Double Jeopardy (9 page)

“Oh, I know things look pretty bad,” she admitted with a shrug in answer to my wordless question. “But you must remember that I was all alone here. And don't forget that you haven't been here in two years. Things change.”

“They certainly do,” I remarked with ill-disguised meaning and she flashed me a sharp look as we picked our way through the shabby yard to the front door. Here, too, I found evidence that struck me as strange. Before the door, rolled up but with the dates visible, were four copies of
The Journal-News.
None of them had been opened.

Before I could comment upon them, Anita sighed, “Oh, dear. I've been so busy these last few days that I haven't even had time to read the paper! And you, complaining about the grounds!”

I let this pass and did not question her further although I was totally innocent of what it was that occupied all of her time. Before the war she had always been faced with the problem of how to while away her leisure hours.

A few days spent in examining the books of my store and conferring with the man from The Great Eastern definitely decided me that I would be unwise to sell. Business was booming with prices right. The Ithaca Drug Company was doing so well that I offered Tom Murphy the permanent job of my assistant which he joyfully accepted. The store swarmed with customers from the time we opened each morning until we reluctantly closed the doors. I began to deliberate seriously the advisability of inaugurating an all-night policy.

As yet I had not informed Anita of my decision to refuse Great Eastern's offer. I knew that she would be very disappointed and I wished to delay as long as possible the verdict which she would undoubtedly consider foolish and quite inconsiderate of her feelings in the matter.

After the passage of a week, however, I felt that I could not decently withhold the news longer. I was not afraid of Anita in any sense of the word, mind you, but I dreaded to see her unhappy. If only I had suspected that the store was the match which would eventually cause the terrible conflagration of our marriage, you may be sure that I would have disposed of it at any cost! You see, before I married, my life belonged exclusively to that store; afterwards it became entirely Anita's.

Just as I was about to put on my hat and go home to tell her, Doc Turnbull entered the place and we got to talking.

“You're doing a wise thing, boy. Those city fellers are a shrewd bunch and no mistake. They'd skin the eye-teeth out of their own grandmothers. Hold on to this joint if it's the last thing you do. At the rate you're going now, Ray Cavender can't last much longer across the street and this section will all be yours.”

“Yes,” I said, “but Doc, suppose they buy out Cavender and try to break me by under-selling? You know I can't buck a rich company like that.”

Doc spit. “It would take a hell of a lot of under-selling to make the townspeople desert you in favor of them, son. The Great Eastern knows that. If they can't work out a fair deal, they won't try to push their way in. Don't worry.”

We chatted a while longer until I happened to notice the clock above the soda fountain. “Good heavens! I've got to run now, Doc. Say, why don't you drop around to the house tonight? Weather looks nice and clear so there won't be many mosquitos. We'll sit down by the lake and chew the fat.”

Doc sighed profoundly. “You know, I miss that garden of yours, son. Haven't set foot in it for over two years, would you believe it? But I won't be able to make it tonight, I reckon. Too many patients are yelling for pills.”

I laughed. “Now don't try to tell me that you deserted your favorite spot just because I was away! Didn't you drop in on Anita?”

Turnbull picked up his instrument case.

“When? You know the only time I can get around to paying social calls is on Friday or Saturday. Hell. And you know your missus ain't shown hide nor hair around town during weekends since you left for the other side.” He grunted and mopped his damp face with a pocket handkerchief. “I suppose because she bought one of them week-end special commutation tickets on the railroad she just felt she
had
to use it up. Every Friday afternoon, regular as the clock, she'd be on the train.”

Together we left the store. I think the old man must have seen something in my face because, as we separated, he asked: “What's eating you, son? Anything the matter? You're not looking so chipper tonight.”

“Oh, nothing, Doc, I guess,” I hurriedly reassured him. “I suppose this business about the store has got me going. Anita wants me to sell out.”

Doc shook his head. “Now don't you listen to her, Pete. Mind what I say. You've got a nice living here. Lots of fellers would like to be in your shoes. Me, for one.”

“'Night, Doc.”

“'Night, Pete.”

The information that Anita had spent every week-end away from home during my absence, occupied my mind as I walked home that evening, completely driving the business of the store from my thoughts. It was not until I was seated at the dinner table that I remembered what I would be forced to tell her. I was pondering the problem or what was the easiest way to break the news when—;as on previous nights —;Anita herself brought up the subject of the proposed transaction.

“Well, Peter? Did you get the papers?”

To forestall her, I had invented the story that they were drawing up contracts for my approval or rejection. In the meantime, I was supposed to be making a thorough investigation of the store's books, the value of the stock on hand, and of business conditions in general.

I forced myself to be direct. “Anita,” I said, looking her squarely in the eyes, “I'm not going to sell out.”

As I said this, she was pouring the iced tea.

Pitcher in hand, she leaned forward with a frown darkening her face. “You're what! You're not going to sell?”

“No. I think I'll hold on to the place.”

Her breast heaved as though she had suddenly become short of breath and her lips tightened into that thin, white line I had come to dread. “But I want you to sell,” she said evenly. I could feel the wealth of fury repressed in those six simple words.

“I'm sorry, Anita,” I replied quietly, trying not to look ashamed of myself. “I've already turned the offer down.” Then her eyes began to blaze and I half-rose from the table. “Now look here. There's no call for you to take on. That store is all we've got and the best thing we can do is to keep it.”

I will never forget her lip curling into a sneer as she brought the tea pitcher down onto the table with such force that a great crack appeared in its heavy pottery from base to spout. “So that's how much you love me, is it?” she cried. “You know I hate it here! Do you expect me to slave for you in this dirty little hovel all my life? Well, I won't! I won't, I tell you!”

I can't remember my exact words but I made the rather caustic remark that the house had always been presentable until she commenced taking weekly trips to New York in my absence. As soon as I uttered this, I was sorry for it. The sneer faded from her lips, leaving her quite pale and defeated looking. Both of us remained silent for what seemed to be a long time.

At length, seeing that she made no retort in defense of herself, I reseated myself and poured out the tea. Although I did not look up at her, I could feel her heavy breath on my forehead. “I'm keeping the store, Anita,” I reiterated as though to put an end to the whole dispute.

Anita silently left the room and I had to finish my dinner alone.

I imagine a good many husbands would have insisted on knowing more about the regular (or irregular?) week-end excursions of their wives; and perhaps if I had done so I would not have had to spend so many years in prison; but I was so confident that the trips were merely in the category of mischievous outings, spent mainly in theatres that I did not press the subject. Anyway, I did not want to further irritate Anita. The turning down of the offer had done quite enough harm.

For three days following the scene described, she would not speak to me. The house became as gloomy and silent as a tomb. On the fourth day she contracted a severe toothache. Her jaw was actually swollen and it looked as if it might be terribly painful. Anita swathed her face in napkins and at frequent intervals grudgingly employed the preparation (chloroform, oil of cloves and creosote in equal parts) I had brought her from the store. Although it was impossible for her to eat anything, she flatly refused either to visit the dentist or to allow me to summon one.

“You never asked me why I went to New York almost every week-end,” she announced acidly out of the good side of her mouth, “so I never mentioned my teeth. They've been giving me trouble for some time. But of course you wouldn't be interested in that!”

Her bitter sarcasm made me feel guilty and in the wrong. I made haste to assure her that such was not the case and that indeed I was interested in her health. My obviously earnest sympathy seemed to placate her somewhat.

“I've been going down there to visit a dentist,” she went on, after a sullen moment of silence. “The old fool we have in town here doesn't know a tooth from a toe! If I'd let him, he'd yank them all! But this man in the city is simply wonderful. I can't recall who it was that recommended him to me, but he never hurts me with the drill.”

This voluntary explanation of her trips tore the veil of mystery which had surrounded them and made me feel a suspicious idiot. I must confess that for a time I had been harboring frightful thoughts: dreams of Anita in alien arms. Now, with her story convincingly illustrated by a badly swollen jaw, I could only curse myself inwardly for having so filthy a mind. I was totally unworthy, I silently told myself, to be the recipient of such a fine woman's love.

All that night she tossed and turned in agony. Several times I was at the point of dressing and going down to the store for a powder which might induce her to sleep; but by the time I had made up my mind to do this, she would fall into a light doze and I was afraid to awaken her.

In the morning, at her suggestion, I put her aboard the eastbound train for New York. She promised that she would return the same evening in time to get me some dinner. I knew that that would not leave her much time in the city but I didn't like the idea of her travelling at night or, worse yet, spending the night in some city hotel.

My day at the store was singularly eventful. Usually the hours would pass filling prescriptions, interviewing pharmaceutical salesmen, or chatting with the steady customers. But on that day the agent for The Great Eastern reappeared upon the scene, hot and irritable and offering fully a thousand dollars more than he had previously been authorized to give. I took luncheon with him at the Ithaca Hotel and informed him that I would consider his offer only upon the express agreement that I would be given the management of the store. This, he assured me in no uncertain terms, was a ridiculous demand. We parted, both of us decidedly in bad temper. In my ears rang his farewell words: “Thatcher, you are
the
most pig-headed son of a bitch I've ever met!”

This anger of mine was very unfortunate as I later found out. It made me three enemies: Mrs. Wainscott and the parents of that incorrigible little brat, Jackie Mackintosh. The former, when she sidled nervously up to the counter and whispered a confidential something in my ear, I brusquely answered: “What? For heaven's sake, madam! Can't you ask for anything in a normal tone of voice? What are you afraid of? If you want a box of suppositories, ask for a box of suppositories!” Of course Mrs. Wainscott grew red in the face and abruptly left the store with the muffled guffaws of the loungers at the soda fountain burning in her ears. I did not see her again until she testified against me at the trial.

Not five minutes later, I administered a hearty spanking to Jackie, whom I caught red-handed with both his pockets filled with chocolate-covered cherries. He must have run home immediately to his mother and complained of this treatment for later in the afternoon she called upon me at the store, accompanied by her equally irate husband. All of my patient explanations that Jackie's behaviour was not without precedent made no impression and, at last, I flew into a rage and ordered the trio from the store. As they departed, Mr. Mackintosh flung back over his shoulder, “You'll pay for this, Thatcher. Mark my words!”

But, angry as I was, I was more incensed at my own bad conduct. Never before had I insulted customers with such abandon. I had always been careful, despite any emotional upheavals among my clientele, to maintain an imperturbed exterior. Sadly, on the day in question, I bridged this self-imposed gap with a vehemence born of my knowledge that neither Mrs. Wainscott nor the Mackintosh clan were valued patrons. Little did I suspect at the time that those petty squabbles would help to dig the grave I was soon to inhabit for many, many years.

As a precaution, just before I started for home on that never-to-be-forgotten night of August 20, 1919, I asked Tom Murphy to make up an effective sleeping draught and bring it around to my house on his way home. I realized that Anita might suffer further pain in spite of, and with all due respect to, her city dentist. In any event, I reasoned, it would do no harm to have something of the kind in the house. Murphy agreed to deliver the stuff not later than nine o'clock.

When I sat down at the dinner table that night, Anita impatiently waved aside my solicitous inquiries regarding her teeth and thrust a letter into my hands.

“This came for you today. I can see it's from some woman. You'd better read it.”

From her tone of voice and the look in her eye, I gathered that Anita was deriving some huge satisfaction from the letter. She was gloating and nowhere, strangely, was I able to detect a sign of jealousy. Ordinarily, I would say that these signs were the usual masochistic antics of the wife who has caught her husband in some nefarious practice; but in Anita I determined a note of triumph—;like the exclamation of a soldier who has just impaled the enemy on his bayonet.

I realized immediately from the handwriting and the postmark that the letter was from Gilberte. I ripped open the envelope with a show of innocence. It wasn't a very long letter but I could not have read it then or at any other time. It was in French.