Mrs. White

by Margaret Tracy

  There was another silence while the trooper waited for Mrs. White to reply. Mrs. White could not. She was nearly bent double with crying. She heard the call being transferred with a series of clicks. She wanted to hang up, now, while there was still time. She feared they were tracing her call. She did not have the strength to lift the receiver to the cradle.

  “BCI, Investigator Scott. Hello? Is this the lady who called yesterday?”

  Mrs. White’s anguished voice seemed to rise up from the depths of her stomach.

  “Why didn’t you stop him?” she cried. “Why …?”

  “Look, ma’am, please,” said Scott slowly. “We questioned Paul White for over an hour yesterday.…”

  Now, through her tears, there was hope in her eyes.

  Inspector Scott went on: “Ma’am, unless you have something, something definite that points to this man, I have to tell you, we really found no reason to hold him.”

  Mrs. White bowed her head again. She sobbed and sobbed.

  “Now, maybe …” Inspector Scott said gently, “maybe if you could give us your name—let us come and talk to you—maybe we could work something out.…”

  “I can’t, I can’t,” Mrs. White cried. “I’m afraid, I’m so scared. My children … Please … help me.”

  “Ma’am, I want to help you. I really do, but if you don’t give me your name. If you don’t give me something—something to work with—some proof of what you’re saying … Look, at least give me your name so we can get together and discuss this thing.”

  With despair Mrs. White recognized the kind, patronizing voice of someone talking to the insane. Still sobbing, she reached out and hung up the phone.

  Leaning on the countertop, Mrs. White held her head in her hands and tried to bring herself under control. She heard the inspector’s condescending words repeating themselves over and over again. What must she seem like?

  She raised her tear-stained face and looked out the window. What, in fact, was she? Was it all a dream? Was she mad? A poor, dopey housewife who’d just gone over the edge?

  What did she have? What did she know? What could she show the police to make them believe her, to make them stop this man, this monster?

  She knew at once, of course, that there was only one way. Drying her eyes with the heels of her hands, she moved to the kitchen door. She opened it and stepped out into the driveway. The warm air felt stifling to her. She had to go back into the barn. She had to get the overalls. She had to get the knife. They would believe her then.

  She moved slowly across the drive, walking on tiptoes as if she were afraid of being heard. She came to the door and pressed herself against the dry wood. Her hand was trembling as she reached out to lift the latch.

  The barn door swung open and Paul’s workshop stood before her. It seemed to her to be inviting her in insidiously. Deep in her heart she knew that Paul was in there, waiting for her. She stepped in, leaving the door ajar behind her.

  She was like a child dared to go into a haunted house: She stood stock-still a moment, wondering how fast she could race to the locker, grab the overalls and knife, and get out. Wondering if she could do it fast enough before the monster—her husband, Paul—reached out of the shadows and grabbed her.

  For another long moment she stood frozen, peering into the workshop. Then she broke forward, her arms waving at her sides, rushing forward to the locker.

  She was enveloped in shadow. There seemed to be movement all around her. She was at the locker, her hand on the latch. She opened it—it seemed to make a loud noise—loud enough to drown out the sound of a man coming up behind her.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw the shape of that man looming up out of the workbench. It was nothing: a combination of shadows and machines. She snapped her head back around and let out a quick little shriek.

  The locker was empty. The overalls were gone. The knife was gone. Or maybe they had never been there. But the locker was empty.

  Outside the barn Mrs. White stood staring at the driveway, bright, almost white, in the sunshine. She didn’t make a sound, and for a few seconds she heard nothing.

  Then the ring of the phone in the kitchen came to her from far away.

  She began moving toward the cottage before she even realized it. She was doing what she had done a thousand times before: running inside to answer the phone.

  But in her belly, as she ran, dread like a grinning cannibal imp began to eat at her. And by the time she picked up the phone, by the time she murmured breathlessly: “Hello?” she knew what she was going to hear.

  “Joanie?” It was Paul.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I’ll be working late tonight.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The receiver buzzed in her hand long after Paul had hung up. Mrs. White cradled it, her eyes closed, her body flinching from chill after chill. The dial tone became the warning signal—for those who wait too long. Then she came around.

  Gripping the receiver firmly now, she pressed the phone down to stop the alarm. She dialed quickly, decisively, from memory.

  It seemed to ring for an eternity. At last the familiar young voice responded.

  “State Police barracks K. Trooper Hartigan.”

  Mrs. White paused only an instant. “Hello,” she said then. “It’s … me again.”

  How that sounded! Like a madwoman, the sort of person who calls all-night radio shows. Mrs. White bit her lip and waited. She heard the trooper let out a long, exasperated sigh.

  “You don’t have to tell me …”

  “I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”

  “I know,” he said a bit too nicely.

  “More important, I mean. Because …” Mrs. White’s hand flailed before her. “He’s working late tonight.”

  There was a long pause.

  “He is,” the trooper said.

  “You don’t understand. He …” Mrs. White grew angry. “May I speak to the inspector, please? The man who’s in charge?”

  Trooper Hartigan sighed once again. “He’s out. Just tell it to me.”

  “It means he’s killing someone. Tonight,” she said.

  Another pause. Mrs. White prayed he would understand. She made her hand into a fist.

  “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

  She sent the fist slowly toward the wall. She spoke to the trooper helplessly, intimately. “I can’t. I can’t, I told you so. My … there are children.”

  “You want to help us, don’t you?”

  “Of course, of course, I do, but … it’s not …”

  The trooper, by the sound of it, was lighting a cigarette. He took his time about it. Then: “You know, if you have any proof, we’d sure like to see it.”

  Mrs. White was nearly panting. “I looked, I looked, that’s just it. That’s the whole thing. It wasn’t there, it just wasn’t …”

  “Where did it go, do you think?”

  “He’s got it, don’t you see? He …”

  She thought she could hear the trooper nodding, as if to say “Sure.”

  “Please,” she begged him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  The trooper cleared his throat. His voice was sober. “Nobody’s laughing at you, ma’am,” he said quietly. “We appreciate your help. We really do. But now you just have to leave it to us. The men in charge are good men. Really, they’re good at their jobs. They’ll find this man, don’t you worry. And when they do … well, you’ll have helped them do it.”

  Mrs. White heard the patronizing words as a pronouncement of some terrible sentence. She could only smile at the absurdity of it. She could only, slowly now, hang up.

  They kept asking, they kept asking for her name. But if they questioned Paul and let him go again, what would happen to her, what would happen to the children?

  And yet there was no one else for her to appeal to. And there was nothing for her to do now. Nothing but wait.

  Mrs. White put th
e dirty dishes into the sink. She scrubbed them and rinsed them. It was nearly three o’clock.

  The children would be home soon. They were coming home now. Dishes were being done and children were going home and, at the same time, on the same planet, someone was being killed. One did not stop the other. It all went on simultaneously, like the different movies in those double-triple-quadruple complexes. Mrs. White turned the water off.

  She sat at the kitchen table. Sitting alone in silence, she wondered what she was waiting for. Would she know the moment when it happened. Would she be alerted, as by the buzzer on the stove. She thought she might. Silently she waited for a sign.

  Then she thought, Maybe the police were right. Maybe she was crazy.

  The door opened. Mary came home. Mrs. White gave her milk and cookies. Maybe I’m crazy, she repeated. Maybe it’s only some kind of nightmare.

  She waited nonetheless. Four o’clock came and went. Four thirty. Junior came home from his game. She thought, It’s happening now. Paul is holding her, keeping her still. He can. He’s strong. Now he’s on top of her, putting the knife in. Now he’s laughing. It’s over. It’s over now.

  She moaned aloud. It was too ridiculous. It could not be happening, right as she sat there, as the sun began to decline, as The Flintstones were starting. She could not fathom it. No, it was not happening at all.

  It was six o’clock. It’s getting dark enough now, she thought. No one will see him now. He’s pulling up to the house. He’s feeling for his knife. He’s swinging his long legs out of the truck. The woman is washing her dishes, unsuspecting. He’s coming up the path. He’s at the door.

  He was at the door.

  Paul entered the kitchen, a smile on his face.

  “Hi.”

  He put the toolbox down with a clatter on the stove. Then he winked at Mrs. White.

  “Hey, good lookin’,” he said. “My toolbox is cookin’.”

  He laughed. He bent down and kissed her forehead. Then he went to the bathroom, whistling.

  Mrs. White covered her face. She stifled a sob. Wash your hands as much as you want, she thought, it won’t come off. It won’t ever come off.

  Dinner went quickly. She could hear the low boom of Paul’s voice, but she could not tell one word from another. She knew only that this voice, an hour, two hours ago, had said, “Hush, there’s no use in struggling. You can’t get away.” Now it said: “Any more of that cake?”

  Mrs. White put the children to bed numbly. She heard Paul say good night. She said she would join him in a minute.

  “I just want to watch a little TV,” she said. “See the news.”

  Paul paused a minute, then shrugged.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  Mrs. White walked swiftly into the den, not pausing at the light. She went right to the set and flipped it on. She saw the set’s white light. She kept the volume low. Only she could hear it.

  The news came on. Mrs. White watched, her eyes glued to the screen, to the flickering faces, the talking heads. The Russians were making warlike noises. Unemployment had increased. Mrs. White twisted in her chair. Then, said the newscaster, they would be back in a minute with the local news.

  Mrs. White rocked forward and back, her arms wrapped around herself. Ty-D-Bol was better for your toilet. Don’t get mad, get Glad. Then the news returned.

  She leaned forward, her eyes wide. Her nails dug into her palms. A subway had derailed in Manhattan. The mayor was in Europe. In sports today …

  Mrs. White continued to stare. She could not believe it. It was over and they had not announced it. The news was over, and it had not happened. It had not happened. It never had. She was crazy. She had been crazy all along. Mrs. White grinned. She was so glad she was mad.

  “This just in …” said the newsman.

  “Honey?” It was Paul calling from the bedroom.

  “There has apparently been another in the series of housewife murders up in Westchester …”

  Mrs. White froze.

  “Aren’t you going to tuck me in?” Paul whispered.

  “Details are still sketchy …”

  “I miss you.”

  “More as the story develops.”

  “Joan?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The two inspectors—Scott and Ross—stood side by side, looking down at what little remained of Henrietta Drew. Inspector Scott stuck a cigarette in his mouth; but he didn’t light it.

  Standing next to each other, the two lawmen made quite a pair. The tall oval of Scott next to the short oval of Ross made them look something like a comedy team from the old movies. Hardy and Hardy, the troopers sometimes called them. No one called them that today.

  From somewhere outside, a terrible sound came drifting through the halls of the well-appointed Drew home. The sound—something like the whinny of a horse, only stretched out until it became thin and chilly like the howl of the wind—seemed to weave past the Japanese sketches on the wall, around the vases full of fresh flowers. It seemed to seep into the lush shag carpet on the floor—very much as Mrs. Drew’s blood had done.

  “Sounds like someone’s killing a cat,” said Inspector Scott.

  “Poor bastard,” said Ross. “Hell of a thing to come home to.”

  “Jesus, no kidding. Look at her. Whoever this guy is, he’s an animal.”

  Inspector Ross nodded. “Kind of what it reminds me of, you know?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You ever go hunting?”

  “No,” said Scott.

  “Ever clean venison?”

  “All the time. What the hell would I clean venison for?”

  “Well,” said Ross, “that’s what she reminds me of.”

  Two men in white coats were lifting Mrs. Drew’s torso into a plastic bag.

  “I wonder how long he kept her alive,” said Scott.

  “Let’s go outside,” said Ross.

  The two inspectors, the tall fat one and the short fat one, rolled down the hall, following the two men with the bag. When they got outside, they stood on the beautifully tailored lawn and stared at the police cars. The blue lights flashing were hypnotic, and the white headlights blinded the inspectors so they couldn’t see the small crowd of neighbors that had gathered in the street. Out here, also, the sound of Mr. Drew’s mourning was louder and more real.

  Inspector Scott now lit his cigarette, cupping his hands around the match. He waved the match out then and threw it onto the lawn.

  “You know what I hate?” he said quietly.

  “Hmm,” said Ross.

  “I hate this guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No prints.”

  “There are never prints.”

  “Nothing. Just that damn gag, the one swallowed.”

  “The only suspect we’ve had in two weeks is that White guy,” Ross snorted.

  “Wouldn’t it have been funny if it’d turned out to be him?” Scott took a long drag on his cigarette. “You think it’s a hunter?”

  “Because of the venison?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ross gave it some thought. “Well, he’s done something like that.”

  “You mean, like a butcher.”

  “No, it isn’t done well enough, cleanly enough.”

  “Well, you know, the struggling …”

  “Yeah,” said Ross, “maybe. Maybe a hunter. Narrows it down a lot, huh?”

  Suddenly, from behind the two men, there came the sound of high-pitched laughter. Scott and Ross swung around to see a bent stick of a man coming toward them. Then man was about sixty, his gray hair was sparse, and the grin on his long face was skullish as he approached them, rubbing his hands together.

  “Hi, Doc,” said Ross.

  Merwin Lawrence, the medical examiner, continued his reedy laugh for a long moment as he stood before the inspectors.

  “All right,” said Ross, annoyed. “What is it?”

  Chuckling, Dr. Lawrence said, “He did more.”
r />   “What do you mean?”

  “He did just a teensy bit more today, our friend,” said the good doctor. “Only I’m not sure you want to hear about it.”

  “All right, all right,” Ross repeated. “Let’s have it.” And then under his breath: “What a ghoul.”

  “Are you sure?” The medical examiner relished the suspense a second longer, then he told them.

  Inspector Scott turned his face away, flipping his cigarette into the grass. Ross’s dark skin paled slightly.

  “I knew there were parts missing,” said Lawrence, with a happy wink.

  “Oh, Christ,” said Scott.

  “Now, gentlemen, gentlemen, a little professionalism here,” said the doctor. “Think of the consequences, think of them.”

  Both Scott and Ross overcame their disgust and tried to think.

  “Come on, what’s the joke?” said Ross finally.

  Rubbing his hands together, the doctor leaned toward them. His eyes glinted. He whispered: “Teeth marks. A beautiful set.”

  “Gee, I hate this guy,” said Scott.

  “Well, at least now,” Lawrence said, “when we find him, we’ll be sure we have the right man. We have teeth marks. So you see?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Dawn was long over, and the early morning was bright when Inspectors Scott and Ross finally came out of the investigation room and started for home. As they walked wearily, side by side, through the waiting room to the front door, they passed the tall, handsome figure of Trooper Hartigan.

  “Morning, guys,” said Hartigan brightly.

  Inspectors Scott and Ross grunted.

  “Hey,” said Hartigan, “if you’re going for coffee, would you bring me some?”

  “We’re not going for coffee,” said Scott over his shoulders. Ross had already gone out the door.

  Hartigan stopped. “Are you out on something?” he asked.

  “Yeah, on my feet,” said Scott. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Trooper Hartigan’s face turned a bright pink.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Scott. “How is Mrs. Johnson? Well, while you’ve been satisfying your animal instincts, so has our old friend, Mr. X.”