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Passport to Crime: AN ORDINARY WOMAN by Maud Tabachnik
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Maud Tabachnik was a practicing osteopath for 17 years before her first novel was published in 1991. She has since become one of France's most popular crime writers, with 27 books in print, many of them set in the U. S. (like this story) and featuring her primary detective team, Lieutenant Sam Goodman and journalist Sandra Kahn. This story was selected for original publication by France's Book of the Month Club in 2006.
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Translated from the French by Peter Schulman
He didn't even lift his head when she put the cup down in front of him. A piece of slightly burnt toast leapt from the toaster, and she felt his disapproval.
"Want some jam?” she said.
He answered with a shrug as she pushed the jar towards him.
She looked out and saw a skylark land on the windowsill. The deserted, dark street made her heart tighten with anxiety. The naked branches formed a blurry screen, the night's torrential rain still dripping from them and trickling down the pavement.
The first-floor lights were on in the Roberts's house, but she didn't mention it to Jack, as she already knew how he'd respond.
"You'd love to have all the lights on in the middle of the day too, wouldn't you? No surprise, the way you waste money!"
"Did you remember to leave me a check for the gas?” she said.
He groaned and made a face without lifting his eyes from the cup. “How much was it?"
"A hundred and sixty-six dollars."
"What?"
"Two months,” she explained with a sigh.
He looked at her with disdain, but all she could see was that his face was becoming rounder and rounder, to the point where it looked like a ball of Silly Putty with two eyes and a mouth.
She told herself that she should give greater thought to what she cooked, but quickly rejected that idea. He was the one who insisted on helping himself to several servings of each dish, and he loved sweets. She would have been happy with half of what she prepared, but he had always been a big eater.
"A hundred and seventy dollars in two months! What's the bill going to be this winter?!"
She was about to tell him it wasn't as if she was sucking all the gas from the pipes—and that he seemed content to come home to a comfortable house every night—but she'd gotten out of the habit of answering him back.
"I'll leave the check on the dresser,” he said, flinging his napkin onto the table as he got up.
"I have to drop by the supermarket,” she added.
"So, you don't have any money?"
"I had to pay the insurance bill."
He heaved a long sigh.
"Do you think I earn the bucks by bending over?” he grumbled.
He left the kitchen and she got up to put the cups in the sink. A second skylark joined the first and the two birds began rubbing their beaks together. She looked at them with hatred.
Her husband came back downstairs and his shadow seemed to steal all the light from the doorway.
"I left your check up there,” he said. “Did you get my hunting shoes back from the repair place?"
"No."
"Well? What were you waiting for?"
"I'll go today."
"Good. And don't wait up for me tonight, a guy at work's having a going-away party."
She heard the door close behind him and then his car starting to pull away. As soon as she heard the car turn the corner, she stopped doing the dishes and slumped into her chair. She felt completely drained and wondered whether she wasn't coming down with something. Lately, every little thing required a Herculean effort. Just getting up in the morning seemed like climbing a mountain only to face another bleak and empty day.
She and Jack had met late in life. He'd just gotten divorced and she was still living with her mother. At forty, she couldn't imagine meeting a man she could love. But her mother died the month they met and Jack knew just how to appear thoughtful and efficient.
They got married right away and he insisted she quit her job as an archivist at the local library.
"Your salary will make me jump tax brackets,” he explained. “At the end of the day, we'd only be able to take home about a third of it. I'd be happier if you stayed at home, it would be better for both of us."
She resisted at first, terrified of the sudden vacuity she foresaw in being without work, but she was flattered, in the end, to think that a man actually wanted to take care of her.
She was kept busy during the first months of their marriage getting her mother's house in order, and she'd regularly go back to see her old colleagues at work, who never wasted an opportunity to congratulate her on her great luck. But before long she found they no longer had much to say to each other. What could she talk about with them anyway? Her weekly forays to the supermarket? How her neighbor's cancer was developing? Could she talk about Jack, who'd already resumed going away with his buddies every weekend during hunting season?
As for Jack, he was hardly the same person. The thoughtful man she'd married had turned grouchy and demanding. Nothing was good enough for him anymore. He came home from work and locked himself in the room he'd transformed into an office, where he had his computer. She never knew what he did on that machine.
When he came to the table to eat, his eyes were glued to the television. If she tried to initiate a conversation, he would tell her to be quiet so that he could watch a game show or a sporting event—almost anything could grab his attention more effectively than she could. And so she got into the habit of not speaking at all, and her evenings became as morose as her days.
She was afraid the first time they made love. Her only previous sexual encounter had occurred when she was in her twenties, and that had been something else entirely. It happened in the car of a boy who was employed in the accountant's office where she worked. There was some heavy petting and kissing but when he wanted to go further, she refused, terrified of what might happen. Her mother's warnings had put her on high alert, even if she hadn't ever bothered to explain exactly how to avoid getting pregnant from a would-be lothario.
Those were her terms back then.
With Jack, there was nothing to discuss. He'd been married for nine years before his wife left him, and he was used to being with a woman. Despite his experience, once it was over, leaving her sad and in pain, she couldn't understand why people made such a big fuss about it. If that was what the great physical love everyone talked about felt like, she had no regrets about having abstained from it for so long.
As luck would have it, Jack didn't seem much more interested in sex than she was, and intercourse between them became more and more infrequent.
She looked at the phone on the wall, hoping with all her might that it would ring. But who would call now that her mother was gone, now that she no longer hung out with her colleagues? Her only family—her mother's sister—lived 3,000 miles away, on the other side of the country.
She coughed up some bile, the acid it left in her throat making her nauseous. This had happened before, and she was suddenly afraid she might have something serious, cancer of the esophagus, perhaps, like her neighbor Mrs. Clarys. She decided right then and there to go see a doctor. She didn't know of any, though; she'd have to ask Mrs. Clarys for a recommendation.
After she put all the dishes away, she gave her a call. But as soon as she heard her neighbor's voice, she realized she wasn't doing well and she didn't have the nerve to ask her anymore.
"If you need anything at all, let me know, Mrs. Clarys . . . Shall I make you a good old-fashioned soup?"
"You're very sweet, my dear girl, but I can't swallow anything today."
She hung up feeling even more depressed. How could she complain when that poor Mrs. Clarys was suffering so much?
She showered and got dressed without feeling any better for it. There was a tight knot in her stomach that was making
it hard to breathe. She absolutely had to get checked out. She looked through the Yellow Pages and picked the first name listed under “Oncologists."
She called and, to her surprise, was able to make an appointment for that very day. There had to be something wrong with a doctor who had time for you right away, she thought. But she made the appointment anyway; she could always get another opinion if she felt she couldn't trust this one. Jack had great insurance from the company he worked for and wouldn't be able to accuse her of wasting his money.
She had some lunch and left early for her appointment. Her car was at the garage, being serviced, and she was concerned about the unpredictability of public transit.
She felt reassured when she saw that there were other people in the waiting room. Finally the nurse called her in and she sat down in front of the specialist.
He was too young and nervous to inspire her with much confidence. After she described what was bothering her, he made her undress so that he could examine her.
"I don't see anything worrisome, “ he concluded as he escorted her back to his office. “Probably gastritis, nothing serious."
"But it burns here,” she said, rubbing her sternum.
"Do you burp after you eat?"
"Yes, it burns and stings."
"That's it, then. It's the acidity. . . . Are you working?"
"Not anymore."
"Do you suffer from anxiety? Nervousness?"
"Not particularly."
"What do you do all day? Do you have any children?"
"Uh . . . no, no kids . . . but my days are really full, you know. Cooking and shopping, keeping up the house, it all takes a lot of time."
He looked at her and seemed to be thinking about something.
"Do you feel like crying from time to time?"
What did that have to do with cancer? she thought angrily.
"No . . . I mean, on occasion . . . but not often . . . you know how it is . . . men hate to see women cry."
He didn't reply and started to write her a prescription.
"You're going to take two of these before each meal. Do you sleep well at night?"
"That depends . . . yes, for the most part."
"Good, then just follow this treatment and you should feel better soon.” He handed her the prescription.
"Don't worry,” he said as he walked her to the door. “It's really nothing serious."
"Are you sure . . . that it's not a . . . ?"
"A what?” he asked with a mischievous grin.
"I don't know . . . something serious . . ."
"You mean cancer? Just because I'm an oncologist doesn't mean I have to find a cancer."
Once outside, she realized that she was both relieved and disappointed. So what did she have? She stopped in a drugstore to have her prescription filled and walked past the supermarket without going in. She could manage this evening. She would deal with the shopping tomorrow.
She was getting off the bus when the storm that had been threatening all day suddenly erupted, and sheets of rain came pouring down, flooding everything in sight. The downpour darkened the landscape ominously, making it feel like it was six o'clock in the evening rather than four in the afternoon.
She ran home, dried herself off vigorously, and took the pills out of their bottle. She didn't know anything about them, but just from the lack of warning labels she knew they weren't very heavy-duty. Why didn't the doctor believe her?
At that moment, she belched violently and an awful burning sensation racked her stomach. She hunched over and rushed to spit the brackish bile into the bathroom sink. She turned cold and started to shiver. Exhausted, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, terrified that she might see her ravaged face in the mirror.
It wasn't gastritis. That doctor was an ass. Feeling weak, she got up and went into the living room. She turned on a light near the couch but its yellowish hue was nearly drowned out by the rest of the room's semidarkness.
After her mother's death, she'd wanted to modernize the house. But Jack put a stop to it, since the house remained solely in her name.
"But you'd inherit it,” she protested.
"If we split up, I would wind up on the street,” he retorted. “After paying for everything."
"Why would we split up at our age?"
He shrugged.
"Age has got nothing to do with it,” he snickered.
And in fact, she soon realized that the life he'd led right after his divorce had changed little once he got remarried. He still went out with his buddies all the time, telling her, as a feeble excuse, that he was attending work-related events; he never took her out anywhere, or, if he did, it would only be to a Chinese restaurant downtown.
She looked out the window. The rain was falling with an oppressive regularity that drowned out the light from the streetlamps. She felt a wave of loneliness and abandonment such as she had never experienced before. With her mother, she'd often felt bored but never abandoned, and she certainly hadn't had that horrible feeling of worthlessness that dogged her now.
She scolded herself. She had Jack, she was a married woman, after all. She no longer had to suffer those endless comments about still being single at her age. Thanks to Jack, she was now considered a normal member of society.
She got up; her stomach pain had gone away. She felt like she needed to do something and thought that it was the perfect time to check what she had in the cellar before going off to the supermarket tomorrow.
She went down the stairs and almost tripped on the third step. A crate was in her way. Where had that come from? It was very dangerous, especially since the electrician who had installed the wiring years ago had idiotically placed the light switch at the bottom of the staircase. She had asked Jack at least a dozen times to pull the wire all the way to the top, but he never did. She pushed the crate away and cautiously went down the stairs. The food she kept for emergencies was lined up on two shelves and she took a quick look at the cans and the staples. The cellar was dank and she thought that one day they really ought to insulate it. You couldn't keep anything down here for long. As she moved back, her foot brushed against a small container, which she picked up. It was made of an opaque gray plastic with a child-proof cap. She read the warning label beneath a skull and crossbones:
Danger. Rat poison. Wear gloves when using this product. Wash hands thoroughly after use. Keep in a dry and well-ventilated area. Keep out of the reach of children and pets.
She raised her eyebrows. Since when did they have rats in the house? She shrugged, and gave up trying to figure it out. She'd ask Jack. She stored it along with the other garden products and went back upstairs.
Six o'clock rolled by, then seven. Jack had told her that he would come home late but hadn't mentioned anything about eating out. Should she wait for him? It didn't really matter, because she wasn't hungry anymore. She felt the burning come back and drank a glass of water. The pain eased off a bit. She turned the television on and looked at, without really watching, a silly game show where everybody seemed to be having lots of fun. She turned it off. Seven- twenty. He's not cominghome for dinner. Should she heat up the turkey anyway?
As she stood in front of the sink, she took a look at the street. The lights were out at Mrs. Clarys's, but the lights were on in the Roberts's kitchen, as well as in their dining room.
She saw Mr. Roberts moving about the house as his wife was busy in the kitchen. They were just a normal couple who seemed to get along well. Clara Roberts had a part-time job in a clothing store downtown and her husband was an employee at Central Hardware; they had a daughter who lived in Seattle, whom they saw twice a year. They had been living there for quite a while, but she had never really hobnobbed with them. With anyone, for that matter.
When Jack moved in, he said that the people who lived on their street were all snobs. They were uppity even though they had nothing in their pockets.
Jack was in charge of sales at Gentry's, a company that sold supplies to hairdressing salon
s. He made a good living because in addition to his own salary he got a percentage of the commissions of his sales reps.
He really tried hard in the beginning; he should get credit for that at least. He'd made overtures to their neighbors, but, without a trace of hostility, they had all let him know that they had absolutely no intention of altering their routines for his sake. He quickly gave up on them.
"A bunch of hicks,” he declared.
She took out the turkey carcass. Turkey wasn't a bad meat, but it got dry too quickly, she thought. If she wanted Jack to have more of it, she needed to make some sort of sauce. She took out the oil but remembered that she wasn't sure he was coming home. It was very annoying. She tolerated his going out without her as long as she told her what he was doing. Now she had to stand there like an idiot not knowing what to do.
She picked at some small chunks of white meat, but spat them out. She couldn't swallow a thing. Her stomach seemed filled with compacted pap.
She turned on all the lights, which made her feel a bit more reassured. Jack would criticize her for that, but she would hear his car roll in.
Christmas was next week. A happy holiday that brought people together. But not for them. Jack would leave her alone for part of Christmas Day so that he could attend a gathering hosted by one of the salesmen from his company. When she'd asked him if she could come along he told her that she would only be bored, since she didn't know any of his colleagues.
"But if you never introduce me to them, how will I ever get to know them?"
As was now his custom, he answered with a mere groan. Sometimes she wondered if he had married her just to have a woman to take care of him. She had once heard him mumble that a housekeeper would cost him less than a wife and would be less annoying.
She turned the TV back on. The news was focused on the massive flooding that had already ravaged the northern part of the state and was threatening the remaining areas. The reporter urged people to be extremely cautious and to listen carefully to all public announcements.
She looked outside. The rain kept on coming. It had been raining almost non-stop for two whole weeks. She knew that the river that went through the city was being monitored continuously, but were a significant flood to occur, their house would not be spared.
EQMM, July 2010 Page 15
