dead bodies, into the kitchen and lay them beside the sink. He took the largest stock pot he could find and stuffed them into it, then filled it with water and put it on the stove over a low flame. Death by stabbing; death by drowning; death by boiling. The act was, he knew, poindess. Mad. But he felt better for it. He went upstairs to bed and fell asleep instantly.
'She tried to kill me, Goldstein. Pure and simple.' He was still weak and when he breathed too deeply his lungs hurt. He had not the strength to take his usual walk to the office and had flagged down a cab on Connecticut Avenue.
'It sounds like an Agatha Christie method. How did she get so clever?' Goldstein had turned pale at the revelation puffing up thick clouds of cigar smoke.
'I'll admit that she's clever - and pretty handy too. I taught her an awful lot about mechanical things. She had put the wedge in just right.' Despite himself, he felt an odd sense of admiration. He had created a monster.
'But you did get out. She must have known that you wouldn't have let yourself fry.' He brushed away the smoke with his stubby hands, as if the gesture also cleared his mind. Tm not condoning it. But to ascribe to her a deliberate intention to murder you sounds bizarre.'
'It was bizarre, Goldstein.' Oliver clenched both fists and banged on Goldstein's desk. 'This whole thing is bizarre.' The violence of his act starded Goldstein, who resumed his usual all-knowing pose.
'You mustn't give in to it, Rose. You want me to press an attempted murder charge. You need some proof that isn't circumstantial. You bring the police in on domestic matters, they laugh.'
'It's not funny.'
'To you it's not funny. To me it's not funny. To the police it becomes funny. And funny becomes ludicrous. And ludicrous becomes ridiculous. Besides, I'm not a criminal lawyer.'
Oliver stood up and paced about the office, then, feeling the pressure in his lungs again, he sat down.
'I know she wanted to murder me. Nothing you say, Goldstein, will convince me otherwise. She has simply reached a new threshold of hatred.'
'And you?' Goldstein said shrewdly.
'If only you weren't so ... so rabbinical, so superior, like you know all the secrets of the human heart.'
'You didn't answer my question,' Goldstein said, as if he were debating with God.
'Yes. I also wanted to murder her. It was a clear option and I very nearly took it. Fortunately I was waylaid by her plants and I murdered the plants instead. In retrospect it may sound odd, but she will get the message. On my part, I would say that the plants saved her life.' He had spoken the words slowly, deliberately. Goldstein seemed to be chilled by this assertion and clasped his hands as if in supplication.
'What you felt is perfectly natural. . .' Goldstein began.
'So you're also a psychiatrist, Goldstein?'
'If I were a psychiatrist, I would add another fee to the bill. I'm giving you only wisdom. No charge. Everybody has a killer in him. The feeling passes. If it doesn't, we have troubles.' 'That's wisdom?'
'There's more. If I were you, I would stay clear of her. Just live like you're in a vacuum.' 'It's not easy.' 'Who said it was easy?'
'Sometimes, Goldstein,' Oliver said, 'I want to chuck it all. Get out of this city. Start all over again. If only I weren't a boiler-plate lawyer, locked into the FTC. It's too cushy. Too lucrative.' He felt a huge wave of despair crash over him. 'How easily we get corrupted by material things.' It galled him to hear himself mouthing the cliche.
'They got a new word. Life-style. She doesn't want to give up her life-style. And let's face it - you don't want to give up yours. After all, what does a house represent? Shelter? Shelter shmelter. It's a symbol of prestige. A house, Rose, is not just a home.'
'You and your fucking wisdom.'
Goldstein sighed, looked at him again, and shook his head.
'A few more months. Then the judge will decide. They're all
'I won't let her have it all. I won't. Twice I escaped death for this. At least figuratively. I've stuck it out seven months, I'll stick it out the other five.'
'Ignore her. What's so hard?'
'I'll try.' He looked at Goldstein. 'Mr. Wise Man, if you ignore the Angel of Death, does it go away?' 'I don't need the creeps so early in the day.'
19
Ann sat beside him as the car moved slowly over the mountain road above the Shenandoah. The windows were open and she could smell the aroma of the awakening earth. The buds on the trees were newly opened and the leaves were still the light green color of early spring.
Quietly sitting beside him, she hadn't said much on the ride down from Washington. They had stopped on the way for a bucket of fried chicken and some Jarlsberg cheese, and he had taken two bottles of Chateau Latour '66 from the wine vault.
It was, of course, a violation of her pledge to him. But the seriousness of Eve's request had, she told herself, made it mandatory. She liked the word, almost as if she had invented it, and she had repeated it to him when she had called him at the office.
'It's really mandatory, Oliver. It's not about you or Barbara or me. It's all about Eve.'
'That's a movie,' he had responded, but it had helped lighten his reaction and he had consented.
They had seen little of each other in recent weeks. He left earlier for the office and came home later, long after
