• Anne realizes she’s hungry. All morning sitting, thinking, worrying, aching. She stares back toward the kitchen. She’s afraid to fix food now. Never mind. She can’t relax enough to eat. . . .
It’s 12:19. The woman on the phone said, “Maybe late lunch hour.”
Anne’s in her dining room, positioned so she can look out at the front lawn, the front walk. The rain still falling through a gray mist. The light increasing as the sun moves to zenith. The day seems now to glow.
Anne feels sure that someone will come to the house. The idea is still in her head that two people might appear. Robert and someone else. She dreads this with all her being.
That he would do this is horrible. And what defense would she have against her own husband? What emotional defense?
She’s not sure, but she thinks she’ll just bolt out the back door, run to the nearest neighbor. Maybe jam the front door first, then flee. . . .
Stay just long enough to see that second person. That’s the impossible task, to leave without seeing . . . her.
But maybe it’ll be one person. One woman. Anne listened to the tape five times. The tone of voice, the words, the various meanings. And of course the words that made listening almost impossible. “Love you.”
Each time she thinks these words, Anne feels herself start to tremble.
Damn, get steady. The point of the conversation seems to be that I’m home all day. Grabbing a sick day. That’s what Robert called to tell that woman. Her.
Yes, obviously. But then Anne thinks, But maybe nobody will appear . . . and all of this is just fantasy. Some bizarre misunderstanding.
But I have to find out.
Yes, she accepts that. She’s willing to play it out. But shouldn’t she call for help, leave messages with people—If I don’t call back by three, send the cops. Should she mail letters? Hide notes in places the cops will look? The same ideas she’s played with for weeks. And they still don’t sound right.
Maybe it’s all her crazy imagination. “Well,” she murmurs aloud, “the embarrassment won’t be imaginary.” She thought all morning of calling Edd at work, or one of the secretaries, or that young lawyer, Stan, or her mother or brother, or a friend, and leaving some sort of cryptic message. And every scenario she thought of ended in nothing happening and these people thinking she’s crazy forever. She doesn’t know enough. . . .
She especially wants to call Edd, trust him, bring him into this. But just the act of calling proves that she knew, that she was waiting. And what might it look like? she wonders. Something sleazy, absolutely. People would say, Oh, you and your lover plotted murder and revenge—confess! What lawyers could do with that. No, there’s no way to call Edd. No way to call anyone. She has to do it herself. Finally, Anne decides, she can trust only herself.
Funny thing, she thinks, I seem to want it that way.
Alright, the one person comes. Her. What then? She just walks in here and shoots me? Or she talks to me awhile first, explaining that this is necessary, because I’m obsolete and boring and not nearly pretty enough.
Damn it, this is my house. I know my way around. I know how the doors close and what locks. I can defend it.
Anne again scans the dining room, the living room, recalling which objects might be weapons, how she will maneuver or attack or run.
But there’s really only one main thing. Kathy thinks I don’t know she’s coming. I do know. She’s thinking she can surprise me. I’m thinking I can surprise her. Why not?
She definitely won’t appear unless she believes I don’t expect her. That much is logical, and that’s about all that is.
Anne shivers from fear and tension. Her abdomen hurts. Anne tries to find something funny in all this. Well, she’s going to be one surprised little bitch, if I’m right. . . .
Anne’s face creases in a macabre smile. I just have to think of this as high-level negotiation and put some offers on the table she doesn’t expect. Pretend she’s from the IRS and that my sacred responsibility is to fuck her, as the boys at the office would say. Let’s see. . . . Hey, the cops are upstairs. . . . No. Hey, the people across the street are watching the house—they’re calling the cops right now. . . . Oh, Robert just called and said, Forget it, the deal’s off. He loves me, you scum.
Anne starts crying, wishing it were true, facing the fact it’s not. “Love you,” the man said.
Yeah, bitch! Hey, I need some bagpipe music. We are going to war here. . . .
Wishing the bitch good luck as she’s off to kill . . . me. . . .
Jesus God. Until that second I was hoping. Just kept making more hope. Where did I get it from? And now what? The adrenaline’s up, then it’s down. The pain comes, then it fades. I’m just numb. Empty. That’s the thing. Even if they don’t kill me, I’m dead anyway. Or dying. One of those insect things, you think it’s alive, then you see it’s just a husk. Locusts, I think. When I was a kid, I was always fascinated by those.
Anne peers out the window. There’s somebody . . . Yes, a woman looking at the house. A woman alone! Here she comes through the bright rain. A pocketbook, a raincoat. If she’s got a weapon, it’s in the coat pockets or the pocket-book. Yes, she’s doing it herself. Robert—you cad! Let’s see. . . . Hey, not that pretty, after all. . . . Looks like a waitress at a bad coffee shop.
Anne’s spirits rise. She walks quickly to the kitchen. She takes the receiver from the phone, wraps it in a towel and puts it in the back of an open drawer. She pushes the drawer shut. Can’t have any distractions now.
Then she holds out her left hand and fills her palm with ground pepper, pressing the four fingers tightly down.
She drops the hand casually to her side, shakes any loose pepper to the floor.
“Just a thief,” Anne mutters, “that’s all you are. Think you can take my husband and now you want my life, too. You think you can take everything—”
The doorbell rings.
Anne rushes back to the front door, takes a huge deep breath, and unlocks the door.
The woman’s there, staring at her through the glass storm door. Smiling in an inquiring way. “Hello? . . . Can I talk to you a moment?”
“Are you selling something?” Anne regards her in a bored way. Is this the voice on the recorder?
“Oh, no,” the woman laughs easily, holding the umbrella out of the way so Anne can see how sincere she is. “We might move into this neighborhood. Down the street. I wanted to ask you how you like it here . . . if you wouldn’t mind. Just take a minute. My name’s Phyllis Bender. My husband works at IBM.”
“Oh, well, of course,” Anne says, unlocking the latch on the glass door. “A new neighbor, huh? Well, come in out of the rain.”
“Thank you,” the woman says.