It was almost midnight by the time he got home. The house was dark and the only car in sight was Marie’s Mustang parked, as usual, dead center in the middle of the open two-car garage. He pulled up into the driveway behind it and; shutting the garage door as quietly as possible; walked around it to enter the house through the connecting door.
A heavy, musty odor of alcohol and tobacco smoke still hung in the air as he entered. In the dim light filtering through the sheer draperies, he could see some of the wreckage of the evening’s activity strewn around the sunken living room. Empty glasses, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays and discarded toys littered the floor and furniture. He felt a little amazed at the silence of the scene. The mingled sound of Julie Fay’s and Floyd’s voices both talking at once, trying to be heard above the shouts and screeches of Teddy and Alice, seemed almost as perceptible in the air as the aromas they had left behind them. He could not understand how even Marie tolerated them. Their conversation was invariably a rehash of past mistakes, old arguments, and unfulfilled plans, all of which became more incoherent and further removed from reality as the evening-and their alcoholic intake progressed. Marie generally had little to contribute except an apparent willingness to listen with rapt attention, as if they were declaiming the eternal verities, and it was the first time she had heard them. He, on the other hand, had found it impossible to either ignore or accept their gross distortions of the truth and; to his morning-after regret; had frequently become embroiled in their pointless, obscure and unresolved discussions. But, he would have no cause for regret tomorrow morning, particularly after meeting Elise tonight.
He walked through the house, past the kitchen and the closed door of Marie’s bedroom, to his own room at the end of the hall. Before entering, he tiptoed into Cassandra’s room, adjoining his, and stood gazing down at her in her blissfully, untroubled sleep. For perhaps the thousandth time he wondered how such a miserable union as his and Marie’s had managed to produce such a lovely, intelligent, unspoiled child. Without willing it, he found himself speculating on what kind of child would result from the coming together of Elise and himself-and if, in the incongruity and unpredictability of fate, it would turn out to be the antitheses of Cassandra.
He gently pulled the light blanket up over her shoulder and bent to kiss her softly on the cheek. She stirred briefly, murmuring something unintelligible, but did not awaken. He turned away, reclosed the door-leaving it open a crack as she always wanted it-and entered his own room, also leaving his door slightly ajar so he could hear her if she called to him-which rarely happened.
Undressing quickly, he donned his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed. As he set the alarm and turned out the bedside lamp, he felt surprisingly alert and untired after the long day. He lay back, intending to review the rather strange circumstances surrounding the fatal accident. But, in an instant, Elise’s face blotted out all other thoughts, and he saw her again as she turned to look at him from the dark interior of the deputy’s car-and then, seated next to him at dinner-and as she got out of his car when he drove her home.
He watched as she walked up the steps to the apartment building entrance, and saw the gentle slope of her shoulders, the straight back and rounded hips, the sway of the short skirt across her thighs, and the play of the long supple muscles in the calves of her legs. As she reached the door she turned and, now, beckoned him to follow her. He got out of the car and ran toward her. She disappeared inside, and he followed, hearing her laughing somewhere ahead .He ran up the stairs-her apartment door was open and he ran in. She called to him from another room. He did not know which one-there were a lot of doors. He kept hearing her call, and kept opening doors, but could not find her. Then, he heard someone else laughing and turned to see Deputy Bucheck leering at him through the window. He ran to pull the drapery closed, but now the room was lined with windows, and the deputy kept moving from one to another. The doorbell began to ring insistently, and Bucheck was yelling at him-his voice echoing in the room-”Open it! Open it! It’s her! It’s her! Let her in! Let her in!” He did not want to open it, because he knew it could not be Elise-it had to be Marie. But the bell kept getting louder-louder-louder!
He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. He shut off the alarm and lay there for another minute letting the last vestiges of the dream dissolve from his subconscious. There was no sound of movement from anywhere else in the house. Marie was undoubtedly still asleep. She was an exceptionally sound sleeper and, most days, never got up at all before he left.
He got out of bed and went into the bath which formed a part of the ‘master bedroom suite’; as the builder had euphemized it. As he ran the electric razor over the light, coppery stubble that covered his cheeks and jaw, he wondered if Elise had noticed-or if it mattered-that the short, thick reddish-brown hair was liberally sprinkled with gray-that the straight, high-bridged nose was a little too long-the thin-lipped mouth a little too wide-and the cleft chin slightly recessive. And, he hoped that the combination was more pleasing to her eyes than it seemed to the deep-set, gold-flecked brown ones peering back at him from under the heavy, frowning brows of his own reflection.
After he was dressed, he went in to awaken Cassandra. As always, she awoke smiling and reached up to put her arms around his neck. He lifted her from the bed, feeling the sleep-warmth of her young body through his shirt and the silky softness of her unbelievably, smooth cheek against his face. Setting her down, he followed her half-awake stumble to the door of the bathroom across from Marie’s room, and then went to on to the kitchen to prepare their breakfast.
He turned on the radio, keeping the volume low, but audible. It was not so much that he did not want to disturb Marie, he just did not want to get involved in an argument about his not coming home the night before. He especially did not want to have to lie to her about his whereabouts. She would not believe him in any event but, if he told her the truth, it would probably only cause her to turn her resentment on Cassandra as well. From the first day of school, it had been obvious that the child was enchanted by her teacher and had discovered in her-as he had-a warmth and response that she had never received from her mother. And her mother-aware of her daughter’s discovery-was becoming obviously and increasingly jealous. In her innate perversity, she had reacted in the same way as she had to their own deepening alienation-her possessiveness seeming to grow in direct ratio to her rejection of both of them.
The news coming from the radio was as bad as usual, but at least the weather was expected to be good. There was no mention of the fatal accident. He would have been surprised if there had been. Death was not news unless it occurred queerly or in quantity. Otherwise, as Elise had said, it was a very ordinary occurrence.
The kitchen; as usual after one of Marie’s cooking endeavors; was a disaster area. Dirty pots, pans, chinaware and cooking utensils cluttered the sink, counters and range. She had never really learned how to cook, and the infrequent meals that she did prepare were confined to the most rudimentary type of dishes, invariably and indigestibly fried. In self-defense, he had-with hints and advice from Jim-learned how to prepare simple meals for the three of them, rather than resort to the tasteless, pre-packaged, frozen dinners which Marie kept on hand for herself and Cassandra when he was not there.
The only really good meals ever served in the house were prepared by Mrs. Hardesty who came in twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, to take care of the housekeeping and laundry, and stayed long enough to prepare dinner. She was a local widow and had been for over twenty years, with a married daughter living in Arizona and an unmarried son-who, apparently had never given her any cause to, but about whom she fretted constantly-living in New York City. She had been performing these functions for them for over six years, ever since Marie had discovered; and was quickly discouraged by; the amount of work required to keep up the house. It was a ranch-style, brick and cedar construction, in a new sub-division on the western edge of the village. The lots were large, but not quite the ‘estates’ they were advertised to be. Most of the trees and natural terrain had been preserved however, and he had had it completely landscaped before they moved in.
He had bought it, and had it furnished-with his mother’s help and advice-as a wedding present, but Marie had not actually seen it until after they returned from their honeymoon. Since it was much larger and far grander than anything she had previously known, she had been initially delighted, although somewhat disappointed that he had not sought her opinion-rather than his mother’s-about the furnishings. It was a disappointment that seemed to grow exponentially with the disintegration of their marriage.
It also soon became evident that they both would have been better off in an apartment or condominium, where the basic services and maintenance were the responsibility of the management rather than the residents. He had quickly discovered that he had no more interest, and even less aptitude for the chores required to maintain the outer appearances of the house, than Marie did for the inner appearances. As a result, he had been compelled to contract for the needed outdoor services and, through the medium of a desperate plea for help in the local newspaper; had been fortunate to obtain Mrs. Hardesty for their basic indoor requirements. Within a very few months; with the onset of Marie’s pregnancy; she had proved invaluable.
When she was born, he had been gratified that she was an apparently healthy, happy and attractive baby, and glad that Mrs. Hardesty was available to take care of her. He had persuaded her to move in with them, realizing that he was unable, and Marie unwilling, to properly care for the child on their own. Although he had offered to continue the arrangement indefinitely, she had informed them-on the occasion of Cassandra’s second birthday-that she thought it was time they assumed their responsibilities as parents. Fortunately, with the more unpleasant aspects of infanthood having been outgrown, Marie was able to cope with the requirements of feeding and dressing her; and it was not long before the child developed the necessary skills to relieve her of even these relatively simple tasks. At the same time, he made the somewhat surprising discovery that he enjoyed being his daughter’s father, and found a continual delight and mounting pride in her. In the early stages of Marie’s pregnancy, he had considered selling the house, thinking that she might be happier closer to the city and with more people around her. But now, he had decided against it because of the obvious advantages it would offer to Cassandra as she grew up.
After more than six years though, they were still comparative strangers to their neighbors, with the possible exception of the Adamsons who lived across the road and had a daughter, Dana, the same age as Cassandra. The two children had been almost inseparable since the time they first learned to walk, but it was only in recent months that he had become better acquainted with Phil and Sybil.
Phil was a free-lance photographer and illustrator and Sybil had been one of his models before they were married. She still frequently posed for many of the high-fashion advertisements that provided most of their income. They were both very tall and slender, with angular, but handsome, features and bodies. They had a penchant for dressing alike and; since he wore his hair a little long and she wore hers a little short; it was sometimes difficult to tell one from the other-especially from the rear. This; and a slight effeminacy in some of Phil’s mannerisms; had initially disconcerted him, until he had become aware of the way they looked at one another and went out of their way to touch each other, when they thought no one was watching. It left no doubt regarding either’s sexual inclinations.
Marie had never liked them and referred to them as “queers”. But, he suspected that it was because she felt intimidated by their obvious and, at times, blatant sophistication. She had even tried to prevent Cassandra from playing with Dana which resulted in one of the few times that he had become angry enough to raise his voice to her. Normally; despite her frequently ill-tempered, peevish bickering; he was able to keep his own temper in check, but he would not abide any form of cruelty or deprivation where Cassandra was concerned. Naturally, this only aggravated the situation between them but; since it had become evident that he could not evoke any favorable response from Marie no matter how he tried to please her; he was only interested in the well-being of the child.
Lately however-although she still evinced no desire to be friends with them herself-Marie had begun to take advantage of the children’s friendship. Infrequently, at first, and then with growing regularity, she would phone Sybil and ask her to take care of Cassandra after she and Dana came home from school-or she had left instructions with Mrs. Hardesty to deliver her to the Adamsons if she left before he got home. It was these occasions that had provided him the opportunity to get to know them better. He could sense a natural curiosity in them about Marie and himself and he appreciated their restraint in not alluding to the growing implications of Marie’s absences.
For suddenly-after almost five years of virtual isolation following Cassandra’s birth-during which she had spent most of her days sleeping, watching television, reading cheap magazines and drinking-broken only by an occasional wildly extravagant shopping spree-Marie had seemingly developed a new interest in life. Initially, he had been only surprised, and mostly pleased, that she had found something to bring her out of her shell. But, she did not seem any happier for her new activity, and usually appeared to be even more morose and sullen, and to drink even heavier, the day after one of her excursions. He had tried to question her about it and received only silence or transparent lies in reply. (She had gone to a movie, and could not remember what she saw-she had gone shopping, and bought nothing-she had visited some friends, but he wouldn’t know them)
Finally, in the last few weeks, the first faint suspicions of infidelity had inevitably entered his mind. He had fought them, because it seemed somehow foreign to her character-despite all her other flaws. He realized the justification it would provide for ending their marriage; if it were true, and could be proved. But, that was the crux of the problem-the proof-because he knew he could never bring himself to initiate whatever action or investigation might be necessary to obtain it. Besides, he was not sure he wanted proof, since it would only signify the ultimate extent of his mistake in marrying her. But now-after last night-it had assumed a new significance.