Twenty Grand (10 page)

1. TUESDAY MORNING

“This one got nine,” he says, dipping his spoon into Blueberry Morning.

“Ten if you count the wife,” she says. She has already read the paper because she gets up first. She likes things in the traditional way. She does not cook his breakfast, but she still gets up first, to make his coffee, or to simply see that his clothes are ironed and correct and to be with him while he eats the breakfast and reads about the gunmen.

“Did you feed Doctor?”

“Yes,” she says, refilling his coffee, “I did.”

“Because he's not acting like you fed him. He's acting bad.”

“Doctor!” she says. “Kiss kiss!” Doctor comes to her and she pulls his face.

He shakes his head. “Why can't people learn to use them responsibly?”

“Honey,” she says, locking his briefcase, “don't forget tokens.”

He looks at her.

“You asked me to remind you,” she says. “You always forget.”

“I don't always.” He pushes the bowl back.

“And could you also,” she says, removing the bowl from the table, “please pick up my cardigan at the cleaners on your way down Ninth? You forgot last week.”

“Yes” He takes the briefcase. “Yes, all right.”

He is halfway down the driveway when he hears the door open behind him.

“Honey?” she calls. He turns around. “Do you want a PowerBar for the train?” she asks.

“No,” he says.

“Okay,” she says, brightly, “but yesterday you said you got hungry on the train.”

“Oh, all right.” He glances at his watch. “I'll take one.”

She carries it down the drive, kisses him, says, “Will you be late again tonight?”

“I don't know.” He looks at his watch. It is the watch she got him because he was always late for things. “How can I tell you that,” he says, “now, in the morning? How can I tell you that now?”

She folds her hands. They are beautiful hands, long and white and thin. She looks down at them. “I only asked because if you are going to be late I am going to the movies with Carrie and William.”

“Honey,” he says. “Of course you should. Go to the movies with Carrie and William.”

She smiles. “Okay. If you really don't mind. I'll leave you a dinner in case you're on time.”

2. LOVE

She has brought the hot cloth and the water. He sits up to drink while she washes him. “Honey,” she says, “can I have a cute-ster?”

“Yes,” he nods. “You can have as many as you want.”

“I want one,” she tells him. She has the ceiling, the sheet, his body, the stars.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He takes the towel from her hand. “That's good,” he says. “I'm clean now.”

3. THE ADOPTION OF A CUTE-STER

He is reading the paper and touching his chin. “Do you think we should get another?” he asks.

“I don't know. What do you think?” He means a gun. He has bought one. She is eating a PowerBar. She has taken to eating them. She does not lift irons or watch her weight, she just enjoys eating PowerBars.

“Probably not,” she says. “No, probably not. One works as well as two.”

She is polishing the stove. This is affectation on her part since the stove is a self-polishing one. She is swiping the top of the stove with his old T-shirt. “Especially,” she adds, “if we're going through with what we agreed on.”

They have agreed on adoption. It seems a feasible way, after a generous number of attempts. They agreed, when she pointed it out, that it would cause them pain to have tests to determine who is the cause of the failure. They both suspect it is him.

“What did you put in this coffee, vinegar?” He tilts the cup toward the light. “Have you been cleaning the machine again?”

“I made it like I always make it,” she says. “I made it the way you like it. Six scoops.”

He peers into the cup, frowns, puts it down on the table. “Doctor!” he says, “Kiss kiss!”

Doctor looks up from yesterday's paper and does not rise.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, “the coffee tastes like shit today.”

“You're just having a bummer.” She gives the stove a satisfactory sweep.

“Doctor!” he says.

Doctor opens one eye.

“He's getting old,” she says. One of their years is like ten of ours. They jump around till they're seven or eight, and then their hips turn to dust.”

He blinks. “Jesus,” he says. “I'm sick of this Marlowe case.”

“Why do you take the contingencies, then?” she says, reasonably. She is stroking Doctor's beard.

“It's complicated, honey,” he says. “There's a lot of things involved.”

“I wish it wasn't so complicated,” she says. She pinches Doctor's nose. Doctor whimpers. She told him he would not win the Marlowe case. She tells him whether he will win all his cases and she has always been correct. He stopped asking her some time ago whether he would win. Now he tells her nothing of the details but she knows, anyway, what they are. At night, when she does not want to sleep, she sits downstairs in Doctor's chair and reads the papers in his briefcase. She understands them all. She has taught herself to understand. It came very quickly to her.

“What are you doing with Carrie and William today?” He says their names in a nasal tone.

She shrugs. “How can I know? It's not lunchtime yet.”

He limps to the pantry. “Why do you get oatmeal-raisin?” he says. “I hate oatmeal-raisin.”

“It was a sale.” She hands him a houndstooth jacket. “You asked me to look for sales.”

As he is walking down the driveway, her head emerges from the door.

He waits.

“Will you please get my cardigan at the cleaners?”

“Okay,” he says, “all right.”

“Honey?”

He waits.

“Do you think it's time we get you a new briefcase? You know yours looks a bit doggy now.”

“No.” He clutches the briefcase. “I don't want a new briefcase. I like my old briefcase. Okay?”

“Yes, honey,” she says.

4. LOVE (II)

He opens her twilight gown and finds a nipple.

“What's this?” he says.

She giggles. “It's a brushed-teeth button,” she says. “Brushed-teeth like to bite it.”

He thinks this over. “I'll be right back,” he says. When he comes back from the bathroom, she is clearly asleep, the sheet wrapped around her. “Doll-baby,” he whispers. “Pistachio-bottom.”

“A cute-ster,” she says loudly. “That's what I want.”

5. THE WINNING OF THE MARLOWE CASE

He hunches over the paper, his cereal untouched. The flakes, milk-laden, disintegrate among one another. “Four,” he laughs. “This one only got four.”

“Well,” she says, “it's really five, because he got himself in the end.”

“Oh.” He stares at a spoonful of Honey Squirrel Dreams.

She wipes the counter with a fine flax cloth. “William says it's a malaise,” she says. “William says we're existing in the crotch of juxtaposition.”

He puts down the spoon. Its portion of nuts and flakes splashes onto the floor. Doctor inches, tile-bellied, toward the milk.

“By the way,” he says, “you know that William just wants to rub your pussy.”

“Oh no, I don't think so,” she says, drying the counter with a silk necktie. “William's very intellectual.”

He sits and considers this.

“How is the Marlowe case?” She does not look up from the counter, which she is polishing now with a velvet shirt.

“It's going well. Extremely well. In fact,” he says, “I'm giving Tracy a raise. She's been extremely helpful to me during this case. I think she deserves a raise.”

“That's a wonderful idea,” she nods, moving the cereal bowl from underneath his spoon in order to wipe with the velvet rag. “I think you should not only give her a raise, I think you should give her a generous raise.”

He looks at her to see whether she is being facetious. “That's what I meant,” he says, finally, able to detect no trace of irony in her smooth cheeks and narrow white nose. “I meant a generous raise.”

“Oh good,” she says.

He clears his throat. “You may get the license in the mail today. I hope you'll be home to receive it.” He means hers—she has taken a course—but, though she passed, he hopes that she would misfire, were she to use it. Then the gunman or serial killer—no, rapist—would be momentarily confused, and he, the husband, would use his.

“Oh,” she glances at the clock, “I may be home. I may not. The mail comes so early these days.”

“Good.” He gets up. “I'm glad you'll be home.” He limps upstairs and gathers his papers from under the office chair where he has hidden them. He files them carefully into the new briefcase which they have picked out for him. He cannot remember what the special order in which he left the papers was. Are they different, now? He gives up. He contents himself with managing the combination lock—whose combination he always forgets—of the new briefcase in under five minutes.

In the kitchen he goes to the pantry and places four oatmeal-raisin PowerBars in his briefcase. “It may be a long day at the office,” he says.

“I know.” Her voice is faint, from a distant room. “I know it may be.”

“Honey?” He turns back, from the middle of the driveway.

“Yes?” She is there, waiting, in the door, for him to leave.

He cannot think of what he has forgotten. “I'm sorry I forgot your cardigan,” he says.

“It's all right.” She is beautiful in her day gown. “I only want you to have a good day at the office and do your best on the Marlowe case. If you remember my cardigan”—she shrugs—“that's just an added bonus.”

He nods. He decides he will lick her in the night while she sleeps. If only he could win the Marlowe case. He decides to win the Marlowe case. He has decided this before. He's also decided to lose weight. He is not at the end of the driveway before he unlocks the new briefcase, attentively running his hands along the beautiful suede inset, and unwraps a PowerBar.

6. LOVE (III)

“Honey?” she says. He is almost asleep. She bites his ear.

“Sleep time,” he says.

“William's writing books,” she whispers. “Children's books.”

“No,” he says, “sleep time.”

“They're from a dog's point of view.” She tugs the comforter. “He wants to feature Doctor on the cover.”

“Doctor?” He opens one eye. “Why?”

“One book is called
People Are Salty
,” she says. “The other is
Why Lick Bums?
” She tucks the comforter across her nightgown.

“Jesus,” he says.

She closes her eyes. “He's the handsomest dog he knows,” she says.

7. THE MISSING LEAF

He is looking in his coffee for a reason why it tastes bad. His cereal sits unsugared beside him next to the morning paper and the new .45.

“Honey,” she says, “at the gallery with William and Carrie yesterday I saw a Chinese. It looked very nice. It was lovely.”

“Maybe it's time to clean the coffee machine,” he says.

She shrugs. “What do you think? A Chinese?”

“I think I'd rather have a Puerto Rican,” he says.

“Let's look at everything and see how we feel. Also,” she pauses, “Puerto Rican ones get fat when they're bigger, and that's not attractive.” She looks at him. Rather than the thirty-eight pant they once bought, they now buy him a forty-four. He is really, he says, a forty-two, but they buy the forty-four because he will certainly gain ten pounds in the winter.

“Terry thinks we're going to win,” he says. “Terry thinks it's a sure thing. Terry's seen a lot of cases come and go.”

She shrugs. “How do you like your new pants?” Her shoulders move smoothly up and down underneath the blue morning gown.

“They're fine.” He struggles to get up and she hands him the cane.

He thumps into the pantry, which is stocked, top to bottom, with oatmeal-raisin PowerBars. They have heard the alteration rumor and thought it best to stock up now, in case the alteration should not be a good one.

“You didn't eat your breakfast,” she says, following him into the pantry. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He thumps out of the pantry.

“Well,” she says, “I'm giving it to Doctor, then.”

“Fine,” he says. He stands in the doorway, watching the dog move its large rose tongue.

“I hate to waste,” she says, “now that the Marlowe case isn't looking so good.”

“Fine.” He opens the door.

“Honey? Do you have yours with you?”

“Yes,” he says. “I do.” He is halfway down the walk.

“Check your briefcase.” She squeezes the dog's ears.

“Check, to be sure.” The dog whimpers but does not move away from the bowl of Sugar-Sugar-Oats!

He opens the case and lovingly explores the soft suede interior, filled with his papers, his unworn watch, pain medication, Q-tips, small wrapped chocolates, and a dozen PowerBars. “It's not here,” he says. “Someone must've took it.”

“Hold on.” She wraps her morning gown around herself. “I'll go look.” A minute later she returns, the folds of white silk swinging neatly. “Here,” she says. “You forgot it in the study.” She gives it to him, nuzzle first.

He looks at the gun. Is it responsible? He points it at the sky. “See that leaf?” he asks. “The red one?”

“Yes,” she says. The wind gusts her robe. One black squirrel, caught by that motion, becomes a statue on the lawn. “The red one,” she says, “the one with three flat prongs.”

He shoots. Two golds and a brown weave down to the sidewalk.