Women's Wiles

by Joyce Harrington

  At the bottom of La Terra Drive, a patrol car cruised by me. I turned on El Torro and walked past three Spanish-style homes, and noted with interest the helicopter now circling overhead. It appeared another toddler had wandered off. Little else of consequence ever seemed to happen in our respectable neighborhood.

  A second police car passed me and drove to the end of the street where the tract of houses ended and a lush green hillside began. Since my daughter Suzie was home from school today with a cold, I decided to retrace my steps and check on her.

  The faster I walked, the harder and quicker the raindrops fell. By the time I reached the house, a red flare sputtered at our intersection and cordoned off La Terra. I hurried inside, closed and latched the heavy double door, then leaned against it in relief.

  Suzie was watching television. She had a fire going in the fireplace. The gas logs were disappearing and reappearing in the flames as they remained impervious to the heat.

  “I’ve locked us in, Suz. There are police cars outside.”

  “Helicopter?” she asked as she noticed the thud, thud, thud overhead.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope it’s not another little kid lost. Every time I babysit for the Williamses I have to rock Karen to sleep over and over again, because of her nightmares. Her mom seems really embarrassed about it.”

  “Is that so?” I asked.

  “It’s almost the same thing with the other two that wandered off. I guess it’s really scary for a little kid to get lost on that hill.”

  “I suppose. You’d think their parents would watch them more carefully. You were never out of my sight when you were that small.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “A person can’t be too careful these days. Be sure and call me if anyone comes to the door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs.”

  I draped my slicker over a chair in the bedroom and sat down in my favorite chair by the window and scanned the neighborhood with my binoculars.

  The drapes on the Dolans’ second floor were closed. Alicia Dolan was probably due for another binge. Her friends in the exclusive woman’s club she belonged to would be surprised if they knew she was a hidden alcoholic.

  J. R. Travers was out of town again. What a shock it would be to Mrs. Travers if she were ever to discover old J. R. was a bigamist.

  Inevitably I focused on the Marshalls’ home, which backed on the hill. Sarah Marshall was the world’s most impeccable housekeeper. Of course, they had no children to mess up their house. She kept her shoes by the front door and wore slippers all day to keep from spotting the floors. She was too busy with her charity work at the hospital to visit neighbors.

  Her husband, Randolph Marshall, was president of the Sanfield Bank and prominent in local politics. The Marshalls were frequently on the society page of our small-town newspaper. It meant a great deal to me to live near such well-known and affluent people.

  I polished my binoculars with a tissue, then put them to my eyes again. The police car slowly rolled down the hill with a little child in the back seat. It did not slow or stop at the Marshalls’ house. Writers need to be good observers, especially in a neighborhood that has a child molester.

  I went to my typewriter. Self-discipline and daily writing is essential to a writer’s success.

  I pushed a clean sheet of twenty-pound rag content bond paper into my new Smith-Corona.

  Mr. Marshall,

  You got away with it again. If you want me to keep my mouth shut, leave ten unmarked twenty-dollar bills at the usual place...

  A Matter of Pride

  Richard A. Moore

  Ed was in a lousy mood. It had been a bad week during a bad summer of a bad year. As he drove into view of his drought-parched lawn, a newscaster told of the breaking-off of crucial negotiations. While parking, he noticed the small round hole in the kitchen window, cursed the neighborhood kids, then turned the switch killing the radio explanation of the Dodgers’ losing streak.

  Inside, he mixed a dark Scotch and water, unfolded a newspaper and ignored the sound of the vacuum cleaner his wife was angrily scraping over the carpet ten feet away. A switch clicked, and he sensed her stare.

  “I think we need to talk.”

  “I can’t think of anything I would rather avoid right now, Martha. Hold it until after supper,” he said, not looking up from the newspaper.

  A note of anger came into her voice. “I don’t want to wait until after supper. I’ve been thinking about this for days, and there will never be a convenient time for you to talk with me. There never is.”

  Ed kept the paper in front of him to avoid seeing the bandanna-framed red face. “What is it now? Are you going to gripe about your allowance again?”

  “I want a divorce.”

  Ed reluctantly dropped the newspaper. “If you think a stupid threat like that is going to frighten me into an increase in your house-money, you’re crazy. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Something about her deadpan look told him she was serious. “You just don’t know when you’re well off, Martha. You’ve got a nice home with no kids or job to worry about. All you have to do is keep the place clean and fix my meals. You’ve really got it easy.”

  “I work myself to death around here and you never even notice. I can almost live with your cheapness, but I can’t stand being made to feel unwanted, unattractive, and stupid.”

  Ed felt anger flush his face. “Einstein can rest easy in his grave and Cleopatra is fairly safe too. If you don’t believe me, just check any mirror. If I hadn’t made the mistake of marrying you, your parents would still have another mouth to feed.”

  “In three years of marriage, you almost convinced me that I really am stupid and unlovable. I have news for you, El Braino, I’ve been having an affair for three months, and you haven’t suspected a thing.”

  With the knowledge that she had finally gotten the last word in an argument, Martha marched from the room with an air of triumph. Ed was left with his crumpled newspaper, silent vacuum cleaner, and black thoughts.

  It was not the thought of losing Martha that outraged him. Life without her would not be a complete bed of nails. It was the thought of her in the arms of another man. Someone was possessing something that was rightfully his, and Ed found that the grossest of insults. Leave she might, but he would find out who the trespasser was and deal with him then.

  He awoke the next morning with his mind as hard and lumpy as the sofa on which he had slept. He was staring into his second cup of instant coffee when Martha entered the kitchen, dressed in a very businesslike navy suit.

  “I’m going to see a lawyer. You should probably begin making plans about moving out of the house.”

  The full force of his anger returned. “This is really too much. You are running around, but I’m the one who has to move. You better talk to your shyster about how you can explain your dirty little affair to a judge.”

  Martha gave him a not-quite-smug smile. “I’m sure we can find grounds for action. As for infidelity? You have no proof, no proof at all. Next case please.”

  Now he had a second reason to find the lover. Without incriminating evidence, his wife could easily weep her way into a judge’s heart and a fat settlement.

  As soon as she left, Ed carefully searched for clues to the identity of her lover. He found nothing. After a few brooding moments, he climbed into his car, drove downtown and rented a small sedan. He returned home and noted with satisfaction his wife’s car in the driveway. He parked on a side street, out of easy view of the house but able to watch any departures or arrivals.

  It wasn’t a long wait. His wife soon appeared, dressed casually now in blouse and slacks after her formal visit to a lawyer. Ed dropped from view as her small car whirred past the street where he was parked. Quickly, he started his car and eased into the street, giving her about a two-block lead.

  He discovered that tailing a car is not easy. Twice he almost had to stop to
avoid pulling in directly behind her at stoplights. He made a mental note to buy some sort of disguise if he had to do much of this sort of thing.

  Gradually, the two wound their way across town to a neighborhood that was very familiar to Ed. Martha confirmed his guess by parking in front of the two-story house owned by their friends, the Adamses. He resumed his vigil down the street and watched for hours while absolutely nothing happened.

  He could easily imagine her crying on Joan’s shoulder, spilling out her tawdry secrets. Joan would get a kick out of it all, he thought—she had always despised him. He shuddered at the certainty of Joan telling her husband, Frank, who sat across from him every Thursday at the poker table. He could see the smirk on Frank’s face the next time they got together. He knew he would have to put an end to this situation and do it quickly.

  It occurred to Ed that if he could get close to the house, he might overhear enough of the conversation within to be revealing. He scuttled along among the boxwood shrubbery listening for sounds and peeping in windows.

  The peeping brought unsuspected results. He spotted his wife stepping across a hallway as naked as a marshmallow. He was still puzzling over the sight when he heard her voice faintly within.

  “I’m out of the shower now, darling.”

  Darling? The certainty of the knowledge washed over him and with it came a bitter sense of betrayal. He sat on the dry earth under the bushes and tortured himself with lurid thoughts of his wife and his best friend.

  Ed pushed aside the bushes and walked slowly back to the car. He now had all he needed to avoid a costly settlement, but the economics had suddenly lost importance.

  Numbly, he drove without direction for a while before stopping at a bar. After several drinks, feeling began to return and it wasn’t very nice. He tossed the liquor into his untasting mouth like an old fireman shoveling coal. His wife’s lover was not his only shocking discovery. He cared. In some ways that bothered him more.

  He drove back to his house and parked beside his wife’s car. A look at his face caused her to stare in puzzlement as he walked past her to the bedroom. When he returned with a gun in his hand, the puzzlement turned to fear.

  “Come along, Martha. We’re going to visit your lover.”

  “Are you crazy, Ed? Put away that gun now and I’ll forget you ever did this.”

  Ed waved the pistol in the direction of the door. “I don’t plan to shoot you, but if you aren’t through that door in two seconds, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Martha walked quickly to the car. Ed drove but kept the revolver cocked and ready at his side.

  After a few miles, Martha began to plead in a low earnest tone. “Think for a moment, Ed. You’re throwing the rest of your life away. No matter what you feel now, you’re sure to regret it later.”

  His silence frightened her all the more. “How do you know you aren’t making a terrible mistake? What could you have found out in just one day? It’s probably just some innocent—”

  “I know what I know. I have the evidence of my own eyes.”

  Ed turned onto the side street that led to the Adams’ house. Martha glanced around apprehensively and felt hope drain, leaving a mountain of fear in its wake.

  They parked in front of the house. Ed slid across the seat and pushed her from the car. She tried to speak but had lost the power. They walked to the house and Ed rang the doorbell.

  Frank opened the door and a look of surprise and annoyance crossed his face. He did not see the gun. “Well, hello guys. I wish you had called to let us know you were coming over.”

  There was an awkward silence. Ed knew he must speak, but his mind seemed blanked of all words and knowledge.

  Frank suddenly noticed the gun. “What on God’s earth is that for?”

  Ed glanced at the gun as if he had forgotten it until the reminder. “I’m here to kill you, Frank.”

  The first shot pushed him back into the foyer. The second knocked him down. The third finished it.

  Ed dropped the pistol into his pocket and sat in the nearest chair. He had accomplished his purpose and any other movement or thought seemed unnecessary.

  Joan ran from the back of the house, almost tripping on the corpse of her husband. Martha disappeared, but somewhere he heard a phone being dialed.

  When the police arrived, they had to shake him before he heard and obeyed orders. His only request was to speak to his wife before leaving for police headquarters. Someone nodded and he was escorted down the hall toward the back of the house. Just before he stepped into the room, he heard his wife speaking in a strange, exultant tone.

  “Just think, darling, now we’re rid of both of the bastards.”

  The Raconteur

  L. Fred Ayvazian

  “What a curious thing,” remarked Mr. Warbasse, “auctioning off the entire contents of a single room.”

  “And what a room it must have been!” said his wife. “I wish I’d bid for that vanity.”

  “I wonder who the woman is. Or perhaps was. I suppose she may be dead.”

  “Not at all,” declared Mrs. Warbasse, who fancied herself an authority on human conduct. “This is an act of total rejection, not of grief.”

  Her husband turned to her. “There you go, Sophie, building up a molehill again. Suppose she simply decided to redecorate her room and got rid of everything?”

  “Oh, no. No woman would discard so very much of herself, right down to her books.” A crate of books had been carried onto the platform.

  “I won’t go through all of these books,” the auctioneer said. “There must be over a hundred.”

  “I suppose you mean divorce,” said Mr. Warbasse. “Wouldn’t she take her things with her?”

  “Under some circumstances, no,” declared his wife, and she tried to consider such circumstances.

  Choosing six of the books, the auctioneer read off the titles. All were romantic novels, one a recent best-seller.

  “For example, what circum—” began Mr. Warbasse. But his wife, within whose deceiving frame loitered a sense of romance, was leaning forward.

  “Shh!” she said with a gesture.

  “Look at their condition,” invited the auctioneer. “Like new. Most of them still have their dust jackets.”

  “Now, Sophie,” whispered Mr. Warbasse, “you’ve probably read more than half of those books.”

  “Who’ll offer twenty dollars for the pack of them?” asked the auctioneer. “That’s less than twenty cents a book.”

  There was no response.

  “Eighteen?” asked the man. “Sixteen?”

  “One dollar!” cried Mrs. Warbasse, who was devoted to bargains. Many turned to glance at her, but no one challenged. Her husband sat as though he longed to be elsewhere.

  “One dollar?” the auctioneer asked, but not with great astonishment. “One dollar for all these fine volumes? Surely someone will bid higher…”

  Mrs. Warbasse looked about, evenly meeting every gaze that was directed at her. The hall became quiet.

  “One small dollar,” the man said, and he struck his gavel. “Lady, it’s all yours.”

  “It’ll probably cost ten dollars to have them carted home!” snapped Mr. Warbasse.

  “Nonsense,” replied his wife, who had a solution for all problems. “They’ll fit into the trunk of a cab.”

  She stayed up late that night, going through the books. “Elizabeth Outwater Collins is her name,” she announced immediately. “She has a fancy Ex Libris in all of them.”

  “I’m going to bed,” said her husband, and he stood and left the room.

  It was some time later, perhaps hours (at least, he was deeply asleep), when his wife’s hand shaking his shoulder awoke him.

  “For heaven’s sake, Sophie, what is it?”

  “Listen. I found a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “Yes, and what a letter! From Elizabeth to her husband. It was in one of the books.”

  “My God, did you have to wa
ke me up for that?”

  “Will you please shut up and listen? Her husband’s a doctor, a Dr. Walter Collins on East 54th Street. The envelope’s postmarked February 27th, only eight months ago, and it was mailed from Van Wert, Ohio. ‘Dear Walter,’ the letter says. ‘You expected me home today, but when I went to pack, I found that I simply couldn’t bring myself to return. It’s not something I planned or thought out, it happened exactly that way. I guess this means that I’m leaving you.

  “‘I think we’ve both known our marriage was a failure from really the first week, and it would be kind of foolish to say that the magic has gone from it when there was never any at all—was there, Walter?—even during the honeymoon. I can’t explain why after tolerating eleven years of this existence, why now that we’ve been apart for barely five weeks, I am suddenly unable to face the prospect of returning to this life. Look at my room, for example. We’d been married nine years, Walter, and I was twenty-nine when you suggested I move into a separate bedroom, and it has become to me, this room, a symbol of my total rejection. And another thing—I don’t mean to hurt you, Walter (or do I? I’m not sure!)—but another thing I dread is going on through life listening to your stories. At just this moment I simply don’t think I could sit through many more and preserve my sanity.’ It’s signed ‘Elizabeth,’ and then there’s a P.S.: ‘I keep wondering if it’s a blessing or not that we never had children.’

  “Well,” demanded Mrs. Warbasse, “what do you think of that? ‘Total rejection,’ the identical words I used at the auction!” In speaking, she used a great deal of lower lip.

  “I suppose it means they were divorced,” conceded her husband.

  “Of course it does! There’s no other possible explanation!”

  Her tone was difficult to accept without challenge. “Oh, I don’t know. Suppose she regretted posting the letter and immediately flew home and intercepted it? After all, you did find it in one of her books!”