Too Easy (13 page)

“I decided your reaction was valid. Did you change your mind?”

A curious man, she thinks. His tone doesn't suggest that he cares whether she has or not.

“No, Edd, I didn't. . . .”

“It was the right thing to do, Anne. So I did it. No big deal.”

“As a favor to me?”

“Basically.”

“But you weren't going to mention it?”

“I just wanted you to know it's history. By the way, the same group was in there last week. They are so wonderfully cynical. You almost have to laugh or cry, depending on your temperament.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, it's no skin off my nose. I just listen. They had some more war stories. Good ones. Want to hear?”

“Let's get some lunch first. Maybe a glass of wine.”

“Good plan. By the way, Anne, how are you?”

“Oh, fine, Edd. Everything's fine.”

“That's good. Well, winter's gone, for sure. Pretty soon we can move on to what really matters.”

Anne smiles. “And what is that?”

“Anything you do in hot weather. I really ought to live in Arizona. But if it's hot all the time, you don't appreciate it. My father always said the changing of the seasons is what made all of civilization. Sad to say, people in Arizona are quite a bit slower than here. There's a corollary there.”

She's conscious of grinning at him in a silly way. “Really, Edd, you make me laugh.”

“Goes with the turf,” Edd says blandly.

“Oh, here. . . . How about this place?”

“Looks good to me.”

•  •  •

Anne sips the last of her wine. Can't allow herself more than one glass. The numbers will start dancing. She studies Edd now and then. His glen-plaid suit, the plaid so subtle it might as well just be a gray suit. The nondescript tie on a white shirt. Short, well-combed hair, almost black. A haircut that always seems about a week old. Sensible, ordinary male features. Never raises his voice, or even inflects it. Hardly ever laughs. A man you barely notice, she thinks.

Then he orders the kind of lunch a kid would. And he's got opinions on everything. If she encourages him, he'll talk nonstop for five minutes. And if she doesn't, he sits there.
Watching her? She's not sure. Waiting for something? Apparently not. A very self-contained man.

“So why,” she asks, “are those young men so cynical, do you think?”

“Lawyers have always had a reputation for cynicism. You'd be amazed at some of the comments people made fifty or a hundred years ago. And of course there's Shakespeare. ‘Kill the lawyers.' Almost four hundred years ago.”

“But isn't it worse now? The cynicism, I mean . . . or am I getting old?”

Edd shrugs. “You're not that old. Yes, it's probably getting worse. Lot of social engineering in our schools these days—I think it just makes the smarter kids into cynics. The people who do the engineering usually aren't the brightest; they don't even notice what's happening. Look at Russia. Corrupt idiots at the top, two hundred million very bitter cynics underneath.”

He's finishing off three scoops of chocolate ice cream, with chocolate sauce, digging out the last bit of goo with a long spoon.

“I guess you like chocolate?”

“I'm a chocolate kind of guy.”

Anne laughs again, not meaning to. “Uh, you said you had another story.”

“Maybe it's not that interesting. I'll make it brief. This man gets lost in Yonkers. He's on a side street. Two young men approach him. I don't know the details, but basically they beat him up, rob him, kick him. And the whole time they're laughing, calling him names. ‘You stupid asshole.' Excuse me. So this guy is half dead and mad as hell, probably out of his mind as well. He sees this pushed-in fence, a vacant lot, I guess. He reaches in for a brick. He gets to his feet and lunges after them. One turns. But, guess what, he throws the brick, hits the other one in the back of the head. That's important. The mugger drops and his buddy runs. So what does our guy do?”

“Can he walk? . . . I don't know.”

“He screams for help, then he waits for the police to arrive. Then what does he do?”

“I think I see. . . . He tells them what happened.”

“Every detail. Trying to be helpful, you understand. When they asked him what he hoped to accomplish, he said, get this, ‘I kept wishing I had a shotgun, so I could get both of them.' ”

“He waived his rights?”

“On video. The mugger died, by the way. Brick hit just right, cracked his skull.”

“Well, that's too bad. But surely our firm is not representing either one of these muggers.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that's good.”

“The dead man's daughter. She's suing for child support. Through law school, one assumes. Of course, the police have no choice but to charge the victim with murder. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“Edd . . . the way you tell this. You don't care? And don't say it's no skin off your nose!”

Edd shrugs. “What can I do?”

“I'm asking how you feel.”

“Don't you see, Anne? Our government doesn't always protect people, but it always gets very annoyed when you do it yourself. That's where we are now.”

“So what's the answer?”

“Well, the victim in this case could have done ten things differently, and he'd be in the clear. He was trying to be a good citizen, he thought. Basically, he's going to trial for being old-fashioned. Or, if you prefer, stupid.”

“Oh, Edd. That's so . . . cynical, isn't it?”

“I'm sorry you say that. I didn't make this world.”

Anne messes with her napkin. “I'm curious now. I'll ask Robert—my husband—what he thinks about it.”

“He's with a newspaper, isn't he?”

“Yes,
New York News.”

“It's a good story. That's how he'll see it.”

Anne suddenly feels very sad. She's sure she remembers a more idealistic world. But perhaps that was long ago, when she was a child, and she saw the world in a very shallow way. Or maybe it's Robert, and she's on edge because of him. Solely because of him.

She's sure now about the other woman. She keeps hearing the brief message again and again. Robert called, got her machine. A bright, cheerful voice—“Sorry, not around. You know just what to do.” And Robert said, “Yes ma'am, I sure do. I just couldn't resist saying hello. Anne's out shopping. Miss you.” And a click.

And there it was, what she'd confidently predicted for weeks, what she'd told herself to expect. It's still a jolt.

“Anne, really,” Edd says, “I just try to understand things. . . . I'm sorry you're upset.”

She stares at him, not sure what he's talking about. . . . Oh, the muggers.

“No, Edd . . . I was thinking about something else.”

He nods agreeably, as if he's not surprised by that or much of anything.

•  •  •

As she drives home that evening, Anne thinks, If he wants out, why doesn't he just say so? . . . If he doesn't want to be with me, I'm not going to hold him.

She mulls over this, driving along Thurmond, catching a light, speeding up again.

Well, maybe he can't decide, can't make up his mind.

She laughs bitterly. Oh, I'm still in the running, am I? Is that a plus? I should dwell on the little hope left?

Or I should just cut my wrists now? Just get out of his way, one way or the other. Is that what the good wife does these days?

No, the good wife gets a lawyer and you go to court and
learn to hate each other. I wouldn't do that. I make as much as he does. Well, that's not the point. I just wouldn't want to end on that note.

She stares at the sky. Still some light this time of night. She realizes her vision is fuzzy, that she's crying. Well, damn it, I love him. I'll always love him, I think.

She thinks once again about the woman's voice. Sort of sexy. Very confident. Young? Well, definitely younger.

Anne imagines her husband with this other, younger woman. . . . Tough to do. Not a good thing to
try
to do.

So what's the sane response? I give up? Or I fight back, try to keep him? I don't know. . . . If a friend asked me about something like this, I'd be lost. I am lost. That's the point.

She thinks about the words, “Miss you,” the way Robert said them so sincerely. Maybe passionately. Unless that was some little private joke. Sure, he talks to people at work like that.

Miss you. Miss you. Miss you.

Now she's crying like a child with a bloody knee. How can I go home like this? How can I go
anywhere
like this?

She wants to pull over, wait a few minutes. She's afraid someone will bother her. Or a friend will recognize the car. It's almost completely dark now. She's not ten blocks from her house. Just concentrate on the road, she tells herself, drive slowly.

Kiss you. Kiss you.

She remembers driving in a heavy rain, hardly able to see past the front of the car. Leaning over the steering wheel, peering at the street. It's like that now, but when she blinks hard, clears her eyes, the street is suddenly sharp.

Oh, yes, Anne, she mocks herself, you're the unluckiest person in the world. Nobody else has problems. Oh, the hell with everybody else. I'm feeling sorry for me now. I
need
to feel sorry for me. I need to cry for a half hour, then go on with it. Then maybe I
can
go on with it.

She pulls over and stops just short of the turn that puts
her on her own street. Worried about her neighbors seeing her like this and, simultaneously, thinking that this is such a pathetic thing to worry about.

And if you don't change your underwear, that's the day you'll have an accident—and everyone will know. Yes, Mother.

She bangs her forehead gently against the top of the steering wheel. What do I do? That's all I want to know? Just push on. Tough it out. Maybe it's a phase, a whim, a passing thing. Already falling apart of its own weight, from Robert's guilt, and his love for me.

Miss you. Miss you.
The way he said that . . . sounds like it's all over for me.

You're a fool, Anne. What's worse—failing at something or just being a damned fool? I'm sure I'm both. I can't get away from that feeling.

She looks up, stares at the various houses and lawns she can see. Unevenly lit and shadowy. Still, she feels safe. A safe neighborhood, safe people. Only her own house, she realizes, isn't safe. So who
protects
me?

She turns on the interior lights, twists the mirror around so she can look at her face. Ohhh, a mess. Red and streaked. What can I tell Robert? I ran over a squirrel and it upset me? I had a fight with the bitch in heat who's my boss? I got a sad phone call. . . .

Isn't it something? All I can think about is making sure he doesn't know what I'm really crying about. This is the part I don't get. It's his lie and I end up participating in it. He works to keep the lie going, and I'm right there working with him. I smile, say, how are you, nice day, how's the paper, did you hear what the President said . . . ?

His lie. Now it's my lie. But what's the way out? I say, Robert, we have to talk.

Is that the worst thing? That I look him in the eye, say, You lying bastard? I could do that—if it came up. But bring it up? I don't see how.

That's where I started. I don't want to precipitate any sudden changes. I'm terrified of that. I'm sure, somehow, the whole thing is really my fault. Then, if I shake things up, maybe destroy the marriage, then it's doubly my fault. Is this making sense? I can't tell anymore. . . .

She's wiping away streaked mascara, fussing with her makeup. Trying to decide if she's presentable enough to venture home.

Maybe, she thinks, it's time to fight back. Go home and do something wild. Maybe pull his pants down and attack him. Funny, sex is good all this time. He's sort of rambunctious, to use a neutral word. Maybe I could challenge him, the way he thinks about me.

Sure, Anne, you're really up to doing something wild. What can you do that's wild, without going to pieces at just about the same instant? Nothing, that's what.

She turns the key, starts up the car, continues around the corner.

I'm paralyzed, that's what I am. She realizes this now, and feels it like a weight on her chest. It's not sad, she doesn't cry again. No, it's strangely static and unemotional. What can she do? Nothing. She can do nothing.

“Sounds good to me,” she says. “I can't do a damned thing. . . .
Hi, Robert! How are you?”

She pulls into the driveway.

“Did you have a nice day? And how's the paper?”

She sees them greeting each other. Everything just like it always was.

•
 He lies on his side, his whole body tense, watching her intently in the soft light of the room. He touches her head, enjoying the feel of the short silky hair. He tries to be perfectly still, let her do everything, draw it out. Then the pressure in him seems more like pain than pleasure. He can't hold back; he hates the thought of this ever ending. He stares at her lips, then he thinks about Anne, sees her saying something,
Please, Robert, don't. . . .
No, block that. Jesus. He wants to say something to Kathy but he can only gibber a few disconnected syllables, gasping and snorting. His body tosses, stiffens, shudders. Ohh, Jesus, what . . . oh, wait . . . no, keep on . . . oh, that's so . . .

He sighs and lies still. After a long silence, he still can't think of the right words. He seizes her shoulders, pulls her up close to him, hugs her hard, whispers in her ear. “Wow. That's wonderful.”