Don't Rely on Gemini (6 page)

“I don't think he did. I think he took it out on her.”

“Poor woman.”

“Oh, come on, Dru!” Archie said. “She must be some kind of a nut. Who'd bother with this stuff?” “Maybe they need the money.”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars? She knew that was all there was in it for him. Scale.”

“You're beautiful,” Dru said. “One minute you tell me we're no different from the Joneses, and the next minute you talk as though three hundred and fifty dollars wasn't a lot of money to the average person.”

Archie said, “It's a lot of money to me, too. But not enough to make me go on CBS as an ‘astro-twin.' “

“If he'd have cooperated, you'd have had to go on.”

“Would you believe ten thousand three hundred and fifty dollars?”

“Archie,” she said, “what's the matter with you? Why are we going so—“

• • •

The windshield was shattered by the impact as the car slammed into the tree. “Dru, are you all right?” “I think so.” “Get out!”

The radiator was smoking. “I can't,” she said.

“Here, on my side.” He held out his hand and pulled her toward him. “Are
you
all right, darling?” she said. “Yes.”

“God, my God, I thought we were done for, Arch!” “The brakes just gave out.”

“Thank God for that tree,” Dru said. “We could have landed right in the river.”

“Let me get the flashlight.”

“Don't, Arch, it looks like it's going to blow up.”

“It's all right.” He leaned inside and opened the glove compartment.

“Oh, Archie, our car! Look at our car!”

“Don't be so commercial,” he said. “Be creative. What do we do now?”

“We go back up and use their phone.”

“No. We go down to the road and thumb a ride to a gas station.”

“Archie,” she said, “it's their hill! They're responsible!”

“Because we haven't had our brakes checked in the last six months?”

“I'm going up there and use their phone!”

“Dru, we'll hail a car and ask the driver for a ride to the nearest gas station.”

She said, “We can't just leave the car. Anyone going up or down this hill could be killed, Archie.”

“Then we'll hail a car and ask the driver to report the trouble to the nearest gas station.”

“They might not have a tow truck. He might say he'd do it and not do it. Oh, look, Archie,” she said. “It's Margaret Dana's fault. You stay with the car, and let me go back and use their phone.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No! Somebody has to stay with the car … Honey, are you
sure
you're all right, Arch?” “Yes. Are you sure
you
are?” “I am, but you're all out of breath and upset.” “Dru, I'm not upset! Jesus! We almost got killed!” “Give me the flashlight. You stay with the car.” “I'll come with you.”

“I don't want you with me, Archie. If they've been fighting, it's best for a woman to go up there.” “What sense does that make?” he said.

“Because Margaret Dana and I have talked on the phone. So I know her a little.” “And my twin?”

“I'm a woman in distress, remember?” Dru said. “And if he's anything like you, bubby, I can handle him.”

One day Margaret had said, “Look, Neal, what I bought for us. Aren't they cute?”

“What are they?” One was pink and one was blue. They looked like pillows with attached handles.

“They're called Slumber Bags, dear. Fifteen ninety-nine apiece—I got them at Sears.”

“But what are they, Margaret?”

“Sleeping bags! They're specially treated to repel water and mildew. They have cotton flannelette liners, and they're machine washable. Ideal for camping trips.”

Camping
trips.

When had they ever gone camping?

At the time, Neal had been reminded of a study he had read in one of his professional journals dealing with housewives' spending habits. It claimed that one of the reasons women bought so many utterly useless things, like bric-a-brac, or decorative wall shelves, or yard ornaments (or Vycron polyester sleeping bags?), was that they felt unloved and were forcing their husbands to buy them these “gifts” out of the household budget.

As Neal had predicted to himself, they had never found a use for the Slumber Bags.

Now, at least, there was a use for one of them.

Margaret's body was contained in the pink one.

So often Neal had asked the criminal patients he treated, who always swore they were innocent of the crimes for which they had been convicted, “But why did you run? Why didn't you face the police if you weren't guilty of anything? Only the guilty run.”

Behind him in the bathtub, his bloodstained shirt and pants and socks were soaking in cold water.

Call the police? For what? To be told that a Doberman pinscher couldn't testify that Neal was treed while his “lover” arrived for an unexpected confrontation with his wife?

Penny had expected Neal to come out and greet her. She had combed her hair and fixed her makeup, finished her cigarette before getting out of the Falcon. She knew how hard it was to distract Neal if he were working; he had mentioned that he was trying to finish his outline. Finally, she had gone inside.

—Darling, I'm here! Where are you, Neal? A bird whistled, a black parrot in a white cage on the living-room table.

—Hi, who are you, bird? —I'm Sinister.

—You're Sinister? Har de har, har, har. You don't look Sinister. You look like a grouchy old parrot … Neal, are you upstairs, darling?

—I'm Sinister. I love the view.

—It's a nice view, you're right … Shall I come up, darling?

—“It came upon the mid-night clear, that glor-ri-ous song of old.”

—It isn't Christmas yet, bird! Neal, are you in the John?

—“From Ang-gels bend-ing near the earth, To touch their harps of gold. Peace on earth, Goodwill to men!”

—Did you fall in or something, darling?

—Dove c'è qui un buon ristorante?

—Be quiet, bird! You talk too much!

—Non c'è nessuno che parli inglese?

As she went up the stairs, she said, —Am I too early, Neal?

—I suspect you're right on time.

They met like that at the top of the stairs.

—Mrs. Da-Da-Dana?

—Good evening.

—I … Good evening.

—Aren't you going to introduce yourself?

—Yes. I. Oh, cripes.

—Penny Bissel?

—Oh wow. Yes.

—How do you do?

—Cripes. I mean, all right, I'm caught red-handed.

—Neal's at the store. He should be back soon.

—I mean, there's no sense being polite about it. I'm sorry. I'm
sorry,
but Neal and I are in love.

—Pffft.

—What's that supposed to mean? That we're not in love?

—That's a very pretty dress you're wearing, Penny.

—Don't try to be nice to me like I'm nothing!

—What would you like me to do, dear?

—Give Neal a divorce.

—As he wishes.

—Well, he wishes you would. He would have had to tell you eventually anyway.

—Would you like some soda pop? I think we have some. I keep a supply of it for the neighborhood children who come up to use our pool.

—Listen, Mrs. Dana, Neal and I love each other very much!

—I think we have some chocolate Yoo-Hoo. Would you like a glass while you're waiting for Neal to return?

—It isn't fair for you to hold on to Neal!

—Or just plain Coke?

—You can't give him children! Neal would make a great father!

—Don't go too far, Miss Bissel.

—That hits home, doesn't it,
Mrs.
Dana?

—D'accord.

—What?

—I agreed with you.

—So don't treat me like a child, Mrs. Dana. I'm more of a woman than you are, or ever were!

—May I ask you something?

—Go ahead.

—How did you become so stupid! Deceiving yourself this way, humiliating yourself this way, without any semblance of character or integrity; cheap, CHEAP!

—Shut up! You shut up!

Then Neal's voice from downstairs. —Margaret? Margaret!

—No, I won't shut up! Face what you are—cheap, CHE—

And even if the police did believe that Neal had been treed or running up the hill through most of it, would they also believe that Margaret had fallen because she had jumped back after slapping Penny?

At best, wouldn't they imagine that Penny had pushed Margaret?

And since they were trained to suspect the worst, wouldn't they discard all those details and dream up a new version, starting with Neal as Margaret's murderer, Penny his accomplice?

“Neal?” Penny came into the bathroom, her long blond hair pushed behind her ears, her eyes swollen from crying. “The car went around the bend. There were two people in it, Neal. There was a woman with him.”

“Get me a shirt from the top drawer in the bedroom on the right,” he said. He was pulling on a pair of old khakis.

“Who
were
they, Neal?”

“I don't know. He said Margaret invited him. She was planning some kind of surprise. I don't know, and I don't have time to think about it now.”

“Oh, cripes.”

“Penny, get me that shirt!”

• • •

At least she had stopped crying. Stupidly, they had gotten into an argument, with Margaret's lifeless body between them, just before the stranger had knocked on the door.

—Didn't you see my car at the bottom of the hill?

—No, Neal. I didn't.

—Didn't you see the Volkswagen still in the yard. You know I don't drive a Volkswagen, yet you walked right in the house without giving it a thought!

—For all I knew she could have taken the bus to New York!

—The
bus!
The bus only goes to 138th Street! Why would she go on the bus when she has a car?

—I didn't think, Neal! I was too excited about seeing you, your house!

—Stop calling it
my
house. It was Margaret's house, too!

—Margaret!
Margaret!
You came in and called
her
name! You didn't call my name!

She had burst into noisy, quacking tears, crying the whole time the stranger was talking with Neal at the door. Neal had been forced to slap her face to make her quiet.

He had told her, “Now you listen to this: this is a whole other ballgame! Do you understand?
Murder.
Do you appreciate that?”

“I didn't touch her, Neal.”

“I believe you. Who else do you think will, under the circumstances?” “No one will.”

“And no one's going to get a chance to disbelieve you. But you've got to pull yourself together, Pen. You've got to!” She did.

Could she maintain it? Not just through the next few hours, but through the months ahead?

• • •

She appeared in the doorway with a white shirt in her hand.

“Not a white one!” he barked at her. “I'm not going out and dig in a white—“

Her face began to wither. “Dig,” was all she could say, as though the fact he had to bury Margaret's body was just beginning to sink in.

“Pen,” he said gently, “Oh, Pen, listen,” holding her arms with his hands. “I know how you feel. I know I'm not helping any—shouting at you, losing my temper, but we've got to do this, Pen; we've got to save ourselves. It was a terrible accident, Pen, but it
was
an accident. Penny, the only sin we've committed is that we became involved. We didn't wish Margaret any harm.”

She murmured something Neal couldn't hear.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said, would you have divorced Margaret for me?”

“Pen, listen. Listen! Pay attention to what's going on right now. We can't afford to think of anything else now. Do you see?”

“You wouldn't have,” she said.

He had no choice but to hold her with firm hands and tell her emphatically, “Of course I would have! You know I would have!”

• • •

He would bury her in the woods in back of the house.

No one ever walked through them because of the snakes. There were rumors that there were rattlers as well as copperheads up there. Neal had posted signs on several trees surrounding the woods, warning people of the danger. Neighbors lectured their children about it, and when the man came to read the electric meter, which was placed on a post at the entrance to the woods, he made fast work of it, and wore high boots like the ones Neal was pushing his feet into now.

A rattler, a copperhead, was no more terrifying to Neal Dana than a common garter snake; any sort of snake was loathsome to him. He had tried to rid himself of this prejudice, this fear, ever since he was a small boy. A framed copy of a poem D. H. Lawrence had written hung above his desk at Rock-Or. “Snake.” About a man who had killed a blacksnake and then regretted missing “my chance with one of the lords/Of life.” But no such noble sentiment moved him that night to face the possibility of an encounter with a reptile; he was moved by the rote reaction to save himself. Survival … the most basic human motivation.

He was aware of how close he was to losing his presence of mind and how carelessly he was provoking Penny into losing hers. While he waited for her to bring him another shirt, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as though to prove to himself that he had hold, that he would be able to handle it now.

He didn't know how he was going to explain Margaret's disappearance, and he didn't try to estimate his chances of getting away with what he was doing; there was no time for any of that.

Penny brought him a blue work shirt. Neal put it on and headed for the basement to get the shovel.

When he reached the landing where Margaret had died, he heard the knock on the door.

“Just a minute!”

He turned around and went up the stairs.

“Pen? There's someone at the door.” His voice was calm. She was standing by the bed. “I want you to stay here. Don't make a sound. I'll get rid of whoever it is.”

She sat down on the bed and nodded her head affirmatively.

He smiled. He knew enough to say, “I love you, Pen.”

She answered him with a weak tip of her lips.

Before he went downstairs, he closed the door of the bedroom containing the pink Vycron polyester Slumber Bag.