. He poured himself more beer. “She actually left,” he said. “We had a meal in the airport restaurant; that’s where Stan Wyman saw us. She held out her hand when he held out his and said, ‘I’m Winifred Ashby.’ He must have seen I was besotted with her. Even that fool could see that much. He didn’t hang around, thank God. Winifred wrote a letter to the people who paid out her little income, telling them to send her checks to the American Express office in Delhi. I mailed it later. What she felt worst about was the farmers. She had given them her word she would return. I pointed out that as far as anyone knew, she would have disappeared, so they wouldn’t think she’d deserted only them. I think that comforted her somewhat. When she got on the plane, I knew that I’d been saved from some terrible fate—that we all had. Crazy? Sure it’s crazy. So are many things we never know about as we live our tidy lives. I used to say I was obsessed with Biddy when we first met and I wanted to marry her. But I didn’t know what obsession is. No one knows who hasn’t been there.” He fell silent. It seemed to Kate his voice had been filling the room for hours, for longer than she could count. They just sat there, feeling the silence. Then Martin spoke, differently:

  “I don’t know where she is,” he said, “but I know she’s alive. I know because I can feel it; if she were not alive, I’d feel it. That may not make a great deal of sense; believe it or not. She’s alive, but I don’t know where she is. I’ll never know.”

  “
Another beer?” Kate asked, after a time. “Would you like anything else?” What was there to say, except to play the hostess, to offer nourishment of the only kind available.

  “I’ll be going,” Martin said. “You’ve done me good. I’m glad you know what happened. I have to trust you not to talk. Will you tell anyone?”

  “I’ll have to,” Kate said. “That is, I’ll have to tell a number of people that Winifred went to India, and that we don’t know where she is; that she doesn’t expect to return. I won’t tell anyone except my husband what you’ve told me, unless I have to. I can’t think why I would have to, but you never know.”

  “I’ll settle for that,” Martin said. “I’m trying a number of distractions. I think I’ll be all right. All right for the children, and my students, I mean. I’ll never be really all right for anything again. We began,” he said, standing in the hallway, “by talking about Graves and Stanton. I’ll tell you one difference between them. I think Graves would have understood this obsession. Stanton wouldn’t have.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Kate said. “Good-bye.” And she held out her hand. Martin took it. What right had he to do what he’d done? Kate thought. Why did I shake his hand? Because, she thought, he had won his struggle, and Winifred was a wanderer at heart. He had not exiled her. Whatever she was in search of, Winifred could not be exiled. She belonged to no place special. I need a drink, Kate thought. A double martini. Where the hell is Reed?

  Chapter 17

  Reed, having let the plainclothesman out the door, came into the living room and held Kate in his arms. She was shaking; he held her until she became still and moved from him to pour herself a long glass of club soda, which she drank thirstily. “Who was that man?” she asked.

  “He was an old friend from the police, my unofficial companion in eavesdropping. No, don’t worry,” he said, reaching out for her as she began to protest. “He’ll forget everything he heard tonight unless, for some unforeseen reason, we ask him to remember it. I admit he was unnecessary, as it turned out, but do try to remember, dear Kate, that you were in here alone with a man capable of murder, and one whom I thought had already committed murder. As you may have noticed, I am not your James Bond type.”

  “I did promise not to tell anyone . . .”

  “And you haven’t; nor will the policeman. You’re not really worried about the policeman.”

  “Reed, I feel two powerful and contradictory emotions at the same time, and I can’t seem to get them to settle down together in my mind.”

  “That she’s alive, and that she’s lost.”

  “Lost to all of us, yes. Didn’t you find it strange, her agreeing to go like that, at once, so far?”

  “No,” Reed said, “and neither will you when the shock of all this is past. I think his demand answered some need in her; she’s a seeker, she’s looking for something.” Kate cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “No,” Reed said, “I don’t mean something profound or mystical; she’s not looking for an answer; she’s far too intelligent—too wise, if you don’t mind the word—to think there is one. I’m sure she isn’t after ‘peace of mind’ or anything like that. But I think she wants to experience something beyond what seems to be available in our ‘developed,’ if that’s the word, civilization. Look at it practically: she’s a vigorous woman; she can fix machinery and care for farm animals. She has a gift for friendship and for solitude, an excellent combination. A lot of people, I’ve noticed, like to think they have a gift for solitude, but they don’t. Either they’re not alone as much as they imagine or they’re just plain lonely. Winifred will be all right. She may even be happy. Maybe she fell in with his demands, but I don’t think she would have done that just to assuage him. It wouldn’t have made sense, and Winifred makes sense.”

  “You’re right,” Kate said. “I see that. I’m just being childish. Once I knew she wasn’t dead, I wanted her produced on the spot, or at least promised for a few days hence. Charlie will feel the same. I’ll have to tell them, Charlie and Toby and Leighton, and I guess Biddy too, that Winifred’s gone, but alive. So that’s over.”

  “What you need,” Reed said, “is something to eat. Not hungry? How about a drink. This is the sort of situation where you require brandy forced down your throat. It’s a shock, my love, and you can’t expect to recover in minutes. Here, drink this, and just let me hold you.”

  Kate leaned against him on the couch. “What will happen to the money to come to her from Sinjin’s will? How will she get it? She’ll need it, won’t she?”

  “Either she’ll let someone know where to send it or it will accumulate until called for. She’ll know it’s waiting, should she need it. That’s the best function of money anyway. I’m glad you’re asking questions. That shows you’re recovering. I was scared there for a minute.”

  Toby, Charlie, and Biddy took the news much as Kate had—relieved and, not quite simultaneously, disappointed. They asked endless questions, naturally enough, and Kate did her best to respond without answering them. There wasn’t that much to explain, since Martin had to be kept out of the account of Winifred’s sudden decision to go far away. But, as Reed had understood, that decision did not seem uncharacteristic to anyone who had known Winifred, or even heard about her, so Kate’s task was easier than it might have been.

  Leighton, unlike the others, was silent when she heard the news, and hung up after a few minutes of perfunctory conversation following Kate’s report. A few days later, she called, asking to have “brunch” with Kate—it was a Sunday, and that was the meal served in New York restaurants in the middle of Sunday.

  “But I don’t want to go to a fancy joint,” Leighton said. “I know a place with booths where you can get bacon and eggs and real home-fried potatoes, not a prepared imitation. Will you meet me there?” And Kate said she would, remarking, however, to Reed as she left the house that she had a scary feeling about what Leighton was going to say.

  “I know,” Reed said, “in your bones. Your bones were wrong about Winifred, who isn’t dead.”

  “I hope they’re wrong about this too,” Kate said, “but I could hear trouble in every syllable she uttered on the phone. As an aunt, one is supposed to have only frivolous pleasures with the young of the family.”

  “Nonsense,” Reed told her. “You don’t believe that for a minute. I like Leighton. No real problem with her. You’ll see.”

  Leighton was already there, in a booth, when Kate arrived at the coffee shop, as it called itself, which resembled diners as they were when Kate was young and her family could never be persuaded to eat in them. As a result, she adored them, and told Leighton so, sliding onto the bench across from Leighton. “I’m even prepared to eat according to your suggestion, which seems to encompass all that is today considered most lethal. If we can manage to pour salt all over everything, we should hit the forbidden diet jackpot.” Leighton gave their order to the waitress. “Anything to drink?” the waitress asked. They ordered coffee, with caffeine. “And cream,” Kate added with the air of one about to be hung for a sheep.

  “I don’t really think the role of Watson suited me,” Leighton said.

  “Of course it didn’t. You want to tell your own story, not be a recording machine.”

  “Kate,” Leighton said, in the tone of one preparing an invalid for the idea of a necessary operation.

  “Yes, Leighton, what is it? Tell me fast, so that lean digest this marvelously unhealthy lunch.”

  “I’m going to India. I’m going to look for Winifred.”

  Kate stared. Whatever possibilities had been skimming across her mind, this was not among them. “She may not even have stayed in India, Leighton. Anyway, India is an enormous country. And what will you do there?”

  “The plane will stop in London, and I’ll get off and see if I can find out who’s paying out her income, and where they’re sending it. Charlie might have an idea. Bu
t if that doesn’t, work, I’ll just go to New Delhi and begin there.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t just that you want something to do, any quest, the result of being in a loose-endish time?”

  “There is that danger,” Leighton said, as the waitress put down their plates. “I see that. But I don’t really think that’s it. I want to find Winifred—in the flesh, I mean—and I want to see another part of the world. Don’t worry, Kate; I’ll manage.”

  Kate began to eat. It was delicious. Like mashed potatoes and gravy, she thought, something we’ve sacrificed to health foods and gourmet cooking. She found it hard to say what she was feeling. “Leighton, can I be frank?”

  “Can a porcupine be prickly?”

  “I’m worried about gurus.”

  Leighton stared at her. “That may be frank, Kate, but it’s not exactly comprehensible.”

  “I’m worried you are, or might be, one of those Americans looking for a faith, looking for a master, a guru, looking for a religion, a way to higher thought—damn it, Leighton, you know perfectly well what I mean.”

  “I do now. Kate, you’ll have to believe me. I mean, I can’t convince you if you won’t believe me, or think I don’t know myself, or anything like that. I don’t want a faith, or a purpose in life; God knows (a joke) I don’t want a master, or a priest. I can’t tell you what I do want, because I’m not seeking something wonderful, or mysterious. I just want to find Winifred.”

  “And suppose you find her. What then?”

  “Who knows? Probably she’ll say: ‘Nice to have met you, I’m off to Africa—or China or Arabia—and I’m going alone.’ I’m not dreaming she’ll say: ‘So you’ve come. There is something we must do together.’ ” Leighton said this so portentously that Kate had to laugh. “I’m not lost in a fantasy, or a search for the answer to life. I just think finding Winifred is what I want to do. And when I’ve found her—if I find her—who knows? Probably I’ll write a book called In Search of Wnifred. I think it will have distinct possibilities, don’t you?”