Bank Robbers

by C. Clark Criscuolo

He felt her drop down onto the mattress, and he stopped touching her. He was so hard that if she didn’t touch him soon …

  He was pulled on top of her with such strength it almost seemed to throw him in the air.

  Ah, God, that was what he had been waiting for.

  The words “in me” traveled along her exhaled breath, and he was rolled onto his back and she was on top of him. She fumbled with his belt and they both pulled his pants off and in a second he was there, inside her, and she was biting his neck and earlobes, and sliding up and down with almost a violence and whispering her demands of exactly what she wanted of him and how, and how much and how often …

  And Arthur came.

  As he had not come since 1962. She was back. She was all his.

  * * *

  WHAT THE hell am I going to do about my kids? Teresa lay back in bed, shaking her head and staring at the ceiling.

  Florida. A hellhole, as far as she was concerned.

  Her eyes darted over to the clock next to her bed.

  And that stinking hospital. They couldn’t tell her what the tests were but they had no problem blurting out her business to Tracy. And by ten o’clock in the morning, Fred, Jr., would be on his way in from the airport, and the two of them—she didn’t even count that fool Tracy was married to—they were gonna throw her out, like some kind of garbage, to some geriatric hospital in Florida.

  She was fifty-seven!

  She didn’t belong in some home. And she knew, no matter what they said to her, that was what was going to happen. The wife would get tired of her, and then they’d wait until she was weak enough and they’d move her into a home.

  And suddenly the peculiar thought that the one person she could see trading places with right now was Dottie O’Malley Weist hit Teresa deep inside.

  She wondered where Dottie was and what she was doing.

  Probably on a plane halfway across the world by now. That’s what Teresa would do. And now that she thought of it, she thought it was very laughable that Dottie’d duped her entirely with that cockamamy story about trying to get caught. Jeez, for all she knew Arthur MacGregor helped her plan the whole thing.

  All that crap about Medicaid. That was just stupid. So maybe they were both on a plane somewhere together.

  Well, good for her. After the last couple of discussions with her, Teresa could see she was a woman in need of a little happiness. And the fact she got it robbing a bank, well, God has a funny sense of humor.

  So, she thought, staring at the clock, what the hell am I gonna do about this crap of moving me down to Florida?

  * * *

  BRIGHT moonlight was streaming in through the windows, and a small breeze was lifting the lace curtain up through the windows on one side of the room, and on the opposite wall, the curtains were being pushed outside by the flow of the air.

  She lay quietly on the bed, looking across the room to which she’d awakened with a start. For one second she couldn’t fathom where she was, and the memory of the dream she had been having, of the guard lying on the floor and the blood, came into her head. A violent shiver went through her.

  She felt Arthur’s weight shift in the bed next to her and his arm fell across her, almost as if he were reaching out in his sleep to hold her. She exhaled and wrapped her arms around him. A wave came over her of feeling so very safe in the room with him. She’d forgotten that.

  Dottie felt herself exhale, and she stood up. She took a small lap blanket off the edge of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders and walked over to the window. She stared out on the lawn and listened to the alien quiet.

  In all her life she’d never woken up to such quiet.

  She walked back over and stood in front of the armoire and looked at the back of Arthur’s head, and watched how the covers moved up and down with his easy breathing. She stared at the armoire door and silently opened it.

  She looked at the neatly hung suits and ran her hand over the sleeves of them. She opened a drawer and looked at the laundered shirts from the cleaner’s, fastidiously folded into rectangles and bound with blue strips of paper.

  There was the sound of a clearing throat, and she looked in the mirror at the reflection of Arthur standing behind her.

  “I was just…”

  “Snooping,” he said and wrapped a throw quilt from the bed around them both.

  They stood before the mirror admiring the image of the two of them together, and Arthur leaned down and rubbed his cheek against hers. She could feel the sharpness of the stubble on his cheek, and she tilted her head.

  “I need a shave,” he said and she nodded and he gave a little sigh. “You hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. Why don’t you get back in bed?”

  He walked her over to the bed and she slid beneath the sheets. He tossed the blanket over her and slipped on his pants and a shirt.

  “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s a bathrobe in the armoire.”

  She watched him walk to the door. She lay back on the pillow and sighed. Arthur watched her face relax into a glow he knew he’d put there, and that was making her breathtakingly beautiful to him.

  “I’ll make sandwiches.”

  She watched him leave the room, and she looked up at the ceiling.

  Well, here she was. She’d robbed a bank, she’d shot the guard, she was wanted for armed robbery in New York City, and she was on the lam and being hidden by Arthur MacGregor the notorious bank robber.

  And Dottie O’Malley Weist hadn’t felt so safe in years.

  She got up and went back into the armoire and pulled out a silk bathrobe. She tied it around her and found herself running her hands across her upper arms, smiling at the way it felt and smelled of him. She flicked on the lights and dimmed them.

  Arthur stood at the top of the stairs dangling his foot off the top riser. In a sudden bolt he hopped down three steps at a time, and hit the hallway running.

  He tore through to the kitchen, turned on the lights, and stood breathing deeply. He’d just wanted to see if he could still do it.

  After about ten minutes Arthur returned with a tray containing two sandwiches and two bottles of beer.

  She felt a smile slide across her face as he placed the tray on the nightstand. He glanced up at her, then turned away. She heard him unbuckle the belt to his pants, and he paused. He was aching to see …

  “Come here,” she said sternly, and he turned and there was a lustrous smile on her face.

  He slid in next to her and watched her unbutton his shirt, with that serious, determined look he’d thirsted for. He watched the shirt go flying, and his pants get unzipped, and those get tossed. She glanced up at him, and her serious expression melted away into a big smile, and he slowly rolled her over onto her back and began to caress her.

  * * *

  THE CLINKING of metal against china stirred Dottie back to consciousness. It was morning and the wind had changed. The heavy crocheted lace curtain on the opposite wall was now blowing back through the window and gently hitting a knife balanced on the edge of one of the sandwich plates.

  She stretched her arms up, and then pulled them back under the warm bedcovers, and slid down until they covered her, as she used to do when she was a child. The bed linens seemed to be the softest she had ever felt. She heard the door to the bathroom open and she pulled herself back up and peered over at Arthur. She watched him pat his face with a blue towel that was slung around his neck.

  She pulled herself up onto the pillows and he sat down on the bed, and they just beamed at each other. He began running his hand alongside her on the quilt, and then up and down from her shoulder to her hip, and he stopped there at her hipbone and rubbed in a circle. There was a gurgle from her throat, and she began sinking back down into the bed, with her eyes closed.

  “No, no, you have to get up, Dottie, we have a lot to do.”

  “I don’t want to do anything else.”

  “Come on, we have to do things.”

&n
bsp; Her eyes opened and she stared at him. “Like what?”

  “We have to get you some clothes, and I have to call Sid.”

  “Who’s Sid?” Her voice was just a bit panicky.

  “My lawyer. Listen, I have an errand or two to run. Why don’t you get ready?”

  It was close to nine when Dottie walked downstairs. There was the whir of a vacuum cleaner in the living room. She could tell by the way it was changing pitch that it was being pushed hard against the carpet. There was the smell of lemon furniture polish and Windex.

  Dottie braced herself to meet this housekeeper. She stood at the door to the living room and stared at the very large woman inside. She coughed loudly and the woman looked at her and showed a very broad gap-toothed smile.

  “Mrs. MacGregor, congratulations. I am happy for you. I am Eva. Mr. MacGregor said to have breakfast ready when you come down. Come with me.”

  She held her hand out and gave a hefty shake. Dottie followed her down the hall, and was led into the kitchen. The table near the window was set and there were rolls and jellies and butter. She slid into a seat and Eva brought over a large pot of coffee.

  “You want a paper?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dottie said, lowering her eyes, and immediately a copy of the Daily News, with a huge grainy picture of her in her suit and large veiled hat, was placed before her eyes. She immediately placed her arm across it and leaned her chin on her hand.

  “Oh, that’s fine, Eva. Thank you very much,” she said, trying to control her voice.

  “You want eggs and bacon or waffles?”

  “No, no. The rolls are fine.” She flashed a smile up at her.

  Eva returned her smile, which vanished immediately, and went over to the sink. She turned on the tap and began rinsing off dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.

  Dottie opened the paper and began reading about the police and the guard, and the theories about her. A line reading SEE EDITORIAL, PAGE 28, seemed to leap off the page at her and she immediately turned to the editorial page.

  POVERTY AND WOMEN, the headline read.

  “Is sad, ya? The woman who robbed the bank,” Eva said evenly, turning around.

  “Oh? Someone robbed a bank?” Dottie said coolly and then glanced at the paper. “Yes, that is sad,” she added nonchalantly, and exhaled as Eva seemed to turn back to her work.

  Dottie was just about to read the editorial when there was the sound of Eva clearing her throat. She looked over at Eva, who was sponging down the counter. Her face had a frown-scared look to it, and she kept her eyes on the counter.

  “Mrs. MacGregor,” she began, and looked at the sponge very seriously. “You have no more need of my services? Maybe?”

  “Oh no, Eva.”

  “Yes, well, if you think I may not be needed, I would like to know as soon as possible.”

  “I see.”

  “I have two children. And my husband in construction. He been out of work now and—”

  “No, Eva, we’ll need you full-time,” Dottie assured her.

  Eva kept looking seriously at the counter, as if no matter what Dottie said, this was going to end badly for her.

  “Eva, my health is not so good,” Dottie said after a moment, and she saw Eva’s large, flat face relax. With a small exhale, she looked up at her.

  “It not serious?”

  “Oh, no. But I can’t do any heavy work, or a lot of shopping.”

  “Cooking?”

  “I’m a terrible cook.”

  Eva looked very happy at that.

  “I cook good,” she boasted and left the room.

  Dottie finished the coffee and a roll and was just about to go back to the editorial when she heard a car horn honk outside.

  She quickly walked to the front hall.

  “Eva, I’m going,” she called out to her, and the vacuuming stopped and Eva appeared at the living room door.

  “I make stew?”

  “Fine,” she said, putting on her old coat. She smiled at her, and Eva disappeared back into the living room, and Dottie hurried out to meet Arthur at the car.

  In forty minutes they were at a large mall in Westchester. It stretched over the landscape, large white buildings the size of airplane hangars with logos of store names in letters six feet high.

  NEIMAN MARCUS.

  MACY’S.

  LORD & TAYLOR.

  SAKS FIFTH AVENUE.

  HARRY WINSTON.

  Arthur opened the car door for her, and Dottie got out and looked at all the buildings. She clutched her old coat closed, and they walked inside.

  It was even more amazing inside the mall. There were trees and fountains and music. And the air reminded Dottie of some kind of carnival. It smelled of hot dogs and popcorn and fancy perfumes. The people walking around were all very well-dressed, women her age with well-coiffed hair and expensive clothing and makeup, many carrying shopping bags. Dottie kept holding her ratty old coat closed and tried not to look at any of them.

  She felt out of place.

  Arthur led them into a large department store, and over to an information booth. Dottie stood looking at the glass counters filled with beautiful bags and scarves, or intimidating bottles of scents with fancy stoppers. She watched Arthur walk over to her and pull out his wallet. He leafed through it.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “We’re buying you clothes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “These places are too expensive.”

  “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met whose arm had to be twisted to go on a spending spree,” he whispered at her, exasperated.

  “It’s a waste of money.”

  “Dottie, you can’t go around dressed like that.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” He was about to continue the argument when a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Look, if you don’t look like you were born in Larchmont, you are just going to draw attention to the both of us. And that could put me in a rather peculiar position.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, aiding and abetting, sheltering. Now, they may believe I wasn’t in on it, but let’s face it, I hid you out.”

  “Is that why you need to talk to Sid?”

  He nodded.

  “No.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. Now, your name is Dorothy MacGregor, you’re my wife, you just got out of the hospital and nothing fits. I want you to buy everything you need. I want you to get a good winter coat, and dresses and slacks, and jeans and sneakers, and nightgowns. I want you to have your hair done and buy makeup.”

  “Arthur, I don’t have the money—”

  He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You have almost a hundred grand in my armoire.”

  “That’s not mine. I can’t touch that!” Her eyes flared at him, and he gave a chuckle.

  “All right, you have the limit on my credit cards—”

  “I can’t afford this.”

  “Dottie. You have to stop this with the money.”

  A woman came up beside them with a name badge upon which was written, “Hello, my name is Frieda.” Dottie looked at her suspiciously and cleared her throat, smoothed her coat, and looked at her.

  “Mr. MacGregor?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You need assistance?”

  He darted a glance at Dottie, and immediately said, “Yes. I need you to help Mrs. MacGregor here.”

  “Arthur!” Dottie wailed, as he handed the woman several credit cards.

  “She’s to get a complete wardrobe, a haircut, and cosmetics.”

  “Arthur,” Dottie’s voice had a warning tone.

  “And she’s not to look at any totals or any price tags,” he said and gave Dottie a quick kiss. “Now I have to go see Sid. I’ll be back at five.” He took a few steps and turned back, walking backward out of the store. “And nothing from Chanel, you know how I can’t stand that.”

>   “Never,” Dottie said quickly. “I hate Chanel.”

  They watched him walk off and Dottie looked at the woman, whose smile faded immediately.

  “I don’t want expensive things. We’re not running up his credit-card bills, so if you think you’re going to just sell me anything, think again.”

  “Yes,” the woman said, taken aback.

  Dottie took a step, then turned back.

  “And I am perfectly capable of picking out my own clothes.” She took another step, then turned back.

  “Yes, Mrs. MacGregor.” Her tone had become icy.

  “And I don’t need some kid telling me how to dress.”

  The woman looked entertained by that.

  “Just how old are you anyway?” Dottie sneered.

  Frieda gave a wide smile. “I’m sixty-three, Mrs. MacGregor.”

  And Dottie’s mouth fell open a bit and she stepped back and looked the woman up and down.

  “Should we start with sportswear?” the woman asked.

  Dottie coughed and looked at the floor and mumbled, “That would be fine.”

  * * *

  “ALL RIGHT Mother, all right!” Tracy’s voice was high and raspy.

  She darted a glance over to her husband and rolled her eyes.

  “We’re not talking about some hellhole—”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Mom, Florida is not a hellhole. It’s one of the biggest resort states in America. People fly there from all over the world to vacation…” Fred, Jr., was staring at her. He seemed nervous.

  Teresa stared at the three of them sitting at her kitchen table. Tracy’s jaw, when it wasn’t busy flapping at her, was busy loudly snapping a wad of chewing gum. For some reason it made her sunken cheeks look even skinnier and she looked hungry. Her husband was sitting with his arms crossed over his slightly spreading stomach, and he would look away quickly whenever Teresa tried to make eye contact. He’d always done that to her; maybe that was why she never fully trusted him. The man couldn’t look you in the eye.

  Her eyes turned to Junior. Now, he was a sight. He didn’t look a thing like her son. His hair looked as if he’d had some kind of accident with a Clairol bottle; it was about twelve shades too light. It had been cropped very short on the sides and was almost a crew cut on the top. His skin, usually a kind of sallow color from the mix of Teresa’s olive skin and Fred’s pink, was the color of café au lait. He had on a fussy bright-pink shirt, a pair of khaki shorts, and Top-Siders. A pair of mirrored sunglasses was hanging by strings from around his neck. He looked like some kind of model, but when she looked at his eyes, there was something dead in them.