He hadn’t been dead drunk, then. He’d been pretending. He’d been acting out one of a series of scenes, expertly timed, carefully planned, with himself in the role of tragic victim to distract attention from the real victim, Galloway. The whole thing had been staged, right from the first telephone call to Thelma from Wiarton, to the final letter about his new job with the oil company in Bolivia. And the gullible audience reacted as they were expected to. Act one, poor Harry, what a terrible break for such a nice guy. Act two, Harry starts on his brave search for a new life and finds it. Act three, Harry gradually fades away into the oil fields of Bolivia.
Bolivia, yet. My God, what fools we all were. We never questioned any of it for a minute. Thelma’s renunciation of Harry, his attempt and failure to win her back, her courageous persistence in carrying on alone, her refusal to answer his letters, her reaction to his “marriage”—none of it had been real. All the time the Breams were supposedly drawing farther apart, they were binding themselves closer and closer to each other, not only by ties of love but by the stronger ones of guilt.
Thelma came out of the house. She had put on a sweater and was buttoning it at the neck, as if for her the day had suddenly turned chilly. “I called Harry at the office. He’ll be right home.”
“He has a job?”
“No. He’s at the doctor’s. He hasn’t been well.” She hesitated over the final word, then spoke very quickly to cover the hesitation. “You look fine, Ralph. How is Nancy? And the children? Are they with you?”
“No. They’re all up at the lodge for the summer.”
“The lodge, how far away that seems, and long ago. I wish—well, it doesn’t matter now.” She sat down in the green canvas glider and began to swing back and forth, as if, childlike, she found comfort in the motion of rocking. “You came all the way out here to find Harry and me?”
“Not Harry. You.”
“You didn’t expect to find Harry?”
“No,” Turee said, coloring slightly. “I thought—we all thought he was in Bolivia.”
“Naturally.” She sounded grave, but a trace of sardonic humor flickered in her eyes for a moment. “That was Harry’s idea, about the oil job in Bolivia. Harry’s very—imaginative.”
Once again she hesitated over the final word, as if other phrases had occurred to her first, more damaging and more precise ones which her personal censor refused to pass. She must have realized that her hesitancy had piqued Turee’s curiosity, for she added by way of explanation, “It’s very hard to describe someone you love deeply. Try it.”
“This hardly seems the time or place.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Who dreamed up Charley?”
“Harry.”
“He threw a boomerang. If it weren’t for Charley I wouldn’t be here. I was suspicious of him. I wanted to make sure you and the boy were all right.”
“You came here because of Charley? How funny. How terribly funny.” She didn’t laugh, though. She merely swung back and forth on the glider, her eyes fixed on Turee’s face. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a very complex situation.”
“Don’t hurt Harry. Please don’t hurt Harry.”
“How can I help it?”
“Blame me. I’m the one responsible. I planned everything.”
He didn’t believe her but he kept his doubts to himself. “Why?”
“Why? There wasn’t any one why. There were dozens, going back years. I’d always resented Ron, the way he had everything handed to him on a platter, the way he used to order Harry around. It rankled to see Harry toady to him.” She paused. “Poor Harry, he’s always had such bad luck.”
Perhaps Harry’s worst luck had been meeting Thelma, but apparently this notion didn’t occur to her.
“Like your coming here and finding us like this,” she said. “Sheer bad luck.”
“Someone would have found you eventually.”
“No. You were the only person interested enough to try. And you would never have found me if it hadn’t been for the picture of little Harry. I wanted to show him off, I couldn’t help it. That was my mistake. Pride. Vanity.”
“Not pride or vanity. Your mistake was greed.”
“I didn’t want anything for myself, only for my husband and my child.”
“And the child belongs . . .”
“To Harry,” she said sharply. “He is Harry’s child. Ron never came near me until I was certain I was pregnant. Then, of course, I arranged it. I had to. It was part of our plan, the hardest part of all for me, but the most vital. Ron had to believe sincerely that the baby was his. Otherwise Harry could never have persuaded him to write the final letter to Esther, which was so necessary to the suicide buildup.”
“Persuaded?”
“No force was necessary. Ron had been drinking before he arrived, and he had more, some Scotch, with Harry and me. He was always easy to handle when he was drunk. Besides, when he found out about the baby, he was so overcome with guilt and shame he actually wanted to confess, to atone, in some way, for what he’d done to Harry and to Esther.”
“Harry told him what to write?”
“Harry suggested. Ron was too upset to do his own thinking. He was very fond of Harry, you know. Everyone was. Everyone is, I mean.” Color splashed her face. “What a silly mistake, using the past tense like that, as if he were dead or something.”
“Or as if he had changed.”
“He hasn’t changed, not a bit.”
But the denial was too quick and too vigorous, and Turee wondered what the years of pretense and deceit, of remorse and guilt, had done to Harry. “The phone call Ron made to Dorothy Galloway’s house the night he died . . .”
“It wasn’t Ron. Harry made the call. Like the letter, it was part of the suicide buildup. The idea of suicide had to be so strongly implanted ahead of time that no one would even think of murder. Because if anyone had thought of it, if anyone had started to make a real investigation, Harry and I were wide open. Neither of us could account for our time that Saturday night. Harry didn’t make any emergency call at a clinic in Mimico, he was with me, waiting for Ron, waiting to go ahead with our plan. Nor did his car break down, the excuse he gave you and the others for being late arriving at the lodge. He wasn’t even driving the car. I was. I was following him so that when the time came he could take over our car and go on ahead to the lodge. It was a tight schedule but we’d planned very carefully. Harry drove me into Meaford and I caught the 10:30 bus back to Weston. I arrived home barely ten minutes before Harry’s phone call from Wiarton.”
“That was planned too, of course?”
“Every word.”
Turee looked bewildered, confused. “I can’t—I can’t quite believe it.”
“I can’t quite believe it myself, sometimes.”
She turned her head suddenly as if she’d heard a sound she’d been waiting for and knew well. Half a minute later Harry appeared from around the side of the house.
He was a little paunchier, a little balder, than Turee remembered, but his step was still bouncy and his grin still boyish. It looked quite real, as if he was genuinely glad to see an old friend.
He crossed the patio, his hand extended. “Ralph, old boy. By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes. You don’t look a day older. Does he, Thelma? Sit down. How about a drink, fellow? What would you . . .”
“Let’s not play games, Harry,” Thelma cut in sharply. “Please.”
“Come now, we’ve got to be polite, sweetheart. What’s the matter with a little drink for auld lang syne?”
“I’m not sure Ralph would accept a drink from either of us.”
“Nonsense. He’s our friend.”
No one spoke, but the words So was Galloway hung in the air like dust in a shaft of sunlight.
Final
ly Turee said, “Did Galloway?”
“Did he what?” A fretful little frown appeared between Harry’s eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The night he died, did Galloway accept a drink from you?”
“Two, as a matter of fact.”
“Loaded with barbiturates?”
“Loaded with nothing more than Scotch.”
“How did you manage to drug him?”
“Drug him? Absurd. He came in, he said he was feeling sick and wanted something to settle his stomach. I gave it to him. Maybe I gave him too much. Quite accidentally.”
“Harry . . .”
“Must we go into all this? It’s done, it’s over, it’s been over for years. Besides, I’ve got a headache. Every time I go to the doctor I get a headache. I hate his guts. All these psychiatrists are quacks and fools.”
“Why go to him, then?”
“Thelma insists. There’s nothing the matter with me. The whole thing’s absurd. I feel fine. I only go to please Thelma. Isn’t that right, Thelma?”
Thelma was silent.
“Well, tell him, Thelma. Tell him there’s nothing the matter with me, I only go to the doctor to please you, Thelma?”
She sat mute, not looking at him but staring upwards, as if she were lost and alone on an island, searching the sky for signs of rescue.
“Tell him the truth, Thelma. Go on. The truth.”
“God help us,” she said and turned and began walking toward the house.
“Thelma, come back here.”
“No. Please.”
“I command you to come back here. You must obey me. I’m the boss. We settled that years ago, didn’t we? I’m the boss, aren’t I?”
She hesitated a moment, biting the corner of her mouth.
Then she said quietly, “Yes. Sure you are, Harry.”
“You mustn’t walk out on me like that. It’s disrespectful. I don’t like it. I won’t tolerate it. You hear?”
“Yes, Harry.”
He held out his hands toward her, palms up, and Turee saw on each wrist a red scar in the shape of a cross. “You know what I’ve got to do if you don’t treat me right, if you don’t behave yourself. And this time I won’t fail. I’ll cut deep.”
“No, Harry. Don’t. Don’t make me suffer any more.”
“You suffer? Thelma, Thelma, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m the one who must suffer. I must wash away your sins with my blood. Now sit down and be polite. Ralph came all the way down here to see us. We must be hospitable. He’s our old friend. Eh, Ralph? How many years has it been, Ralph?”
“About a dozen,” Turee said.
“Only a dozen? Ron and I were friends for twice that long. Ron’s dead,” he added, as if he were imparting a piece of news. “It’s my turn next.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Thelma and the doctor keep asking the same question. It’s not something I think. It’s something I know. Some people know things. Without rhyme or reason they just know. There’s a special day ahead for me. I will recognize it when it comes. There will be signs, in the sky, the air, the trees, so I will know, this is it, this is the day.”
“What about your wife and your little boy?”
“My little boy? So you believed her, too. I don’t blame you, it’s quite a convincing story she tells. Only it’s not true. The boy belongs to Galloway. Thelma lied to salve my ego. She’s a very talented liar. For a long time I believed her when she said she was pregnant before Ron ever went near her. I believed her because I so very much wanted to. I managed to convince myself that all the tests I’d taken back in Toronto were wrong, that I wasn’t sterile, I was a man like other men. Then one day, when I was giving the boy his bath, I noticed the way his left ear stuck out from his head a little more than the right ear, like Ron’s. And the shape of his hands and feet—exactly like Ron’s. And I knew then Thelma had lied to me. Oh, her reasons were noble, but she’d lied to me, deceived me, made a fool of me. She’d sinned. I had to do something, I kept thinking something must be done, Thelma must be saved. I tried to wash away her sins with my blood.” He held out his scarred wrists. “She didn’t understand. She thought it was a mere suicide attempt. She called the fool-doctor and they took me to a hospital. They couldn’t keep me there, though. I’m too smart. I was polite, I behaved myself, I answered their questions. They let me go in a couple of weeks. The trick is to tell them enough but not too much. Let them think you’re communicating but keep your secrets to yourself. Talk all you want about your childhood but not about your child. Especially if he’s not really yours. Thelma.”
She raised her eyes to him. They looked pale and pure as if they’d been washed a thousand times with tears. “Don’t leave me alone, Harry. I love you.”
“I know that,” he said wearily. “I love you too. But the time has come when I must know the truth. I have been living with so many lies, I can hardly tell any more what’s real and what isn’t. Like Charley. Your husband, Charley. I know he isn’t real, we made him up together, you and I. Yet sometimes I can see him quite distinctly, sitting in my chair, driving my car, walking into your bedroom and closing the door. And if I listen hard enough I can hear the two of you whispering together, I can hear the creak of bedsprings, and I know you’re making love in there, you and Charley, and I want to kill him for the same reason I killed Ron, because he dared to touch you.”
“Don’t go on, don’t think about it.”
“You never knew that before, did you, Thelma? I didn’t want Ron’s money. I wanted his life. I killed him out of rage and hate and jealousy. When he was in the back seat unconscious and I was driving his car, wearing his cap, carrying his wallet, I felt like a man. Funny, isn’t it? He wasn’t really much of a man. But he had something I didn’t, something I wanted. And later when I was strapping him into the safety belt on top of the cliff, and you were waiting on the road in our own car, all I could think of was, you’ll never touch her again, Galloway, you’ll never touch another woman, cuckold another friend, beget another bastard . . .”
“Stop. Please stop.”
“Not now. This is the time for truth. You’re such a natural liar, Thelma. You lie the way other people breathe, without thinking about it.”
“No!”
“But you must tell the truth now. There isn’t much time. The boy—my boy—he’s not really mine, is he, Thelma?”
“I lied for your sake. I wanted you to be happy. I . . .”
“The boy is Ron’s?”
“Yes,” she said in a ragged whisper. “Don’t hate me for it. Please don’t hate me.”
“Thelma, Thelma, you are my love, how could I ever hate you? You’ve told me the truth. That’s the first step.”
“Step?”
“To atonement, to peace.” He looked up at the sky, smiling and composed. “You see that single cloud up there, Thelma? That’s one of the signs I’ve been waiting for.”
“It’s only a cloud, Harry. Don’t imagine . . .”
“Only a cloud? Ah, no. This is the day.”
“Stop.”
“Don’t you feel how different it is from other days? You, Ralph, don’t you feel it, too?”
“It’s an ordinary day,” Turee said. “How about that drink you offered me a while ago?”
“Not now. You can pour it yourself after I’ve gone.”
“You just got here, don’t talk about leaving.”
“I must. Look, Ralph. There. See it? A bird flying across the cloud. If I’d had any doubts at all, that would dispel them.”
Turee tried to catch Thelma’s eye for some hint on how to handle the situation. But her eyes were closed. She seemed to have fallen into a troubled sleep. Her hands twitched and tears glittered on her lashes.
“You can’t leave Thelma.”
“No,�
�� Harry said. “I won’t leave Thelma. She’s coming with me. She wants to.” He reached down and touched her gently on the shoulder. “You want to, don’t you, Thelma? We’ve been down some pretty dreary roads together. This last won’t be any rougher.”
Turee said, “Stop this foolishness and let me help you.”
“It’s too late to do anything for me. Help the boy, if you can. He’s a good boy. He deserves to be brought up by a good man. You don’t have to be afraid he’ll grow up to be like me.”
“I won’t let you walk off like this . . .”
“You can’t stop us. Besides, I don’t think you really want to. They still hang people in Canada.” He leaned down and kissed Thelma on the forehead. “Come on, dear.”
Thelma rose silently, hanging on to his arm.
“For God’s sake, don’t go with him, Thelma,” Turee shouted. “Stop and think.”
“I’ve already thought,” she said quietly.
They walked together hand in hand across the patio and up the steep path along the side of the house.
A minute later Turee heard the roar of a car engine. He thought of the cliffs of Santa Monica above the sea, like the cliffs of Wiarton above the lake, and he could see behind the next corner of time the last dreary road Harry had chosen.
They still hang people in Canada, Turee thought. It’s better this way. Better for the boy. He’s got a life to live, I must see that he lives it right . . . My God, I wonder what Nancy will say. . .
THE END
About the Author
Margaret Millar (1915-1994) was the author of 27 books and a masterful pioneer of psychological mysteries and thrillers. Born in Kitchener, Ontario, she spent most of her life in Santa Barbara, California, with her husband Ken Millar, who is better known by the nom de plume of Ross MacDonald. Her 1956 novel Beast in View won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Novel. In 1965 Millar was the recipient of the Los Angeles Times Woman of the Year Award and in 1983 the Mystery Writers of America awarded her the Grand Master Award for Lifetime Achievement. Millar’s cutting wit and superb plotting have left her an enduring legacy as one of the most important crime writers of both her own and subsequent generations.
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