• Kathy decides to move as early as she can. She’s on the 11:56, a blonde in a cheap tan raincoat and a pale blue scarf and reading glasses. Two fake moles on her chin and cheek, some darker makeup under her eyes, so she’ll look tired and ordinary.
She sits by a window, turned sharply toward it. Watching the rain wash down the glass, the colorless buildings beyond. Great weather, she thinks. Couldn’t be better. Everybody outside looking at the ground, people with their collars up. A soft light that makes everything look the same.
Feeling pretty good, Kathy thinks, considering. It’s funny how Robie talks as if this is an adventure or something brave. No, it’s just work. You want anything in life, you have to work for it. You wade through it. Like you have an abortion or a baby, or the doc wants to cut something out of you. It’s just work. And then you go on living. But God knows you aren’t proud of it. It’s just something you have to do. Dad, shit that he was, had that much right. “You want something, baby, work for it, then it’s yours, fair and square.” Some work’s more complicated than others. But hell, I feel like there’s almost nothing I couldn’t do. Good old Keith, sitting in jail. Thanks, man.
Now and then Kathy scans the few people in the car. To see if anybody is watching her or if there’s anyone who might be a threat. A cop type, maybe. Somebody who remembers details as a matter of routine. She figures that somebody like that is the only thing she has to worry about. That or seeing someone she knows. But there’s not many of those, and they’re working in Manhattan at this time. Who the hell goes to Westchester in the middle of the day? Nobody. It doesn’t happen, she doesn’t exist.
Kathy checks her watch. Less than ten minutes to the station. Find Robie’s car and then it’s show time.
She stares out the window some more. Feeling a little sad. Not because of what she’s got to do but because she’s doing more than Robie is. That’s a weight on her. That really it was she who pushed the thing over the edge. Left to Robie, what was going to happen? She hates to think the words: maybe nothing.
Kathy winces.
Man, I’m making this thing happen. I see the rainbow slipping away and I know what I have to do. But why’d Robie let it slip? . . . Oh, the hell with it. I do this, and then we’ve got the rest of our lives together. The man I want, the life I want. It’s right there. I just have to reach out and take it.
A house in Westchester. Robie and her padding around on weekends. Having some babies soon enough. All of it’s in her mind, more real than the blurred world outside the window.
The conductor calls out, “Bronxville.”
She opens her pocketbook and takes out a pair of cheap leather gloves, only a little darker than the color of her skin.
She waits until the train is stopped and people are moving off the train. Then she stands and walks off quickly, her head down. In a minute she’s in the parking lot, almost sprinting through the steady rain toward Robie’s car. It’s almost exactly where she was seeing it in her head. She kneels by the left rear tire, reaches around behind the cold rubber, immediately finds the keys.
She starts up the car and drives along a route she has memorized in detail.
The thing is, Robie thinks what I’m doing is a lot more dangerous than it is. Still he lets me. But hell, I had to make sure he saw the worst of it. Had to make sure he really accepted it, that he could live with it. All right, at least we got that part settled.
Then she smiles to herself. Hell, I’ve got fall-back positions on top of fall-back positions. Good old New York, good state for killing people. Even if they actually got me, I’d be out in six or eight years. Miss Perfect Behavior. But it ain’t never going to happen that way.
Kathy walks through it again. Alright, they grab me coming out of the house. That’s five hundred to one, at best. So alright, I say, Gee, it was horrible! I just came up here to talk to this woman about her husband and me. Real friendly. But she couldn’t handle it, went all to pieces! Attacked me with an ashtray, then a lamp. It was all I could do to get away from her. Lucky for me, I ran into the dining room, pulled out a drawer, got the first knife I saw. She comes running at me. I held up the knife, and she just about ran into it. I was completely shocked. Believe me, it was horrible! . . . Sounds good to me. So what’ve you got there, at worst manslaughter. Maybe even accidental death. Worst case, I walk in ten to thirty—months!
Kathy grins. He waits, of course. He visits me every week. Of course. Or he’s got me to worry about. . . . Robie still can’t figure why I wanted one of their knives. I’m not telling. Come on, Robie boy, think. . . .
That’s it. Anything goes wrong, and I think they’ll crack it, I work a few things out with Robie, go straight to the cops, lay it on them, take the fall.
But if I’m out clean, there’s no way they’ll catch me. I’m not even here. I’m having a bad lunch on Sixth Avenue right now, and I need to walk in the rain to clear my head. I call in, then I go over to the Public Library and then Bryant Park, hang around some. Then I pass Robert Saunders on the way back. Hi, Mr. Saunders!
Kathy remembers all the little stops she made yesterday. Stops she’ll make tomorrow, also. People who’ll say, “Yeah, she was in my place. Sure, around lunch, I’m sure of that much.”
Hell, a week later, who remembers which day anything happened? And even worst case, the cops don’t figure anything out for days, but probably weeks. Everything’s muddled and forgotten by then. Beyond a reasonable doubt, for sure. And nobody in all of Westchester can ID me anyway.
All I have to do is drive carefully and don’t get in any wrecks on this nice rainy day. And we’re coasting downhill all the way home.
Kathy drives to a street that’s perpendicular to Robie’s street and stops forty yards from the corner. A street where cars routinely park along the curb. She sits a moment, checking her gloves, her pocketbook, the keys. Making sure everything is in order. Then from the pocketbook she takes a small fold-up umbrella and half opens it. As she does so, she stares down at the silver knife, making sure it’s in its place.
Okay, girl, close the pocketbook, open the door, open the umbrella, get out and walk like it’s just another day.