Magician's Wife (26 page)

“In what way serves her right?”

“Well, Clay! Look at what she did!”

“And what did she do, Grace?”

“Well! The life that she led with Alec!”

“She did no more with him than I did with Alec's wife. And if that's what serves her right, all I can say is—”

“
And
trying to put it on Sally!”

“Grace, Sally did it!”

“But Sally was not even there!”

“Sally was in it up to the hilt. She planned it with me— she's guilty, just as guilty as I am.”

“And I am, don't forget!”

“... And let's have an end of
that!
”

He stared at the ceiling, went on: “Your wanting to share with me, your standing by me the way you have, is the one bright spot in this mess. But don't let's play games. No one's here with us but God, and I don't think we're kidding Him. So let's not kid ourselves. You share my pain, I know—and that warms me, fills me with hope, and gives me strength. You can't share my guilt. Nobody can except—”

“My daughter?”

“Yes.”

He pulled her to him, unbuttoned her sweater, broke the strap of her bra, and nuzzled and kissed and inhaled.

That went on for three days, with interruptions only for the meals she cooked and brought him, and for her hourly trips outside, to buy papers as they came out. He took little interest, however, as she read him the rest of the testimony, Buster's outbreak on the stand, arguments by the lawyers, and speculation as to the verdict while the jury was “out.” And his face was blank as she came in the fourth day, tossed him a paper, and said: “Well, it's over—they convicted her. Of manslaughter, whatever that is. Less than murder apparently. So, she won't go to the chair. So, you did what you could. So, do you mind? If we forget this dreadful girl? And talk about something else?”

“Forget her?” he said dully. “How could I?”

“Well, you'd better! She's all but ruined your life!”

He glanced through the paper, learning that Mr. Pender had moved for a new trial and had served notice that, failing that, he would appeal, and that sentence would be passed on Monday. Then, almost as though in a stupor, he asked: “And why should I forget her? Or even try to forget her?”

“She has it coming, that's why!”

“Has what coming, Grace?”

“
This!
If she'd lived a decent life, if she'd let Alec alone, above all, if she hadn't jumped in that car, just to plague him and act like a hussy, none of this would have happened—to say nothing of that other, the lie she told the police about seeing Sally's car! Oh, yes! These chickens come home to roost! She has no one to thank but herself!”

“
She has no one to thank but me—and Sally
.”

“Is there something between you and this girl?”

He didn't answer, but got up in robe and pajamas, went into the bathroom, and shaved, bathed, and combed. When he came out the bed was made and his clothes were lying on it, his suit, underwear, and shirt, with three neckties to choose from; his shoes and stockings on the floor. Biting his lip, he dressed, then went to the living room, where she sat in her knitted suit, primly waiting. “Well?” she asked. “Is there? It said in the paper you kissed her and that ‘She kisses nice.' ”

“She does—and there's nothing between us.”

“Maybe not, but I'm sick of her just the same.”

“Grace, she's convicted of something I did.”

“Oh, but there's more to it than that!”

“There's no more to it than that.”

“Oh, yes! Don't forget! I did something
too!
”

“
Grace! For God's sake, knock it off!
”

She bounced up, as though on springs, at the crackle of his voice, and was rigid as his arms went around her and he began to talk in her ear: “Honey, what you did I'll never forget—the money was just the beginning—your wanting to share—your standing by me like a rock—to me are nine-hundred-percent magnificent—looking at you, where
you
sit. But
I
don't sit where you sit—the place where I sit is different. I'm guilty, you're not. What you've done proves you love me, as God knows I love you.” He held her close and kissed her, then kissed her again and again, until she began to kiss back. Then, releasing her, he walked away until he faced the wrap-closet door. “But that's all it proves,” he whispered.

Opening the closet, he took out his coat and hat and put them on. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out. In the park. Think.”

“You mean, you prefer to be alone?”

“I sit alone, I must think alone.”

But he didn't stay in the park, beyond marching around a few minutes, to go through the visible motions in case he was being watched. When some bushes screened him from sight, he quickened his pace abruptly and walked to the Marlborough, letting himself in the back way. On entering the apartment, he drew a deep breath, as he did on entering a cold room, but for a different reason. Instead of testing, he was savoring: the familiar, deeply loved smell of a place that was neat as a pin, and yet lived in, warm, fragrant, and his own. He glanced at his pictures, then took off his things and went back to the “office,” removing the typewriter cover, sitting down, and settling himself to work. He didn't type well, but he typed well enough, and now began to tap out the dreadful tale of his downfall. He wrote in sextuplicate, using sets Miss Helm had got him, of six sheets each with carbons between, with double spacing and ample margins, in case pen corrections would be necessary. He began at the beginning, telling his meeting with Sally, his suspicions of what she intended, her crime down at the beach, and his offer to do what she wanted. He told of the rehearsals on the road, his pouring of paint markers, “which should still show on the shoulder, susceptible of ready check”; of what happened that terrible night, of Buster's scream, of the hubcap and what he had done with it, “another thing susceptible of check, and it's still down in the slough.” He wound up: “I put on my lights just as Miss Conlon said, on the stand and to the police, and it all happened just as she said except for the license number, on which her instinct colored her vision— not saying her instinct was wrong.” He then typed a form of affidavit, swearing “the foregoing is true,” and under this typed:

Copies to:

Hon. Leonard Warfield, Judge of the Superior Court.

Hon. John Kuhn, state's attorney, Chinquapin County.

Hon. John Pender, Law Building, Channel City, Md.

Mrs. Alexander Gorsuch, the Chinquapin-Plaza Hotel.

Mrs. Clay Lockwood, Rosemary Apartments, Channel City, Md.

Around four he interrupted to call Miss Sophie Henning, who ran a small, one-room secretarial bureau down on the second floor, and who was a notary public, asking her to stand by for a visit around 5:30. He used her outside phone, looking her up in the book, instead of the inside phone, so as not to alert Miss Homan that he was in the apartment. He had scarcely hung up when his own outside phone rang, and he hesitated about answering. He decided not to and let it ring on while he went back to his typing, finishing up the statement and the envelopes he would need to send his copies out. He was careful with the addresses and with the stamps, but he left them open after putting the statements in. Then he sat down again and typed up a brief will, leaving all that he had to Grace, and putting it in her envelope. Then he penned her a brief note, telling her that he loved her, and put it in too.

He used the freight car to go down to Miss Henning's, finding her a neat little gray-haired woman in a pink embroidered smock. She didn't look at his statement, but got out her notary stamp, clamped it on all six copies, and penned her signature in after smilingly asking him to raise his hand and swear. But when she came to the will, she said: “Oh, that takes two witnesses, Mr. Lockwood. If you'd written it longhand, holograph, I mean, it wouldn't take any at all, but typed up it needs two other persons to sign.” She called a girl, an extra typist she had, and with her signed the will. Clay, after paying the fifty-cent notary fee for each of the six statements, and the one-dollar witness fees for the will, passed out his usual five-dollar bills, murmured his thanks, and left, sealing his envelopes and tucking them into his pocket.

He walked the one flight down, using the back stairs again, stood on Kennedy Drive, caught a cab, and drove to the Chinquapin-Plaza. At the room clerk's window a strange girl gave him Sally's suite numbers, 1942A, 1942B, and 1942C. “But when you call,” she admonished him, “be sure and ask for 1942A, or there'll be a mix-up. B is the nursery and C the maid's room, and ringing the phone in those rooms just causes running around.” He didn't call, though the house phones were just a few steps away. Instead, he went to the flower shop and asked for lilies, “you know, like Easter.” Since it wasn't Easter, the clerk seemed puzzled, saying: “Well—we do keep some in stock, for funerals mostly. But we usually make them up in wreaths or blankets or basket. If that's what you have in mind—?” Clay said: “Something simple—you know, like a bunch, with a ribbon tied around.” The clerk then concluded he wanted them to “put on a grave,” and Clay, rather quickly, said: “Yeah, that's it. That's the idea, of course.” Presently the girl brought them, tied up with a white satin ribbon, and Clay nodded as he sniffed their necrotic smell. She did them up in a box, a white one with another white satin ribbon. He paid, went out in the lobby again, and entered the express elevator. “Nineteen,” he told the operator, who pressed a button that lit a red light in a panel.

“H
EY, STUPID, COULDN'T YOU
listen just once to your wife? She's not so dumb, and she's not even going to respect it, this grand caper of yours that you're getting ready to cut. Listen: Suppose the girl was convicted, who says she'll stay that way? Nat may get her off. And even if he doesn't, manslaughter isn't so bad—a year in jail, if that. Wake up, get with it, what's waiting for you now! A beautiful woman that loves you, a job to dream about, money, position, probably kids pretty soon, everything! Don't throw it away by this stunt! All you need do is nothing, and you're sitting on top of the world!”

Clay's lips were moving as he stepped from the car, and when the door had banged behind him he stood for some moments alone in front of the mail chute, his eyes closed, his mouth still making a mumble. Then his teeth clenched and he took out the envelopes, shuffling them onto the box as he checked all the addresses. The one addressed to Sally he put back in his pocket. The others, one by one, he slipped into the chute. When the last one had gone flashing down the glass, he turned and walked down a corridor, peering at the numbers on the doors. Reaching a small entrance hall, he saw Sally's number beside it. Stepping in, he touched the buzzer of 1942A. A maid opened, a pretty girl in black uniform, white apron, cuffs, and cap. When Clay asked for “Mrs. Alexis,” she made him knicks, and said, with a Swedish accent, she would “see if madame is in.”

Then Sally appeared, in plain black wool dress. “Oh, Clay!” she said, as though not much surprised. “Come in.” Then, to the maid: “Will you take charge of him now? When he's ready for bed, bring him in to be kissed good night.” Then, laughing up at Clay, in red rompers suit, with gray eyes exactly like Grace's, a little boy appeared and stood touching his mother. The maid took him into 1942B. Motioning Clay inside, Sally noticed the box, said: “If those are Mother's flowers, she's on her way up. She's been looking all over for you—there's been some sort of call from Mankato.”

“Yeah—I'm fired, no doubt.”

“No—you're president
now,
it seems. Mr. Svenson, if that's the name, has had a stroke or something—and you're to report right away— No, I'm not spoiling Mother's surprise—she told me to tell you,
begged
me to tell you, as soon as you came, if you came!”

“What made her think I would come? Did she say?”

“Well, she doesn't know
where
you are!”

When she said, “Take off your things,” he put his hat and coat on a chair, the flowers on a table, then looked stunned when she said: “Pity about Buster, isn't it? I mean, that she got off so light. But at least it'll teach her a lesson.”

“... Yeah? What lesson is that?”

“That crime doesn't pay—like slander.”

“Against you, for instance?”

“That's it, Clay. It annoys me.”

“Could be a point, at that.”

Their tone, though he still looked incredulous, was airy to the point of vacuity, and she was utterly casual as she asked: “But before Mother gets here, was there something you wanted of me?”

“Yes—this. I thought you should see it.”

He got her envelope out, going through a long rigmarole of apology, that it was sealed and addressed for the mails. “Protocol,” he smiled, “you know, that stuff that you taught in the charm school, says it ought to be open, with ‘By hand' typed on, or ‘Kindness of Clay Lockwood,' or something of that sort. But I sealed it by mistake and stamped it before I realized. I hope you'll overlook it. Here, I'll open it for you—”

“It's quite all right. I can do it.”

Now sitting on the big sofa of this brocade and satin suite, she took a paper cutter from the low table in front of her and slit the envelope's flap. Then she took out the statement and started to read. Then, jumping up, she snarled: “What is this, Clay? A joke?”

“No! It tells what happened, that's all.”

She tried to read on, but couldn't. She skipped to the second page, to the third, fourth, and last. There she saw the notary seal, the signature, and those listed for copies. “But Clay,” she quavered, her mouth covered with spittle, “don't you know what this can mean?”