by Vera Caspary
“Just once,” she said.
Fletcher dropped her wrists, took a short step backward, clutched at a chair. The ground had dissolved under his feet. For all of his visions and suspicion, he had never thought . . . no, no, impossible . . . Elaine! . . . the pure, the lovable . . . he could not, would not, believe it.
“Just once,” she said again, humbly. “No more. And I never will again. Never!”
He had thought about it so much that revelation, the truth of the dream, numbed him. Her infidelity had been his own, exclusive, shaped by his creative mind, his secret work of art. All of those writhing bodies, naked limbs, shimmering breasts had been his indulgence, a collection of images conceived for the protection of his ego. Shaping and arranging them, giving life to monstrous visions, enduring self-made torments, he had been able to believe them untrue. Elaine’s confession destroyed all of this. Truth was a shock to his ego. The dream was shattered, the dreamer forced to acknowledge creative forces outside of himself.
Over and over, looking down at her long toes, she repeated that it had not happened more than once, that she was sick with remorse, that never, never, never again would she allow the man to touch her. Fletcher tried for the sake of self-protection to reshape a vision, to see her and the man (whom she kept insisting was not Don) naked and together. The visions would not come alive. Fletcher’s imagination, too, was impotent.
Her rueful voice pursued him down the corridor. He slammed his bedroom door behind him, slapped on trousers and a shirt, hurried to the garage, backed his car toward the road with the motor roaring like the voice of vengeance. He drove down the hill swiftly and without thought of destination.
“Forgive me,” Elaine had begged, and “Please,” and “Never again, believe me,” before she had known he was gone. She had taken a few timid steps toward his bedroom, but when the knob turned, she had fled back to her room and closed her door. She had listened to the sound of the motor, watched the car back out of the driveway recklessly. His face came back to her in all of its sadness, and she knew that the truth had been a tragic mistake.
DON AND CINDY came back to the house reluctantly. Their friends had given them tea and cakes, then cocktails, olives, nuts, bits of cheese, and smoked meats on salted crackers, but had not invited them to stay for supper. They drove around aimlessly for a time and then went to the movies. Torn by hope and, at the same time, afraid to hear that Elaine had not been successful in pleading for the loan, they drove home slowly.
The house was dark. It was not much after ten o’clock, too early for everyone to be in bed. Perhaps Fletcher and Elaine had gone out to eat and see a picture, which, Don observed, was a good sign. Cindy’s father never went anywhere unless he was in a generous and confident mood. Upon this assumption Don built a dazzling structure; owned the house, landed the job with Carter Consolidated, achieved promotion, became a member of the executive elite.
The doors were not locked. This was unusual. Cindy’s father always checked the doors and windows before he left the house. “Still, if he took her out to dinner he must be feeling pretty good,” reflected Don to reassure himself.
“Well, I’m not going to cook,” announced Cindy and went to the refrigerator in search of something that could be eaten between slices of bread. They were eating when Elaine came into the kitchen. Her feet were bare, her hair untidy, her eyes moist. She said she had gone to bed with a wretched headache.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He went out.”
“Not alone?”
“He didn’t want to disturb me.” The lie stood out like a fresh bruise. Elaine did not mind small social fibs. In the apartment on Morningside Drive these had not been considered sinful.
“Did you talk to him?”
“It didn’t do much good.”
“Why not? Did he refuse?”
“We got off the subject.”
Don sensed evasion. Bright hopes faded. He saw his future as an unending hell of debt, of seedy jobs alternating with pitiful months of unemployment in which they would struggle to get along on his wife’s income. Unpaid bills and unending worry had been the warp of his boyhood, stinginess and shame its woof. It was the sort of life he had hoped to avoid. Already he sensed in Cindy the middle-class woman’s contempt for a husband who could not support her in style.
“We’ll lose the house,” she whimpered.
The easy assumption of failure angered Don. “Don’t be so sure.”
“But if we can’t give them a thousand dollars tomorrow?”
He had to assert himself. “Don’t you trust me to raise that kind of money?” He drank ginger ale in condescending sips.
“How?”
“Just leave it to me,” he said haughtily.
Elaine poured a glass of milk but could not drink it. She told them her headache was worse and went off to bed.
“They must have had a terrible fight,” Cindy said, not unhappily.
“Don’t smirk. It may be the end for us. We might have to go back to New York.”
“I thought you could raise that money so easily.”
Don tried to recover bravado with lame argument. Cindy answered with the cruel logic of a child. They went on and on until fatigue sent them to their bedroom. Neither could sleep. From the peak of hope Don had sunk to the lowest pit of gloom. In every recollection of the day he found evil omens, and could see nothing ahead but a dismal repetition of his loathed boyhood.
Presently Cindy’s voice drifted through the dark. “I wonder how much Daddy’s really worth.”
“What difference does it make? He’s not going to let go of a nickel.”
“You think he will leave it all to her?”
“Who knows?”
“She’s just sitting and waiting. Anyone can see through that devotion act. Even Daddy, I think. Did you notice, Donnie? They’re not nearly so lovey-dovey anymore.”
Don had at last grown drowsy. He did not bother to speak. Cindy turned over in bed and gave herself to deeper thought. “At least I’m going to get a hundred thousand dollars. That’s the very least.”
Immediately Don was wide awake. “How do you know?”
“Insurance for me. He took out the policy when they got the divorce. A hundred thousand dollars to his daughter, Cynthia Kathryn.” She clapped her hands and giggled with delight.
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t know it was that much. Mom wrote it in a letter.”
“She did! When?”
“Just after we got here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mom said I shouldn’t. She said Daddy wouldn’t like you knowing.”
The storm came closer. Wind rattled the Venetian blinds. Don got up to close the windows. “What difference does it make to me? Daddy,” he mimicked her tone, “will probably live another thirty years.”
“Mom was sure the cancer would come back,” sighed Cindy. “She’s surprised he’s lived this long.”
Don returned to his bed. “What’s the use of thinking about it? Let’s try to sleep.” He was no longer drowsy.
Once more Cindy gave herself to thought. “What good’s his life to him? He’s living like a dead man. And all that money in the banks and stocks and stuff. When people could really enjoy it!”
Don was asleep in his own speculations. He made a noise that sounded like a snore. “All right, if you’re not interested in our future,” Cindy said and turned her back.
Outside, the wind howled in triumphant conquest over heat and fog. Trees were bent, flowers swept down. In her dark room Elaine listened for the sound of a car. The illuminated hands of the bedside clock dragged as though possessed of a human and malevolent will. She had no real cause for fear, but could not resist the ache for punishment. She knew that Fletcher had at last committed the act, smashed the car against a wall, plunged over a cliff, dived into the sea. She had sent him to his death. If he had not acted voluntarily, hurt and rage had blinded him to danger; the will to
death had driven him involuntarily into a fatal collision. She waited for the phone to ring, sirens to sound, his broken body to be delivered on a stretcher.
The wind shrieked and died. In the hall Elaine heard heavy footsteps. She ran to her door, said timidly, “You’re back?”
He nodded and walked past to his own bedroom.
“Good night,” she called after him.
A rumble acknowledged her existence.
7
WHEN FLETCHER WOKE THE NEXT MORNING HIS head was clear, his temper even. His was not at all the mood of a man who has gone through a crisis. Incidents of the previous day returned in sharp focus: his blindly raging departure, horns bleating on the clogged highway, the sudden wind, an angry ocean, bright flags of bathing suits moving on the beach, lithe boys riding the waves; a world beyond his lonely pride. He had stood upon a bluff and watched the ocean hurl itself in senseless fury against the rocks. Sea birds had whirled above him in great arcs, dived into the water, rode back to shore like surf boys upon the foam. The air had a tang both sweet and salty that brought back pleasing memories of Coney Island, where he had first smelled the sea. Clouds hung low but the sun, fallen behind the western horizon, had tinted the sea with the gray-blue and rose-mauve of a dove’s breast. The ocean took on a purple hue.
The colors of earth had never concerned Fletcher. His mind had always been fixed upon more immediate and personal matters. Were these, the wind and salt, changing colors, a charge of vitality, and the swift running of blood enough to keep a man alive? Five steps on the lonely bluff and it would all have been over. They would have found a body waterlogged and torn among the rocks.
The sky darkened, clouds turned leaden-blue, spume glowed white at the ocean’s border. Fletcher had no wish to take the five steps. Men will themselves to death when the future holds no hope. For the first time since he had lost his voice, Fletcher’s life promised power and drama. His circle was small, limited to three dependents, but his decision and activities could shape their future lives.
After a long drive in the windy night he came home, still unsure of his strategy with Elaine. She was not the first wife who had committed infidelity nor was he the world’s first cuckold. He had lived for almost three years without a larynx. Compared with this, the loss of his so-called honor was a small thing. But he could not show that he condoned the sin by greeting her with open arms. A faithless wife deserved a sleepless night.
On the table beside his bed Elaine had left the usual two sleeping pills. In the morning they still lay there, and his first act was to add them to the hoard in the vial he kept hidden in the riding boot. The house was very quiet. Elaine had not stirred herself to make his breakfast. He would show her that he could get along very well without her. He made a pot of coffee, toasted bread, cut a melon, fried two eggs. His hunger was not appeased, and he fried a third egg. In the morning paper he read one paragraph about foreign loans, half a column about abandoned twins, a caption under the picture of a squirrel mother who had adopted an orphaned baby mouse, an editorial on the threat of Communism, the revelations of a columnist critical of the administration, and the meditations of a columnist who approved. Over a garish two-page advertisement of startling price cuts on electric appliances, he saw Elaine come into the kitchen.
They faced each other for a long moment. Elaine did not look well. Her ivory flesh had yellowed like meerschaum, her eyes were sunk into muddy pools. He wished her a good morning.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” She was cool in asking a question which had been the day’s vital beginning since the only purpose of Fletcher’s days had become the preparation for his night’s slumber. He answered with a grunt. It would not do to let her know he had enjoyed a good night’s rest.
“I had an awful night,” she said; “didn’t get to sleep until almost four o’clock. That’s why I’m late. Oh, Fletch, you had to get your own breakfast. I’m so sorry.”
She had said she was sorry when she confessed infidelity. Fletcher did not mention this. Until he had decided how to act toward her, the subject was better untouched. It shocked him to discover that he was moved by her wan look. The eloquent eyes showed the need of consolation. He had only to mention forgiveness to get his gay and loving girl back again.
“Would you like to go someplace today, Fletch? Dorine’s coming.”
The cleaning woman drove up in an ancient Cadillac. She was a lean, lively little creature with enormous energy and an overflowing heart. Among her numerous relations, friends, and employers she had known many fascinating maladies but none to equal poor Mr. Strode’s affliction. She always spoke to him in a loud, compassionate voice as though he were deaf. Before she reached the kitchen door he had retreated to his den.
At his desk his first act each day was to turn the page of his desk calendar. Each page was divided into hours, every hour into fifteen-minute spaces that awaited notations of a busy man’s appointments. The sterility of these spaces irritated Fletcher but he could not throw away the calendar which, bound in real leather stamped with his name, was the annual gift of his insurance agent. Today, importantly, two items appeared. The first reminded him to instruct his New York broker to report on the advisability of selling a thousand shares of a certain stock, which would bring him a handsome profit, enough to cover the down payment on that house Don and Cindy wanted so badly.
He heard their voices in the kitchen. How happy they would be if he summoned them to say that he had decided to let them have the money. He hesitated, not sure that he wanted to abet the foolhardy venture. It was not that he minded losing the sum so much as the prudence of a lender who could see nothing ahead but further indebtedness. His eyes were drawn to the picture of Cindy as a little girl. The face was tender, trusting, and vulnerable. He remembered the soapy smell of her youthful kisses. If only that husband of hers were not so smooth and lordly, so firm in his belief that the world owed him a living. At Don’s age Fletcher Strode had supported a family and fought in a war. How would this soft generation sustain itself during a depression?
Cindy and Don went to the garage and got into the Jaguar. There was still time to summon them with the news that he would write a check for the thousand that would put the house in escrow, and when that was completed, let them have another four thousand. Why not? He could, if he wished, finance the deal, keep his daughter’s husband from asking help of Nan Burke’s father.
He saw them go off in the Jaguar. This gave him more time to consider the decision. For a few more hours his power was secure. He felt strong and independent, a man who operated with firmness and decision. Instead of asking Elaine to talk on the long-distance telephone to his broker, he wrote out a long telegram, decided to drive down to the Western Union office with it. On the way out he passed her in the hall and slapped her seat indulgently.
Her spirits rose. “Mr. Strode’s in an awfully good mood this morning,” she told the cleaning woman. “He ate an enormous breakfast.”
“Let’s hope it lasts. With the afflicted you can never be sure.” While they cleaned Fletcher’s closet, Dorine told Mrs. Strode about a lady she had worked for on alternate Thursdays. “Her son had a mental condition. Sometimes he was as gentle as a lamb, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But you never could tell. He’d get those whims. Like throwing eggs at the cat.”
“Strictly fresh, I hope.”
“It’s nothing to laugh about, Mrs. Strode. The poor lady’s heart was broken. He outlived her. What’s this?” Something rattled in Mr. Strode’s riding boot. Dorine pulled out the bottle of bright-colored pills.
Elaine had often blamed nervous imagination for her caution with the sleeping pills. Without asking its cause, Fletcher had agreed to her scheme of doling out two a night. Except on that spring afternoon when he had accused her of wishing that he was dead, there had been no mention of the subject. Now, thrusting out her hand for the vial, her fear took body.
“Is he addicted?” whispered Dorine.
“Please give
me that.”
“We had a neighbor once on West Adams, her niece used to hide stuff in her lipstick case. Pretty as a picture, too. You wouldn’t believe it.”
Elaine pressed the vial deep into her pocket. “Please don’t talk about it, Dorine. Ever.”
“They always hide it. Won’t Mr. Strode be mad when he finds it gone?”
“They’re only sleeping pills,” Elaine said irritably.
“People kill themselves with ’em. Take that movie actress. That’s why I won’t work for movie people. You never know what you’ll find in the morning.”
Elaine retreated to her bedroom. She clutched the small bottle protectively as though someone threatened to take it away. What would Fletcher do when he discovered the pills gone from their hiding place? She counted them and realized with what self-control he must have resisted their use on sleepless nights. When she heard the car enter the driveway, she tightened all over as though she had been discovered in sin.
Feltcher was in a buoyant mood. “What have we got for lunch?”
He ate with good appetite. Cindy and Don had not come back, and it seemed natural for Fletcher and Elaine to enjoy a quiet meal on the terrace. A daring blue jay stole crumbs from Fletcher’s plate.
“You know you’re seeing Dr. Gentian this afternoon.”
Fletcher nodded. This was the second important item on his calendar page. Elaine was pleased when she saw him drive off to keep the appointment. A man contemplating suicide would not suffer the pain and ignominy, the hammering and probing, the useless imprisonment, of the dentist’s chair. A visit to the dentist is a gesture toward life. The bottle of sleeping pills made a bulge in the pocket of Elaine’s tight trousers. She had kept them there because she could not decide what to do with them. She decided to hide them in the kitchen cupboard, but Dorine was there frying herself a hamburger. At the bookshelves, looking over her shoulder to be sure she was not observed, Elaine thrust the vial behind her father’s Origin of the Species in Italian. She felt as guilty as if she were involved in crime.
