• Anne is in her nightgown, standing in front of the basin, brushing her teeth. Looking at herself now and then in the mirror. Does she look the same? She checks her eyes, whether she can see white above and below the pupils. A sure sign of stress, she’s read this. She squints, then relaxes, trying not to fake the results. No, no white. So she’s all right? She looks normal? Does this mean people can’t tell that she’s a lunatic?
She hears Robert moving around in the bedroom, mumbling, looking for something maybe?
Who is he, anyway? This really nice sweet husband she’s lucky to have? This demented adulterous killer? How does she find out, except to find out? That is, to let things unfold until she knows for sure. Curiosity, this intense curiosity, fills her like a thin nausea.
I’ve got to know, she thinks. And then she thinks, And I’ve got to be ready. And what’s that mean? A gun, some Mace, a nice knitting needle? What do I know? It means be ready. They’ll do it somewhere else? No, maybe here. More and more, she thinks, Why not here? Anything can happen inside a house, and nobody can know.
She looks closely at her hair. Not a strong color, sort of brown-blond. Mousy, people say mousy. I hate that. I never saw a mouse this color. So what’s it mean? They’re talking about me? I’m a mouse? Damn it, I don’t see that. I’m a well-mannered, well-bred, well-educated person. Where’s mousy get into this?
Well, I like the way it’s cut. Little swing on the sides there, little bounce. And look at those shoulders. Strong-looking, I think. Somebody calls me mousy, they better have stronger shoulders. Hey, lady, how’d you like a rap in the mouth?
She grins self-consciously through the foam of the toothpaste. Who am I kidding?
Robert is suddenly behind her. Staring at her in the mirror. Smiling, well, almost. He’s got his blue pajama shirt on. He holds her shoulders firmly, leans closer and kisses her neck. Now he’s licking her bare skin.
She spits out the toothpaste, then palms some water up to her mouth. Aware when she bends that Robert is pressing his hips against her. Not his hips, actually, his erection. His hands are now around her, squeezing her breasts through the silk of the nightgown. Roughly, but it’s pleasurable.
“Uuuhhhmmmmm,” he says in her ear. Smiling more now, looking her in the eye, in the mirror. “You feel good.”
His tongue is in her ear. She flinches and cringes. Then she realizes his hands are on her thighs, lifting the nightgown. Getting it up to her waist. One hand sliding around to the front of her. Robert bending his knees, butting his erection up under her ass.
Look at him, she thinks. Wilder and wilder. Just walks in and starts at it. Where’s he learned this? And what’s it mean? Does he love me? Does he even want me? Is this acting, so I won’t suspect anything? She feels curiously empty. Dead? she wonders. Dead already?
To her surprise, this thought doesn’t make her angry. Empty . . . dead . . . this sense of herself is somehow liberating. I’m dead? Then what the hell? What the bloody hell?
She stands on her tiptoes, leaning over on the basin, helping him get inside her. Hell, she’s already wet. Ahh, there, he eases up into her vagina, out and more strongly back in, almost lifting her off the tile floor.
Anne makes herself look at the mirror, and stare into his eyes. Wanting to scream, Great, dear husband . . . do it a long time, just like this. Then thinking that if she said this with feeling, she’d start crying. Yes, she would, she’s sure of it. Better to be cold, empty . . . and free.
She juts her ass out toward him, pushing back at his thrusts. She reaches back for his hands, presses the right one over her breasts, the left one on her belly. He’s a large man, he seems to be all over her, in her and around her. His big left hand pushing in hard on her belly—he knows she likes this. Then the little finger hooks around under the pubic bone, and she gasps.
She stares at his mouth, realizes he’s kissing her neck back and forth, licking her and slobbering all over. She can see his spit glistening on her skin.
What is it, Robert, what’s going on?—she thinks as she twists in his grip. Here, sweetie, kiss my toothpaste mouth. I’m dead. There’s no rules.
He finally sees she’s turned and his full mouth is on her lips and his tongue goes inside her mouth and then he seems to be licking the toothpaste off her. Why wasn’t it always like this, Robert? Why’d you have to learn from somebody else?
If, she almost screams in his eager mouth, you did. If that’s what has happened.
The tension of not knowing, of not being sure of anything, seems to build in her along with the sexual tension. Maybe, she thinks, it’s the main thing. Her muscles vibrate with the tension of I want to know! She seems to tighten and tighten, faster than she can remember it ever happening before. God Almighty ooohhhh Robert sweetheart what’s happened to us?
• • •
She lies awake next to Robert, hearing his breathing fill the dark room. Is that the sign? she wonders. That he just grabbed me by the sink? It never happened like that before. What!—he wanted one last quickie before he injects me with something in the middle of the night? She shudders.
Yes, she thinks, it might be . . . She worries she won’t be able to sleep, that she’ll have to lie awake all night, waiting. Oh, God. I’m getting to be like those gunslingers in westerns. A twig snaps and my eyes jump open. This is no way to live.
Then she thinks again of what Robert did. . . . No, it’s not a sign, she decides. It’s part of the whole pattern. He keeps getting more reckless, that’s all. Funny thing, I like it. If I didn’t have the messages on the machine, I might be able to say, Oh, isn’t this wonderful, my husband’s more crazy about me than ever! I am so lucky.
But I do. . . .
He loves somebody else. Something is going to happen. Dear God, give me the strength. Truth is, I’m smarter than Robert. The cunning’s there, I just have to sharpen it. But the strength, the bravery, that’s what I’m going to need. Me brave? Oh, it gets better all the time.
How am I going to get any sleep? I’m so wound up, it’s killing me. “Hey, Robert,” she says softly, knowing he won’t hear her, “you want to do it again?”
There, he’s tossing a little. He can’t sleep either. Not peacefully. A certain intensity has crept into everything he does. That’s how I know things are bad.
Anne thinks back over the last few weeks. Robert really hasn’t complained much about work. Maybe in a perfunctory way, maybe as an excuse for being late, but not really. Money’s okay. No medical problems. Really, what’s he got to be tense about? But he is, he really is. But all this time he’s doing this offhand act. Aw shucks, just us happily marrieds having a good old time.
Anne, one theory is he’s planning something horrible. Give me another theory. . . .
She thinks fleetingly of one she tried to hold on to, that Robert has this girlfriend who’s giving him a hard time. She’s a mistake, he wants to get rid of her. What a lovely theory. But then Anne crashes again into the first message when he said, Miss you, and then the second one when they talked a minute. The feeling’s very calm, soft, intimate. No, this Kathy is not giving him a hard time. Not at all. . . .
Anne shudders all over, trying to let the anxiety out of her body. Then she feels anger rise in its place. Damn it, Anne, there aren’t any other theories. There’s only one.
She hears Robert snoring faintly. She realizes her eyes are wide open, staring up into the dark room.