While David was doing bench presses, Molly was at her desk working on the architectural manuscript, coping with split infinitives and flying buttresses, wondering at the deterioration in the use of language among academics.
A shrill cry of pain made her drop her pencil.
It had come from Michael’s room, where he was down for his nap.
She jumped up and ran.
Michael was out of bed, jabbing at a cornered Muffin with a toy rifle equipped with a bayonet. The rifle and bayonet were obviously plastic, but the bayonet was still sharp enough to evoke screeches of pain and rage from the cat, who was trapped in the angle where the bureau met the wall.
Molly was sickened that Michael would do something so blatantly mean and aggressive. She was more sickened by the expression on his face. He was staring intently at the cat, his eyes brightening with each lunge with the bayonet. It was a look she recognized; she’s seen it often enough on grown men. At that moment, Michael might have been thirty instead of three.
“Michael! Stop that!”
Immediately he dropped the rifle and looked guiltily at her, three years old and innocent again. Muffin gave a final
Yowl!
and bolted for the propped-open window. Molly watched as he made his getaway via the fire escape, wondering briefly if he’d return after the cruelty he’d suffered.
She was trembling, fighting to control her temper. Temper mingled with fear. Michael’s transformation had been so sudden and unexpected; she’d had no idea he could harbor and display such sadism.
“Why were you doing such a thing?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. “Where did you get that toy gun?”
His lower lip quivered and he began to cry. Molly’s anger rushed from her and she went to him and held him close, telling him she loved him, trying to soothe him into silence.
“It’s okay…Okay, Michael. Mommy isn’t mad at you, really…”
But she couldn’t console him.
“Who gave you the gun?” she asked gently.
“Aunt Deedray,” he managed to say between sobs.
Molly stood quietly, bent over slightly and hugging him to her hip and thigh, her anger building hotly deep within her as she felt his warm tears penetrate the thin material of her slacks.
After a few minutes, she picked him up and stalked from the bedroom.
Aunt Deirdre!
Jesus Did the woman think she was a fool?
By the time she’d taken the elevator up to Deirdre’s floor and was knocking on her apartment door, Michael had calmed down and was quiet. He lay against her limp and watchful, his head tucked in the curve of her neck and shoulder. He was getting heavy, but she barely noticed.
Deirdre opened the door and smiled out at them. She’d been busy trying to get her new apartment in order and was glamorous even in work clothes. She was wearing tight jeans with a button fly, and a black T-shirt. Though she had a paisley bandanna wrapped around her head, her makeup was flawless and the protruding lock of red hair had to have been calculated. There was a smudge of dirt strategically placed on her nose and she was holding a dust cloth. Molly wondered whom she might have been expecting.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Sorry it took me a while to come to the door. I’m trying to get things organized in here.” She reached out and touched the tip of Michael’s nose with her forefinger. “Hello, Michael, darling.”
Molly tried to rein in her anger as she brought the plastic bayonet-equipped toy rifle out from where she’d been holding it behind her back. “Why did you give him this gun, Deirdre?”
She widened her eyes in surprise. “Why, he’s a little boy. Boys like guns.” She winked. “You know, it’s not like with us. It’s some kind of phallic thing.”
“I found him trying to stab Muffin with the bayonet.”
“Muffin? Oh, the cat.” She smiled at Michael. “Well, Michael’s not a cruel boy. I’m sure he won’t do it again.” The red-enameled nail came forward again to touch the tip of his nose. “Isn’t that right, Michael?”
Molly knew this confrontation hadn’t taken Deirdre by surprise. It was part of a pattern. She was determined not to be sucked into this scenario in a way that fit Deirdre’s script. The problem was, she didn’t know how this was supposed to play out. Her anger rose.
“Don’t you
ever
give him
any
kind of toy without checking with me first!”
Deirdre stepped back, shocked that Molly was so upset over such a trifle. “Hey, I’m sorry. It really isn’t a major thing. I found the gun here in the apartment and thought he might enjoy it, that’s all.”
“An elderly couple rented this apartment before you,” Molly said.
“Well, maybe they had a grandson. Or were into some kind of kinky sex with toy guns. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t have given the gun to Michael if I thought it might do him psychological harm, or for some reason he wouldn’t enjoy it the way other little boys play with guns without it ruining their lives.”
“The cat didn’t enjoy it,” Molly said.
Deirdre considered that for a second, biting her lower lip somberly. “No, I suppose not. You do have a point there.” Then she brightened, smiling again. “Okay, no more guns or knives when I baby-sit you, Michael.”
“There won’t be any more baby-sitting.”
Deirdre looked astounded. “Don’t you think you’re over-acting about this, Molly?”
“You mean ‘over
re
acting.’ And no, I don’t think I am.”
“Would David approve of this?”
“That’s no concern of yours. My child is no concern of yours. My husband is no concern of yours.” Molly tossed the toy rifle past Deirdre into the apartment, harder than she’d intended. It clattered noisily on the wood floor. Probably it had broken.
“Over
re
acting, then,” Deirdre said with maddening composure.
Obviously, on a certain level, she was amused by Molly’s rage. Was this how she’d planned their encounter?
Molly stalked to the elevator and slapped at the Down button. The elevator was still at floor level, but it seemed to take forever before the door opened.
Deirdre stood watching as Molly, clutching Michael to her, stepped inside.
“Bye, Michael,” she said with a smile, as the door glided shut.
As the elevator descended, Molly swallowed as if to relieve pressure. The entire building was full of pressure since Deirdre had moved in. Molly was holding her breath as if she were dropping toward the ocean floor in a diving bell. She released it and set Michael on the floor, trying to calm herself. But her anger continued coursing through her blood like a disease.
When she’d stepped forward to fling the toy rifle and Deirdre had moved out of the way, Molly had been aware of a scent she’d noticed without realizing it, as soon as Deirdre had opened her apartment door.
Back in her own apartment, Molly got Michael settled in the living room with television and some toys then went into the bedroom. Cartoons were on TV, featuring cavemen and dinosaurs, and probably, Molly admitted with an infuriating thrust of doubt, more violence than Michael had perpetrated on the cat.
There was an argument to be made that violent childhood entertainment—including toy guns—was as much of a catharsis as a cause or predictor of violent behavior. It was a valid argument, Molly knew, but she didn’t believe it enough to take a chance with her own child.
She stood at her dresser and examined the neat and glittering row of cosmetics bottles. Then she lifted a slender glass bottle shaped like a candle with a plastic cap made to resemble a flame. Elaborate red vertical lettering on the bottle spelled out
Flaming Fixation.
She removed the cap and sniffed at the bottle’s contents.
She knew now without a doubt. It was the perfume Deirdre was wearing.
Molly thought it should have been named
Apropos.
Deirdre threw the dust rag at a lamp hard enough to knock it over. She didn’t bother to pick it up from the floor. She paced and fumed, occasionally pausing to kick or punch a piece of furniture.
“You bitch, Molly!” she hissed. “Bitch, bitch, bitch!…You don’t deserve them!”
Finally she walked over and picked up the lamp, then paused and hurled it back to the floor, bending the shade and causing the brass footing to break loose from the base and lie looped around the cord. She walked to the wall and began slamming her head against the plaster, over and over until she saw bloodstains on the paint and stopped. She staggered to the sofa and fell back on it.
For almost an hour she lay without moving, staring hard and unblinkingly at the ceiling, as if willing it to open like a box lid and free her rage and frustration to the heavens.
Then she remembered Chumley had said he’d be working at the office today. For a moment her hostility hovered around her thoughts of Chumley. She considered calling and having him take her somewhere interesting, cheer her up.
That bitch!
Yes, she needed cheering.
But Chumley wouldn’t be capable of giving her what she needed. He hadn’t managed it yet. She really didn’t want to see him today.
She sat up, reached for the phone, then lay back down with it resting on her stomach. She punched out Chumley’s home number.
A woman answered on the third ring.
“Is Craig Chumley there?” Deirdre asked, making her voice a shade husky.
“No. May I take a message?”
Deirdre smiled at the hint of alarm in the woman’s voice. Shirley. Mrs. Chumley. Another bitch!
“I, uh…Is this Mrs. Chumley?” she stammered, as if caught off guard.
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
“Never mind, there’s no message. I called the wrong number. I’m really very sorry I bothered you.”
Deirdre lowered the receiver to within an inch of its cradle and held it there. As soon as she heard the inquiring natter of a voice, she gently hung up.
There! Let
that
bitch think about the phone call. Let her wonder who’d called. Maybe it was all an innocent mistake. Or maybe it was precisely what she feared, a threat to her family and home and security, to everything she thought was hers forever. Everything she simply took for granted that she deserved. Let her wonder for a long time. Let her ask Chumley about it. If he ever asked Deirdre if it was she who’d phoned, she’d deny it and he’d believe her.
That was the beautiful part. He would believe her instead of his wife.
Mrs. Fucking Chumley! Another paranormal bitch!
Chumley sat at his desk, working on his notebook computer. Since it was Saturday, he was wearing his Yankee T-shirt, khaki shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes. When he was finished here, he’d take a long walk and work off some of the rich food he’d been consuming lately. It was hard to resist dessert at some of the restaurants where Deirdre wanted to dine. At Tavern on the Green his willpower had crumbled and he’d ordered—
The phone rang, interrupting his caloric ruminations.
“Shirley?” he asked, after he’d said hello and identified himself. “Shirl?”
“That’s right, Craig.” Her voice was odd, which was why when she’d said his name he hadn’t recognized that it was her. Then she hadn’t spoken again for several seconds. “I just wondered if you were still at the office.”
“Why didn’t you speak up? Of course I’m still here. Working on the books like I told you this morning. I’ll be here awhile longer. Why did you call?”
“Do I need a particular reason?”
“No, of course not.” He sat for a while, a puzzled expression on his long face. “No,” he said again. “You don’t need a reason to call. Not ever. You know that.”
“Are you going to finish there soon?”
“Relatively soon. Depends on how things add up. But I shouldn’t be much longer. I’m gonna go for a walk when I’m done here, get rid of some of this spare tire.” There was a long pause while he waited for her to reply, this woman he lived and slept with on the other end of the line.
“I still love you, Craig,” she said in a flat voice.
He was startled. She hadn’t told him that in a long time. “Me too,” he said at last. “Love you, I mean.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course I do. Always have, always will.” He wondered about the monotonal quality in her voice. She’d been taking tranquilizers for a long time, different kinds. He didn’t know what she was taking these days. What seemed like dozens of prescription bottles were jammed into the medicine cabinet shelves. “Have you taken one of your pills?” he asked.
“Not today.” She was silent for a moment. “You’ll be home after your walk?”
“Yes, more or less. This evening, probably after supper. See you then.”
More silence.
He hung up and stared thoughtfully at the phone for a few minutes. Something in Shirley’s voice had scared him. Not just her flat tone, something else. There was no way she could know about his affair with Deirdre, yet she’d sounded suspicious. He’d told himself he didn’t care if she found out, but now he wasn’t so sure. He felt sick.
He assured himself he was probably imagining that she suspected. Guilt could do that to a man. He despised guilt; all his life it had prevented him from having so much that he’d wanted. He’d heeded it and done what was expected of him, gotten what other people wanted him to have. He wasn’t going to let guilt spoil what he had now.
Trying to put his marital concerns aside, he got back to work. Work to forget, at least for a while.
Suddenly he squinted through his glasses, then leaned forward to study more closely the figures on the glowing computer screen.
He stood up and went to the file cabinets, then stooped and opened a bottom drawer. After leafing through the contents of a file folder without removing it, he slid the drawer closed and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet next to it.
Again he thumbed quickly through the contents of a folder. When he started to close the drawer, something stopped him, and he reopened it. He removed the folder and looked at its contents more carefully, then carried it to the desk and sat down. From a bottom desk drawer, he dug out a computer disk, fed it into the disk drive, and keyed into it on the computer.
He worked the keyboard until he’d called up the information he wanted. Then he sat almost motionless, staring at the screen occasionally moving only his middle finger to press the
Pgdn
key to scroll what he was reading.
After a few minutes of study, he said, “Uh-oh! Oh, shit!”
The office suddenly seemed fiercely hot. He made a move to roll up his sleeves, then realized that he had none and wasn’t wearing his usual office attire. The building management controlled the thermostat, so there was no way to adjust the air-conditioning. The office was as cool as it was going to be today.
With intermittent worried glances at the computer screen, he began examining and rearranging the papers from the file folder, trying to ignore the perspiration from his hands and arms that was making the desk slick.
Now and then, sweat from his nose or forehead dropped directly on some of the papers.
“Trouble…” he kept repeating under his breath. “Always trouble…”
David arrived home from the gym, closed the door behind him, and tossed his duffe bag in the chair that usually caught his attaché case.
It wasn’t until he’d turned around that he noticed Molly standing in the middle of the living room. She was facing him squarely, her arms crossed and her shoulders raised slightly with tension so that she was slightly hunched.
“You okay, Mol?”
But he knew she wasn’t okay. She was obviously angry as hell.
“David, we’re going to move!”
He stared at her, perplexed. “We’ve discussed that one to death.”
“Let’s discuss it some more.”
“Okay, we’ll talk to the management company,” he said.
“If they won’t cooperate, we’ll figure out something else. In the meantime, I want to look for another apartment.”
He was sure something traumatic had occurred, and probably concerning Deirdre. He hesitated asking about it, but curiosity prodded him the way it prompted people to touch tongue to sore tooth.
“Something happen, Mol?” As soon as he’d asked, he regretted it. Some doors you were a fool to open.
She told him about the incident with Michael and Muffin, then her encounter with Deirdre.
He tried not to show his relief. It might have been so much worse!
“I can understand why you’re upset,” he told her, “but—”
“We’re going to move,” she interrupted in her calm voice with steel in it.
He shook his head then grinned at her. “You’re kind of determined, aren’t you?”
“‘Determined’ isn’t the word.”
“‘Sexy’ is the word. You’re sexy when you’re determined.”
“Sexy and transient,” she said with finality.