Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  All her life, as long as she could remember, she had been daunted by the thought of blood. As a child, with a cut finger or skinned knee, it had been incomprehensible that her body was a bag, a sack, filled with a crimson viscid fluid that leaked, poured, or spurted when the bag was punctured.

  Later, at that dreadful birthday party when her menses began, she was convinced she was going to die.

  “Nonsense,” her mother had said irritably. “It just means you’re not a girl anymore; you’re a woman. And you must bear the cross of being a woman.”

  “The cross.” That called up images of the crucified Christ, bleeding from hands and feet. To Him, loss of blood meant loss of life. For her, loss of blood meant loss of innocence, punishment for being a woman.

  The cramps began with her early periods and increased in severity as she grew older. In a strange way, she welcomed the pain. It was expiation for her guilt. That dark, greasy monthly flow was her atonement.

  She donned her flannel nightgown, went into the kitchen for her vitamins and minerals, capsules and pills. She took a Tuinal and went to bed. An hour later, she was still wide-eyed. She rose, took another sleeping pill, and tried again.

  This time she slept.

  Harry Kurnitz was having a cocktail party and dinner for employees of his textile company. Maddie called to invite Zoe.

  “Harry does this once a year,” she said. “He claims it’s cheaper than giving raises. Anyway, it’s always a big, noisy bash, lots to eat, and people falling-down drunk. All the executives make passes at their secretaries. That’s why Harry has it on a Friday night. So everyone can forget what asses they made of themselves by Monday morning. Ernest Mittle will be there, so I thought you’d like to come.”

  “Thank you, Maddie,” Zoe Kohler said.

  Ernest had been calling twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday nights at 9:00 P.M. They talked a long time, sometimes for a half-hour. They nattered about their health, what they had been doing, odd items in the news, movie reviews …

  Nothing important, but the calls had assumed a growing significance for Zoe. She looked forward to them. They were a lifeline. Someone was out there. Someone who cared.

  Once he said:

  “Isn’t it awful about the Hotel Ripper?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Awful.”

  Zoe went to the party directly from work. Harry Kurnitz had taken over the entire second floor of the Chez Ronald on East 48th Street, and Zoe walked, fearing she would be too early.

  But when she arrived, the big room was already crowded with a noisy throng. Most of them were clustered about the two bars, but several were already seated at the tables. At the far end of the room, a trio was playing disco, but there was no one on the minuscule dance floor.

  Madeline and Harry Kurnitz stood at the doorway, greeting arriving guests. They both embraced Zoe and kissed her cheek.

  “Jesus Christ, kiddo,” Maddie said, inspecting her, “you dress like a matron at the House of Detention.”

  “Come on, Maddie,” her husband protested. “She looks fine.”

  “I didn’t have time to go home and change,” Zoe said faintly.

  “That’s just the point,” Maddie said. “You go to work looking like that? You and I have to go shopping together; I’ll tart you up. I told Mister Meek you’d be here tonight. He lit up like a Christmas tree.” She gave Zoe a gentle shove. “Now go find him, luv.”

  But Ernest Mittle found her. He must have been waiting, for he came forward carrying two glasses of white wine.

  “Good evening, Zoe,” he said, beaming. “Mrs. Kurnitz told me you’d be here. She said, ‘Your love goddess is coming.’ ”

  “Yes,” Zoe said, smiling briefly, “that sounds like Maddie. How are you, Ernie?”

  “I’ve got the sniffles,” he said. “Nothing serious, but it’s annoying. Would you like to move around and meet people, or should we grab a table?”

  “Let’s sit down,” she said. “I’m not very good at meeting people.”

  They took a table for four near the wall. Ernest seated her where she could observe the noisy activity at the bars. He took the chair next to her.

  “I don’t want to get too close,” he said. “I don’t want you catching my cold. It was really bad for a couple of days, but it’s better now.”

  “You should take care of yourself,” she chided. “Do you take vitamin pills?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m going to make out a list for you,” she said, “and I want you to buy them and take them regularly.”

  “All right,” he said happily, “I will. Well … here’s to us.”

  They hoisted their glasses, sipped their wine.

  “I thought it was going to be the flu,” he said. “But it was just a bad cold. That’s why I haven’t asked you out. But I’m getting better now. Maybe we can have dinner next week.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Listen,” he said, “would you like to come to my place for dinner? I’m not the world’s greatest cook, but we can have, say, hamburgers and a baked potato. Something like that.”

  “That would be nice,” she said, nodding. “I’ll bring the wine.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “I’m inviting you; I’ll have wine.”

  “Then I’ll bring dessert,” she said. “Please, Ernie, let me.”

  “All right,” he said, with his little boy’s smile, “you bring the dessert. A small one.”

  “A small one,” she agreed. She looked around. “Who are all these people?”

  He began to point out and name some of the men and women moving about the room. It was soon apparent that he had a taste for gossip and the wit to relate scandalous stories in an amusing manner. Once he used the word “screwing,” stopped abruptly, looked at her anxiously.

  “I hope you’re not offended, Zoe?”

  “No, I’m not offended.”

  Ernest told her about office affairs, the personal peccadilloes of some of his co-workers, rumors about others. He pointed out the office lothario and the office seductress—quite ordinary looking people. Then he hitched his chair a little closer, leaned toward Zoe.

  “I’ll tell you something,” he said in a low voice, “but you must promise not to repeat it to a soul. Promise?”

  She nodded.

  “See that tall man at the end of the bar in front of us? At the right end?”

  She searched. “Wearing glasses? In the gray suit?”

  “That’s the one. He’s Vince Delgado, Mr. Kurnitz’s assistant. Can you see the woman he’s talking to? She’s blond, wearing a blue sweater.”

  Zoe craned her neck to get a better look.

  “She’s sort of, uh, flashy, isn’t she?” she said. “And very young.”

  “Not so young,” he said. “Her name is Susan Weiner. Everyone calls her Suzy. She’s a secretary on the third floor. That’s our Sales Department.”

  Zoe watched Vince Delgado put his arm about Susan Weiner’s waist and pull her close. They were both laughing.

  “Are they having an affair?” she asked Ernest Mittle.

  “She is,” he said, eyes bright with malice, “but not with Vince. Mr. Kurnitz.”

  She looked at him. “You’re joking?”

  He held up a hand, palm outward.

  “I swear. But Zoe,” he added nervously, “you’ve got to promise not to repeat this. Especially to Mrs. Kurnitz. Please. It could mean my job.”

  “I won’t say a word.” She turned again to stare at the blonde in the blue sweater. “Ernie, are you sure?”

  “It’s all over the office,” he said, nodding. “They think no one knows. Everyone knows.”

  Zoe finished her wine. Mittle rose immediately, took their glasses, headed for the bar.

  “Refill time,” he said gaily.

  While he was gone, Zoe watched the woman at the bar. She seemed very intimate with Vince Delgado, putting a hand on his arm, smiling at something he said, touching his face lightly, affectiona
tely. They acted like lovers.

  Zoe saw them take their drinks, walk over to one of the vacant tables. Susan Weiner was short but full-bodied. Almost chubby. She had a heavy bosom for a woman of her size. Her hair was worn in frizzy curls. Zoe Kohler thought she looked cheap. She looked available. Soft and complaisant.

  Ernest came back with two more glasses of wine.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Zoe said. “She looks so involved with the man she’s with.”

  “Vince?” he said. “He’s the ‘beard.’ That’s what they call the other man who pretends to be the lover. He and Suzy and Mr. Kurnitz go out to lunch together, or dinner, or work late. If they’re seen, everyone’s supposed to think she’s with Vince. She’s not married, and he’s divorced. But she’s really with Mr. Kurnitz. Everyone in the office knows it.”

  “That’s so—so sordid,” she burst out.

  He shrugged.

  “What does he see in her?” she demanded.

  “Suzy? She’s really a very nice person. Pleasant and cheerful. Always ready to do someone a favor.”

  “Apparently.”

  “No, you know what I mean. I think if you met her, you’d like her. Zoe, I hope you won’t breathe a word of this to Mrs. Kurnitz.”

  “I won’t say anything. I wouldn’t hurt her like that. But she’ll probably find out, eventually.”

  “Probably. He just doesn’t seem to care. Mr. Kurnitz, that is.”

  “Ernie, why do men do things like that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … Mrs. Kurnitz comes on strong; you know that. She’s loud and brassy and sort of throws herself around. I know she’s a lot of fun, but that can be wearing all the time. Maybe Mr. Kurnitz wants someone a little quieter and more submissive.”

  “And she’s younger than Maddie.”

  “Yes. That, too.”

  “It’s just not fair,” Zoe Kohler said.

  “Well …” he said, sighing, “I guess not. But that’s the way things are.”

  “I know,” she said dully. “That’s why I’m divorced.”

  He put a hand over hers.

  “I hope I haven’t upset you, Zoe. I guess I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. “It just makes me feel so sad and old-fashioned. When I got married, I thought it would be forever. I never even thought of divorce. I mean, I didn’t think, Well, if this doesn’t work out, we can always split up. I really thought it would be till death do us part. I was such a simp.”

  “These things happen,” he said, but she would not be comforted.

  “It’s just so awful,” she said. “I can’t tell you how ugly it is. People get married and, uh, sleep together for a year or two. Then they wave goodbye and go somewhere else and sleep with someone else. Like animals.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said in a low voice, looking down at their clasped hands. “Really it doesn’t, Zoe.”

  Dinner was served at seven o’clock: roasted Rock Cornish hens with wild rice, baby carrots, and a salad of escarole and Bibb lettuce. Baked Alaska for dessert. Bottles of wine on every table and, with coffee, a selection of brandies and liqueurs.

  Harry Kurnitz made a short, funny speech, and his employees applauded mightily. Then the trio started playing disco again; several couples got up to dance. Guests who lived in the suburbs thanked host and hostess and departed.

  “Would you care to dance, Zoe?” Ernest Mittle asked politely. “I’m not very good with that kind of music, but …”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Thank you, but I can’t dance to that at all. I’d like to, but I don’t know how. Would you be angry if I left early? I ate so much, I’d really like to get home and just relax.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “I think my cold is coming back; I’m all stuffed up. I have an inhaler at home; maybe that will help.”

  “Take some Anacin or aspirin,” Zoe advised, “and get into bed.”

  “I will.”

  “Be sure to cover up and keep warm. Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll have a list of vitamins all made out and what strength to buy. I’ll give it to you over the phone. You must promise to take them faithfully, every day.”

  “I will. Really I will.”

  They thanked Madeline and Harry Kurnitz for a pleasant evening and slipped away. They reclaimed their coats and hats downstairs. Ernest wanted to tip the hatcheck girl, but she told him that Mr. Kurnitz had taken care of everything.

  Mittle said he wasn’t feeling so great, and he was going to take a cab home. He would drop Zoe at her apartment house on his way downtown. Would that be all right? She said it would be fine.

  The cab was unheated and Zoe saw he was shivering. She pulled his plaid muffler snugly about his throat and turned up the collar of his overcoat. She made him promise to drink a cup of hot tea the moment he got home.

  He held the cab until he saw her safely inside her apartment house lobby. She turned to wave. She hoped he would take the hot tea and aspirin, and get into bed and stay covered up. She worried about him.

  There were three letters in her mailbox: bills from Con Edison and New York Telephone, and a squarish, cream-colored envelope with her name and address written in a graceful script. Postmarked Seattle. She didn’t know anyone in Seattle.

  Inside her apartment, door bolted and chained, she turned on the living room lamp, hung away her coat and knitted hat. She glanced out the bedroom window before she lowered the Venetian blind and switched on the bedside lamp. She thought she glimpsed movement in the apartment across the street. That man was watching her windows again.

  She let the blind fall with a clatter and pulled the drape across. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the squarish, cream-colored envelope. She sniffed at it, but it was not scented. The cursive script read simply: “Zoe Kohler.” No Miss, or Mrs., or Ms.

  She opened the envelope flap slowly, picking it loose. It seemed a shame to tear such thick, rich-looking stationery. Within the envelope was a smaller envelope. Then she knew what it was. A wedding announcement.

  Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Foster Clark request the pleasure of your company

  at the marriage of their daughter Evelyn Jane to Mr. Kenneth Gavin Kohler, Saturday, the tenth of May, at eleven o’clock,

  St. Anthony’s Church,

  Pine Crest Drive, Rockville, Washington.

  Reception immediately following the ceremony.

  R.S.V.P. 20190 Locust Court, Rockville, Washington.

  Zoe Kohler read this joyous message several times. Her fingertips drifted lightly over the raised type. She folded the small piece of tissue paper that protected the printed copy, folded it and folded it until it was a tiny square, so minute that she could have swallowed it.

  The last she had heard of Kenneth, he was living in San Francisco. That’s where his alimony checks were postmarked. Now here he was marrying Evelyn Jane Clark in Rockville, Washington.

  She read the invitation again. St. Anthony’s Church. Did that mean the bride was a Catholic? Marrying a divorced man? Had Kenneth taken instruction or agreed to raise the children in the Catholic faith? Would Evelyn Jane go to San Francisco to live or would the newly married couple make their home in Rockville? Or Seattle?

  Pondering these absurd questions kept her mind busy for a few moments. But soon, soon, she had to let herself recognize the enormity of what he had done. Mailing his wedding invitation to her was a malicious gloat. “I have found the woman you could never be. Now I shall be happy.”

  It would have been simple, kind, human to tell her nothing of his marriage. He was legally free; he could do as he pleased; it was no concern of hers. Sending her an announcement was an act of viciousness, of hatred.

  Suddenly she was weary. Physically exhausted, her joints watery. And mentally wrung-out and depleted. Energy gone, resolve vanished. She sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, feeling worn-out and empty. The wedding invitation slipped from her
fingers, fluttered to the floor.

  Her depression had started when Ernest told her about Harry Kurnitz and that secretary. Zoe did not know why that saddened her. Maddie had been married previously, and so had Harry. A divorce would not be cataclysmic. Just another failure.

  And now here was a message artfully printed on rich stationery to remind her of yet another failure: her own. She searched her memory frantically for a success in her life, but could find none.

  “Must you empty the ashtray every time I put out a cigarette?” Kenneth had complained. “I’ll be smoking all night. Can’t you wait to clean the goddamned ashtray until we go to bed?”

  And …

  “Jesus, Zoe, do you have to wear that dull sweater again? It’s like a uniform. All the other women at the party will be wearing dresses. You’re the youngest frump I’ve ever seen.”

  And …

  “You’re not falling asleep, are you? I’d hate to come, and hear you snoring. Pardon me all to hell if I’m keeping you awake.”

  Always complaining, always criticizing. And she never condemned him or blamed him for anything. Never! Though there was plenty she could have said:

  “Must you leave your dirty socks and underwear on the bathroom floor? Someone has to pick it up, and that someone is me.”

  And …

  “Did you have to put your hands on every woman at the party? Do you think I didn’t notice? Do you know the kind of reputation you’re getting?”

  And …

  “Why do you persist when you know I don’t enjoy it? I just go through the motions and hope you’ll get it done quickly.”

  But she had never said those things. Because she had been brought up to believe that a good wife must endure and work hard to make her marriage a success, to keep a clean, comfortable home for her husband. Prepare his meals. Listen to his problems sympathetically. Bear his children. And all that …

  Until one day, ignoring all her efforts, rejecting her martyrdom, he had shouted in fury and frustration, “You’re not definite! You’re just not there!” And had stormed out. And was now marrying Evelyn Jane Clark.

  Zoe Kohler understood that men were different from women in many ways. Their physical strength frightened her. They swaggered through life, demanding. Violence excited them. Secretly, they were all war lovers. They preferred the company of other males. Gentleness was weakness.