Surprise Party

by Katz, William

  "Disgraceful," Cross-Wade said. "The man is treating her like rubbish."

  "I wonder what she's thinking," Loggins said.

  "What could she be thinking? Her husband is toasting her, yet he'll try to kill her within hours. This is a little exercise to him, a little diversion. I suppose, Arthur, that even murderers like to have fun."

  "Yes, sir."

  But Samantha wasn't really concerned with the twisted irony of Marty's toast. By now she'd written off that side of him, the same side that had brought home the portrait. She thought only of the time. It was 8:59. In a bit more than three hours it would all be over.

  Someone started singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," and everyone joined. The apartment shook with happy sound. The little band followed the tune. Spirits rose even more as the guests waited for the elaborate roast beef dinner, whose aroma was floating through the apartment.

  But there'd be something else before dinner.

  "May I have your attention please?"

  The voice was weaker than the others, and, though Samantha tried to control it, it had a nervous shake. Her friends just assumed it was from the excitement of the evening. People shushed each other, and the room quieted once again.

  "I have something to say," Samantha announced. Unlike Tom or Marty, she did not rise. "This is Marty's night," she continued. "He's a terrific guy and, as you just heard, a very special husband—more special than you can ever know."

  Applause.

  "He's so special, in fact, that it's really unfair that there's only one Marty."

  "Yeah!" someone shouted.

  "I knew you'd agree. And I kind of thought it was time to do something about that. And I did, with Marty's help." She quickly lifted her glass, broke out in a broad smile, and turned to Marty. "Here's to you…Daddy."

  For a moment, utter silence.

  Samantha bit her lip as if overcome with feeling, forcing herself to act it to the hilt. Marty was expressionless, stunned. The whole room gazed at him as Auerbach caught the frozen look on his face.

  And then the reaction. "Ah!" and "Wonderful!" and "Congratulations!" Voices filled the room. And then, sustained applause.

  Marty's face finally dissolved to a winning, delighted grin. Then he reached over to kiss Samantha.

  "Kiss her again!" Leonard Ross yelled.

  And he did.

  And the band played "Rockabye Baby."

  It was a glittering moment, warm and touching. But Samantha felt hollow. The moment meant nothing, nothing but a baby who wouldn't have a father.

  Marty's insides exploded in chaos. He hid it. He could hide anything. But this was a thunderbolt, a curse, the worst possible news. This was something Mom would do.

  A baby?

  His baby?

  Inside this woman?

  No, he couldn't have heard it right. Yes, he'd heard it right. Of course he'd heard it right, and even smiled, and even kissed Mom.

  Everything had changed. Everything. It wasn't only Samantha who would die. It was the baby as well. But was that important? Was a little fetus something he should even worry about?

  Yes.

  For it was the first direct descendant of Dad.

  It would have Dad's blood, probably his features. Maybe its eyes would be Dad's warm eyes, maybe its voice would be Dad's voice. Maybe it would move like Dad or even laugh like Dad. Maybe it would be generous, the way Dad had been generous. Maybe, when he looked into its face, Marty would see Dad.

  For the first time since the calendar schizophrenia madness gripped him, Marty was torn. He had to kill Samantha. Samantha was Mom. He'd married her because she triggered the image of Mom in his mind, because she was so ideal for the role he'd envisioned for her—the role of his final victim. It would be obscene, a violation of all he'd promised Dad in his letters, in his visits to the cemetery, to let Samantha get away on this December fifth.

  But the baby.

  Would he be violating Dad by killing his direct descendant? Would Dad be angry rather than proud? How perfect it would be if Dad could find some way to signal his wishes. But that was impossible, Marty knew. He would have to make this decision by himself.

  He felt the slaps on his back. Those people were always slapping him on the back, and now they had a very special reason. He remained at the dais wearing that put-on smile, shaking the outstretched hands, getting kisses from well-wishing women, accepting a few cigars. "Thank you," he kept saying to the chorus of congratulations. "Thank you, it's really great." His insides continued to boil. "Thank you. Yes, it was a complete surprise. No, I haven't got any favorite names. Not yet."

  Auerbach stuck his camera into his face and Marty broadened his smile. "This is the happiest night of my life," he said to Auerbach's microphone, his insincerity recorded for all time.

  He hated Samantha.

  He hated her more than ever.

  He wanted so much to kill her, to watch life rush from her body.

  But now she carried Dad's bloodline.

  Everything had changed.

  Or had it?

  18

  Only time mattered to Marty now. Get the party over with, get these people out of here, get to the end of December fifth. But he was still in shock over Samantha's announcement, and wasn't sure what he would do. He smiled, he greeted, he did the small talk, he heard the run of baby jokes that seemed to go on endlessly, but his eyes were forever switching between two points—Samantha's stomach and his gold watch. Leonard Ross, increasingly obnoxious, saw him glancing at his watch every few minutes.

  "Hey, you got somewhere to go, Marty?" Ross asked.

  Marty shook his head in a kind of mock sadness. "Just watching how quickly time goes by," he replied. "I wish this would last forever."

  "You'll have the memories," Ross said. "You'll be able to tell your child."

  "That's very touching, Len."

  It was 10:00 P.M.

  "Sweetheart, isn't it wonderful?" Samantha asked, still playing her role, and playing it to the microphones hidden in flowers, in a radiator, in lighting fixtures, even under her chair on the dais.

  "More than wonderful," Marty answered. "This is a story we'll tell our child." It wasn't often that Marty borrowed lines from others, but he saw no great need for originality. "I want to start making financial plans in the morning," he went on to Samantha, squeezed into a corner of the living room. "This kid isn't going to have to worry."

  He meant it. If he decided against killing Samantha, making financial plans was precisely what he'd do. No kid of his would drift the way he had drifted. No kid of his would have to struggle. Any kid of his would have some security, a business to enter…and a father who'd take care of him. Most important, this kid wouldn't go through life with a psychosis that forced him to kill women who bore a physical resemblance to his mother. If Samantha were permitted to live, if the baby lived, Marty would be a father in the grand style.

  10:30.

  He began to sweat. It wasn't much at first, just a glisten on the forehead, but then his face seemed to ooze perspiration from every pore, as if he had just finished jogging or pedaling an exercise bike. Samantha, by now talking to friends, glanced over and noticed. She broke off and came to Marty, who sat down in a vacant chair to rest.

  "Marty, what's wrong?" she asked.

  "The excitement," Marty answered. "You know, these things can get to you."

  "Do you feel all right?"

  "Oh sure. Just fine. I just overdid it, that's all."

  By now some friends were gathering round, each looking concerned. "Some water?" one of them asked.

  "Oh no, I'm all right," Marty answered. He didn't like attracting this kind of attention. He wanted to seem normal, relaxed, happy. He turned to Samantha and smiled. "I should be asking you how you feel?"

  "Just great," Samantha answered.

  "Good, but why don't you sit down. You're breathing for two, you know."

  She smiled, and did sit down beside Marty. He edged his chair over and pu
t his arm around her. "You still going to pay attention to me when the baby is born?" he asked, making sure some of the others overheard the question.

  "Not really," Samantha teased.

  "Yeah, that's what I thought. The father always gets the raw end."

  "But Marty," someone said, "think of the bills you'll have the privilege of paying."

  "I'm thinking," Marty answered with a wink. "If it's a girl, I'll need a second job."

  And so the laughs continued, but so did Marty's sweating. It was the sweat of indecision, of disruption of a ritual that had become holy to him.

  10:53.

  "Maybe we ought to wrap it up," he told Samantha. The next day was a business day, some of the guests who lived in the suburbs had already left, and others appeared tired. Those were good reasons for wrapping it up, but the time was the greatest reason. December fifth would end in 67 minutes.

  Samantha really didn't want to wrap it up. She wished that time would stand still, for she knew what was coming when the guests left, when she would be alone with Marty. She barely responded to Marty's comment and pretended to be distracted by a somewhat pushy guest. So it was Marty who walked over to Tom Edwards, deep in conversation with one of the bartenders on the subject of French wines. "Tom," he said, "we'd better wind it down. Could you possibly drop some loud hints?"

  "Sure," Tom answered, always the obliging Tom. But then he glanced across the room and saw a look on Samantha's face that he'd never seen before. It was more than tiredness, certainly not the fatigue of a pregnant woman. He couldn't quite figure out how to read her, but her eyes seemed wider than normal, glazed, only partially focused. He finally guessed that she'd just been overtaken by the excitement. It was all right.

  But Samantha was terrified.

  Now she became obsessed with time.

  It was 11:01.

  "Wonderful party," Tom said loudly to a friend as he dropped his coat over his arm. "But it's getting awfully late. Work in the morning."

  He actually lingered, but the necessary hint had been dropped. Everyone knew the party was nearing its end.

  Now the exodus began, and Marty glanced over to the corner where the gifts were piled. God, he said to himself, we didn't open the gifts! He'd planned to. He'd thought it would burn some time, but the party went by too quickly. No one objected. Not yet. But he worried, and sweated. What if someone demanded that he open the gifts, and sat himself down to watch. Could Marty really refuse?

  He decided to stand right near the door with Samantha, literally forcing attention away from the pile of presents, most of them with high-status Fifth Avenue store wrappings. But, certain as clockwork, one ad man did notice the oversight. "Hey, we didn't open the presents!" he announced. But the other guests were tired, and no one took up his war cry.

  "Thank you," Marty kept saying as guests filed out. "I'll always remember this." His act continued.

  "And I'll remember it too," Samantha told everyone. So did hers.

  11:08.

  The band members were gone, and so was most of the catering staff. Samantha had arranged that the tables and equipment would be removed the next morning.

  11:13. Only a few stragglers remained, Leonard Ross among them. He would, Marty thought to himself. Ross was trying to impress, to show that he enjoyed the party so much he was reluctant to leave. The man was becoming insufferable in his machinations. It had probably been his idea to have the portrait painted, and he probably planned to drop that point into his next private conversation in Marty's office.

  Marty walked over to him. "Len," he said, "if I had my way, a couple of us—y'know, the inside group—would hang around all night. But I'm sending you home. I don't want you exhausted in this weather and getting sick."

  Ross couldn't refuse. With the effusiveness of an international diplomat, he spread around a last volley of praise and thanks, and finally left.

  By 11:19, only Tom Edwards remained. He was sprawled out on a Barcelona chair that had been shoved to the side of the living room, still holding a Manhattan in his right hand, looking thoroughly spent. Samantha understood why he wanted to be the last guest to leave: He felt a proprietary interest in Marty, and in the party. He'd been present at the creation, and felt more like family than friend. Since Samantha felt the same way, there was no awkwardness about Tom's lingering. In fact, Samantha walked over and sprawled out on a chair next to him.

  "When does the fun start?" Tom asked.

  "Ha, ha," Samantha replied. "If you haven't had your share, Thomas, you'll have to find another stand."

  "Those're fightin' words."

  Marty came over and joined them. "Do I hear an argument?" he asked.

  "Tom wants more circuses," Samantha answered.

  Marty smiled playfully at Samantha. "Well, if I weren't married…"

  He's keeping it up, Samantha thought. A thespian to the last. He'll keep it up right until Tom leaves. Mustn't raise any suspicions in Tom.

  "It was a great party," Tom said. "Martin, I've never seen people have such a terrific time."

  "Makes me feel good," Marty answered. "Of course, the prime architect here deserves the credit." He gestured toward Samantha, as if presenting her.

  "Well, Tom here and Lynne pulled their weight," Samantha reminded Marty. "I couldn't have done it alone, not this well."

  "Sure you could, and did," Tom countered. "The important things were yours, Sam. You're a hit."

  Marty glanced at his watch, then nervously glanced at it again.

  "And I'd better get going," Tom said, "or I'll be a flop."

  "Oh no," Marty told him. "I was just checking the time. The evening's young. Stay awhile."

  He must be joking, Samantha thought. It was 11:24.

  "No, I'm really tired," Tom said, letting out a large, unsocial yawn. "I just felt I wanted to be the last man. Gives me a sense of inflated importance." With some difficulty, he lifted himself out of his chair. "I've got a client coming in at nine tomorrow morning. One of those IBM executives being transferred to New York. Wait'll he sees the prices on the apartments I'm showing him."

  "Where's he from?" Marty asked.

  "Denver. He should've stayed. Well, folks, this was a memorable one. You've got a nightful of gifts to open. If you don't like mine, give it to me. I like it."

  "I'll love it," Marty said.

  Tom kissed Samantha. "I don't care if I make him jealous," he said. "The hostess always gets a kiss from me. What else is there?"

  "Tom, take care getting home," Samantha said.

  "Maybe some tennis this weekend?" Marty added.

  "Yeah, why not?" Marty opened the front door and Tom slid through. "Saturday," he said.

  "Fine," Marty replied.

  Tom walked to the elevator, which came almost immediately, and he was gone.

  Now Samantha was alone with the man she loved, the man she feared.

  In the apartment down the hall, Cross-Wade and his men gathered tensely around a small black speaker that was broadcasting the sounds from the Shaw apartment. A phone connection kept Cross-Wade in touch with the visual observers across the park, their long lenses aimed at Marty and Samantha, but he knew their reports would soon cease as curtains were drawn.

  For a few moments after closing the door behind Tom, neither Marty nor Samantha said a thing. Marty just gazed around the apartment, looking almost nostalgic for the good times that had just ended. Samantha watched his every move, his every glance, searching for some sign, some gesture, that the moment of hell had come. There was none.

  She couldn't know it, but he still hadn't decided. It was 11:31, and he still hadn't chosen between the roles of father and executioner.

  Suddenly, he rushed toward Samantha. For an instant she felt scared, but realized there was a warm, mellow smile on his face, and tears in his eyes. He embraced her, then stepped away, looking at her as he had on the day they were married.

  "What can I say?" he asked. "How can I thank you?"

  "Marty, you don'
t have to thank me."

  "Oh yes I do. Sam, I never had anything like this. I never had anyone to give me anything like this."

  "Now you do," Samantha answered.

  "I sure do. And I'm gonna hang on to you, too," Marty said. "There aren't too many people in this world who have happy marriages, and I happen to be one of them."

  It was never-ending, Samantha thought. He'd play it to the last moment.

  "I want to take that trip," Marty went on, "if it's safe for you. I mean…"

  "I'm sure it's safe, but I'll ask the doctor."

  "I hope it's a girl."

  "Why?"

  "Because she'll be like you."

  "And if it's a boy—like you—is that so bad?"

  "Not as good as the first choice," Marty replied. He still had that moisture in his eyes. "Boy, what a surprise! What a night! Hey, I'm gonna have to take that course—you know, the one where the fathers learn how to help with the delivery."

  "Yup. I've got all the information," Samantha said.

  Then Marty turned suddenly melancholy. "I wish I had a family to share this with," he said. "That's the one thing I miss."

  Samantha walked slowly to him, placing her arms around his neck. "I understand," she whispered. "But at least we'll build a close family…right here." She couldn't believe she was mouthing the words. Why did Marty insist on going on like this? Was it part of some required ritual, an acting out that had to take place before the murder?

  "That's right," he answered. "Well build our own family. Maybe Saturday, after I play tennis with Tom, we can shop for carriages and strollers, and stuff like that."

  "A little early."

  "For my kid?"

  "We'll shop," Samantha agreed.

  11:35.

  "I think Daddy better get some sleep," Marty said, once again glancing at his watch. "A big day in the office tomorrow."

  "I'll just put away a few things," Samantha said.

  Marty walked into the bedroom, his mind still in turmoil. He liked talking about the baby, but he liked vengeance as well. Decide, he ordered himself. Decide. But it was hell to decide. He glanced under the bed to make sure the attaché case was still there. That didn't help him decide.