A Simple Plan (33 page)

She dropped her towel into the clothes hamper. Her bathrobe was hanging from the back of the door; she took it down and put it on. Then she picked up Amanda from my lap.

“The connections only seem obvious to us,” she said calmly. “No one else would see them.” The baby slowly stopped crying.

I stood up. I was beginning to sweat beneath my suit, so I took off my jacket and draped it over my arm. My shirt was stuck to my back. “What if Jacob or Lou or Nancy left something behind, a diary or something. Or if one of them told somebody we don’t know about…”

“We’re okay, Hank,” she soothed me. “You’re letting yourself think too much.” She stepped forward and hugged me with one arm, the baby—still whimpering a little—pressed tightly between our bodies. I let her rest her cheek against my own. Her skin smelled clean and damp and fresh.

“Think about how people see you,” she said. “You’re just a normal guy. A nice, sweet, normal guy. No one would ever believe that you’d be capable of doing what you’ve done.”

S
ARAH’S
birthday was Saturday, the twelfth of March. I wanted it to be a memorable one, not only because it was her thirtieth but also because of the money and the baby, so I got her two big gifts—both of which were well beyond my pre–duffel bag means.

The first was a condominium in Florida. Toward the end of February, I’d seen an advertisement in the paper announcing a government auction of property seized in drug raids. They listed all sorts of things that had to be sold—boats, cars, airplanes, motorcycles, satellite dishes, houses, condominiums, jewelry, even a horse farm—merchandise that could be purchased for less than 10 percent of its appraised value. It was on the following Saturday, March 5, in Toledo. I told Sarah that I had to work that day and drove into the city around nine, the hour it was scheduled to begin.

The address listed in the advertisement was a small warehouse, down by the port. Inside there were folding chairs lined up across the floor, facing a wooden podium. None of the actual merchandise was there—they simply had photographs of it, and long written descriptions, all pasted together in a catalog that they handed to you as you entered from the parking lot. There were about forty people already there when I arrived, all men, and a handful more came in after me.

The auction was late starting, so I had a half hour to sit and explore the catalog. I’d come to see if there was any nice jewelry, but, as I flipped through the glossy pages, I began to change my mind. The fourth item scheduled for bidding was a three-bedroom beachfront condominium in Fort Myers, Florida. It had a deck, a hot tub, a solarium. There were color pictures of it, interior and exterior. It was white stucco, with a red-tiled roof, like a Spanish house. It was beautiful, luxurious, and I decided immediately that I was going to buy it for Sarah.

Its appraised value was listed as $335,000, but the bidding was set to start at $15,000. Sarah and I had a little over $35,000 saved up in the Ashenville bank, our nest egg for the move we’d been planning out of Fort Ottowa, and I decided, quite spontaneously, that I could spend $30,000 of it if I had to. I reasoned that if it came to the worst, and we still had to burn the hundred-dollar bills, I could sell the condo and probably even make a profit on it. I saw it as an investment—shrewd and calculating.

I’d never been to an auction before, so when it began, I watched to see how people bid. They simply raised their hands as a price was called out, and when someone finally won, a woman with a clipboard took him aside and wrote down some information.

There were only three other men besides myself who took part in the bidding for the condo. The price gradually climbed through the twenties. As it approached $30,000, I began to get nervous, thinking I wasn’t going to get it, but then, suddenly, everyone else dropped out, and I ended up winning it for $31,000.

The woman with the clipboard took me off to the side. She was young, thin faced, with short, black hair. She had a name tag on, and it said Ms. Hastings. She spoke very quickly, in a hushed tone, explaining to me what I had to do.

She gave me a business card. I had to get a check for the full amount bid to the address listed on the card within the next week. I should allow ten working days after the receipt of my payment for them to process my papers. After that time, but not before then, I’d be able to come to the same address in person and receive my property—in this case the deed to the condominium. When she finished telling me this, and I’d filled out my name, address, and telephone number, she left me, moving on to the next person.

I sat back down in my chair, trying to sort through my feelings. I’d just committed myself to spending $31,000, nearly all of our savings. It seemed like a tremendously foolish thing to do. But then, in comparison to the money we had sitting on the floor beneath our bed, it was nothing. And I’d gotten a deal, too, had bought the place for less than a tenth of its appraised value. The longer I sat there, the more strongly this latter interpretation began to dominate my thoughts. I was a millionaire, after all, four times over; it seemed like I ought to start acting like one. By the time I got up to leave, I was feeling pleased enough with my purchase that there was a just perceptible jauntiness to my stride, and as I made my way to the exit, I even found myself wishing that I had a cane, so that I might twirl it as I walked.

My second gift to Sarah was a grand piano. This was something she’d always wanted, ever since she was little. She didn’t know how to play, it had nothing to do with that; a piano simply represented to her, I think, the concrete embodiment of wealth and status, and as such it seemed fitting that I should give it to her now.

I shopped around, calling music stores from work, astonished at how much pianos cost. I’d had no idea; it was something I’d never even considered. I ended up finding one that had been marked down because there was an imperfection in its varnish, a large, hand-shaped stain on its lid. It cost me $2,400, virtually the balance of our account.

I had them deliver it to the house the morning of the twelfth. Sarah was working at the library, so she wasn’t there when it arrived. It came in with its legs off, three men straining to carry it. I had them reassemble it in the living room. It looked absurd there, monstrous, dwarfing the rest of the furniture, but I was pleased with it. It was something special, something she’d like, and I knew it would look better in our next house.

I taped a little red bow to a sheet and draped it across the piano. I’d saved the page from the catalog with the condominium on it, and I put this next to the bow. Then I sat down and waited for her to return.

S
ARAH
seemed much more impressed with the piano than the condo, perhaps because it was a physical presence in the room, concrete, undeniable, something whose keys she could touch and make a sound, rather than a mere picture of an object thousands of miles away. It was an actuality, whereas the condo remained nothing more than a promise.

“Oh, Hank,” she said as soon as she saw it, “you’ve made me so happy.”

She tapped out “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the only song she knew. She opened the lid and looked at the strings. She pressed the pedals with her feet, ran her hands across the keys. She tried to sound out “Frère Jacques” for Amanda but couldn’t seem to get it right, and each time she made a mistake the baby would begin to cry.

Later that night—after the unveiling of the gifts; after a special dinner of cornish hens and stuffing and green beans and mashed potatoes, all of which I cooked myself; and after two bottles of wine—we made love on top of the piano.

It was Sarah’s idea. I was nervous that it might collapse beneath our weight, but she took off her clothes and jumped right up onto its lid, reclining there on her elbows with her legs spread wide.

“Come on.” She smiled at me.

We were both a little drunk.

I stripped out of my own clothes and slowly, listening all the time for the warning creak of a collapsing leg, climbed up on top of her.

It was a remarkable experience. The piano’s hollow chamber echoed our own sighs and moans back up at us, returning them subtly altered—adding a peculiar resonance and fullness, embedding within them the soft choral vibrations of its tautly stretched wires.

“This is the beginning of our new life,” Sarah whispered in the middle of it, her mouth pressed up tight against my ear, making her breath sound like a scuba diver’s, deep and passionate and strangely distant.

As I nodded in response, I banged my knee down on the piano’s lid, and the whole thing seemed to moan for a moment, a long, mournful echo seeping up through the wood, making it vibrate, so that it trembled against our naked bodies.

When we finished, Sarah got a bottle of furniture polish from the hall closet and wiped away our sweat.

M
ONDAY,
on my lunch break, I made a quick visit to the cemetery. I walked from spot to spot, reading headstones—Jacob’s, my parents’, Pederson’s, Lou’s, Nancy’s, Sonny’s.

It was a cloudy afternoon, gray and overcast, the sky hanging low above the ground, pressing down like a tarp. The view was desolate, empty. Beyond the church and the low scattering of tombstones, there was nothing but the horizon, and it was miles away. A bouquet of flowers was resting beside the Pederson plot, chrysanthemums—yellows and reds—their vivid colors looking garish in the dim light, more like splashes of paint from a passing vandal than the sincere symbols of grief they were meant to be. Inside St. Jude’s, someone was practicing the organ. I could hear the sound coming faintly through the brick wall, the same low, throbbing sequence of notes repeated over and over again.

It hadn’t snowed since the last rush of funerals, nothing more than the brief flurry the day Jacob was buried, and the fresher of the graves stood out along the cemetery’s floor, a handful of large, black rectangles, each one slightly sunken.

When I was little I’d pictured death as an animated pool of water. It looked just like a puddle, a little darker maybe, a little deeper than usual, but when you walked by, it would reach up with two liquid arms and pull you into itself, swallowing you down. I have no idea where I got this image, but I held on to it for a long time, probably until I was ten or eleven years old. It may’ve been something my mother had told me once, the way she had of explaining it to children. If this were true, then Jacob must’ve held the same idea.

The fresh graves looked like puddles.

Before leaving, I stood for a few minutes beside our family plot. Jacob’s name had been chiseled onto the marker, right beneath our father’s. The blank spot in the stone’s bottom-right-hand corner was waiting for me, I knew, and it was a nice feeling to realize that—unless I were to die within the next few months—it would never be filled in. I was going to be buried a long way from here, under a different name, and thinking this gave me an instant’s rush of happiness. It was the best I’d felt since the shootings, the most confident in our course: for perhaps the first and only time, what we’d gotten seemed worth the price we’d paid. We were escaping our lives. That cube of granite had been my fate, my destination, and I’d broken away from it. In a few months, I’d set out into the world, free from everything that had formerly bound me. I would re-create myself, would chart my own path. I would dictate my destiny.

T
HURSDAY
evening I returned from work and found Sarah in the kitchen, crying.

At first I wasn’t sure. All I noticed was a stiffness, a strained formality, as if she were angry with me. She was standing at the sink washing dishes. I came in, still in my suit and tie, and sat down at the table to keep her company. I asked her some questions about her day, and she answered them in monosyllables, short little grunts from deep in her throat. She wasn’t looking at me; her head was tucked down against her chest, watching her hands working at the dishes in the soapy water.

“You okay?” I asked finally.

She nodded, not turning around, her shoulders hunched forward, making her back look round. The plates clinked together in the sink.

“Sarah?”

She didn’t answer, so I got up and came to the counter. When I touched her on the shoulder, she seemed to freeze, as if in fright.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, and then, leaning forward to catch her eye, I saw the tears rolling slowly down her face.

Sarah wasn’t a crier; I could count the number of times I’d seen her in tears on the fingers of one hand. They appeared only in the wake of major tragedies, so my first reaction to her weeping was one of panic and fear. I thought immediately of the baby.

“Where’s Amanda?” I asked quickly.

She continued to work at the dishes. She turned her face off to the side, made a sniffling sound. “Upstairs.”

“She’s all right?”

Sarah nodded. “She’s sleeping.”

I reached forward and turned off the water. In the absence of its rushing, the kitchen took on a sudden silence, and it seemed to add a peculiar weight to the moment, which frightened me.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I slid my arm along her back until I had her in a half embrace. She stood there rigid for a second, her hands draped over the edge of the sink, as if they’d been broken at the wrists, then she let herself fall toward me, let a sob work its way raggedly up through her chest. I hugged her with both arms.

She cried for a while, returning my embrace, her wet hands dripping soapy water down my neck and onto the back of my suit.

“It’s all right,” I whispered. “It’s all right.”

When she quieted down, I brought her over to the table.

“I can’t work at the library anymore,” she said, sitting down.

“They fired you?” I couldn’t imagine how she could possibly be fired from the library.

She shook her head. “They asked me not to bring Amanda anymore. People were complaining about the noise.” She wiped at her cheek with her hand. “They said I can come back after she’s outgrown her crying.”

I leaned forward and took her by the hand. “It’s not like you really need the job right now.”