important and deeply felt things that neither was able to express in words.
As Martie turned the knob, Susan stepped behind the door, where she would be shielded from a glimpse of the fearsome world outside. With a note of anguish, as if suddenly deciding to reveal a troubling secret that she had been keeping with difficulty, she said, “He’s coming here at night, when I’m asleep.”
Martie had opened the door two inches. She closed it but left her hand on the knob. “Say what? Who’s coming here while you’re asleep?”
The green of Susan’s eyes seemed to be an icier shade than before, the color having been intensified and clarified by some new fear. “I mean, I think he is.” Susan lowered her gaze to the floor. Color had risen in her pale cheeks. “I don’t have proof it’s him, but who else could it be but Eric?”
Turning away from the door, Martie said, “Eric comes here at night while you’re asleep?”
“He says he doesn’t, but I think he’s lying.”
“He has a key?”
“I didn’t give him one.”
“And you’ve changed the locks.”
“Yeah. But somehow he gets in.”
“Windows?”
“In the morning…when I realize he’s been here, I check all the windows, but they’re always locked.”
“How do you know he’s been here? I mean, what’s he do?”
Instead of answering, Susan said, “He comes…sneaking around…sneaking, slinking like some mongrel dog.” She shuddered.
Martie was no great fan of Eric’s, but she had difficulty picturing him slinking up the stairs at night and slithering into the apartment as if through a keyhole. For one thing, he didn’t have sufficient imagination to figure out an undetectable way to slip in here; he was an investment adviser with a head full of numbers and data, but with no sense of mystery. Besides, he knew Susan kept a handgun in her nightstand, and he was highly aversive to risk; he was the least likely of men to take a chance at being shot as a burglar, even if he might harbor a twisted desire to torment his wife.
“Do you find things disturbed in the morning — or what?”
Susan didn’t reply.
“You never heard him in the apartment? You never woke up when he’s been here?”
“No.”
“So in the morning there are…clues?”
“Clues,” Susan agreed, but offered no specifics.
“Like things out of order? The smell of his cologne? Stuff like that?”
Still staring at the floor, Susan nodded.
“But exactly what?” Martie persisted.
No answer.
“Hey, Sooz, could you look at me?”
When Susan raised her face, she was blushing brightly, not as if with mere embarrassment, but as if with shame.
“Sooz, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I’m just…being paranoid, I guess.”
“There
Susan hugged herself and shivered. “I thought I was ready to talk about this, but I’m not. I’ve still got to… work some things out in my head.”
“Eric sneaking in here at night — that’s a weird damn thing. It’s creepy. What would he be doing — watching you sleep?”
“Later, Martie. I’ve got to think this through a little more, work up the courage. I’ll call you later.”
“Now.”
“You’ve got all those errands.”
“They’re not important.”
Susan frowned. “They sounded like they were pretty important a minute ago.”
Martie wasn’t capable of hurting Susan’s feelings by admitting that she had invented the errands as an excuse to get out of this dreary, suffocating place, into fresh air and the invigorating chill of cold rain. “If you don’t call me later and tell me all of it, every last detail, then I’ll drive back here tonight and sit on your chest and read you pages and pages of the latest book of literary criticism by Dusty’s old man. It’s
Smiling thinly, Susan said, “I’m suitably terrified. I’ll call you for sure.”
“Guaranteed?”
“My solemn oath.”
Martie grasped the knob again, but she didn’t open the door. “Are you safe here, Sooz?”
“Of course,” Susan said, but Martie thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty in those haunted green eyes.
“But if he’s sneaking—”
“Eric’s still my husband,” Susan said.
“Watch the news. Some husbands do terrible things.”
“You know Eric. Maybe he’s a pig—”
“He
“—but he’s not dangerous.”
“He’s a wimp.”
“Exactly.”
Martie hesitated but then finally cracked open the door. “We’ll be finished with dinner by eight o’clock, maybe sooner. In bed by eleven, as usual. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“Thanks, Martie.”
“Give Dusty a kiss for me.”
“It’ll be a dry peck on the cheek. All the good wet stuff comes strictly from me.”
Martie pulled her hood over her head, stepped out onto the landing, and drew the door shut behind her.
The air had grown still, as though the wind had been pressed out of the day by this enormous weight of falling rain, which came down like cataracts of iron pellets.
She waited until she heard Susan engage the dead bolt, a solid Schlage lock that would hold against serious assault. Then she quickly descended the long, steep flight of stairs.
At the bottom, she stopped, turned, and peered up toward the landing and the apartment door.
Susan Jagger seemed like a beautiful princess in a fairy tale, imprisoned in a tower, besieged by trolls and malevolent spirits, with no brave prince to save her.
As the gray day reverberated with the ceaseless booming of big storm waves on the nearby shore, Martie hurried along the beach promenade to the nearest street, where gutters overflowed and dirty water churned around the tires of her red Saturn.
She hoped Dusty had taken advantage of the bad weather to be domestic and to make his incomparable meatballs and spicy tomato sauce. Nothing would be more reassuring than stepping into the house and seeing him in a cooking apron, a glass of red wine near at hand. The air would be full of delicious aromas. Good retro pop music — maybe Dean Martin — on the stereo. Dusty’s smile, his embrace, his kiss. After this bizarre day, she needed all the cozy reassurances of home and hearth and husband.
As Martie started the car, a sickening vision blazed through her mind, burning away all hope that the day might yet bring her a small measure of peace and reassurance. This was more real than an ordinary mental picture,
