The Trouble with Eden

by Lawrence Block

  “Daddy, I wanted this to happen. Oh, God. Not just tonight. I’ve always wanted it. I didn’t know it. I swear I didn’t know it. It was in my mind and I didn’t know it was there. It was out there on—” her voice broke—“on the edge of thought.”

  Out on the edge of thought. And had he wanted it all along as well? And was that what the book was about? Had he written into it yearnings for her that he had not known he possessed?

  God.

  She said, “I’m going to have some coffee. Do you want some?”

  “Coffee?”

  “Don’t you want any?”

  “All right.”

  While she made the coffee he did not move from the chair. He thought of putting his clothes on but it did not seem worth the effort.

  She had wanted him and he had wanted her. He could try to blame the liquor, the marijuana, the mad exhilaration of the mood they had shared. He could blame all these things, but none of them could alter the simple fact that both of them had wanted this to happen. She brought two cups of coffee. They sat in separate chairs and drank it.

  “Can I say something?”

  He nodded.

  “Look, it happened. But what did we do? I mean it, what did we do? We love each other, and we made love. We didn’t hurt anybody. We didn’t do anything to anybody. We just made love.”

  He tried a smile. “It’s supposed to be a sin.”

  “Why?”

  “Sins don’t have reasons. I don’t know why it’s a sin. I know I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “I’m not.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be. But I—”

  “You keep acting as though you’re the one who did it. We both did it, and I was the one who—”

  “I was the one who should have been able not to do it, kitten.”

  She thought it over, shrugged. “Well, the thing is, I don’t think we have to put out our eyes and break our legs or anything.”

  “‘Put out our—’ Oh, Oedipus. It was ankles, not legs.”

  “Whatever it was. It happened. That’s all.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Are you still—”

  “Taking the pill? Is that what you were going to ask? Yes, I am.” She walked across the room and stood in front of him. “And do you want to know something? Do you really want to know something? I wish I stopped taking the pills. I really wish that. I wish I was pregnant, that’s how I feel about what we did.”

  He drew her down to him. She sat in his lap with her arms around his neck and she wept, and he held her as he had held her before and stroked her hair and told her that it was all right, that everything was going to be all right. They both were still naked, and she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life, but he held her now with no passion whatsoever. He laughed, and she asked why.

  “The glass in the fireplace. I was just looking at it. Once again Mrs. Kleinschmidt wouldn’t approve.”

  “Screw Mrs. Kleinschmidt.”

  He held her close as they laughed together, held her now with no passion at all, but with all the love he had in the world.

  There had been passion, but there would not be passion between them again. Mrs. Kleinschmidt would not approve, but Mrs. Kleinschmidt would not know, nor would anyone else. He did not have to put out his eyes.

  THIRTY

  On the ninth day following his admission, Clement McIntyre was discharged from Doylestown General. Olive wrote a check while he sat in a wheelchair grumbling that he could walk as well as the next man.

  “It’s a regulation,” the nurse’s aide said.

  “Silly damned regulation,” he said. “She was a patient, too. Paid full rates for the privilege of lying in one of your lumpy beds and listening to me use a bedpan. Doesn’t she rate a wheelchair ride?”

  “Don’t mind him,” Olive advised. “He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s sad to be leaving and this is his way of masking his sentiment.”

  “Who would have guessed years ago that you’d turn out to be such a sarcastic bitch?”

  “You see? That’s his way of telling me he loves me. You sit back and enjoy your ride, Clem. Enjoy the luxury. You won’t be pampered this way at home.”

  She drove home and parked the car in the driveway. He got out unassisted and walked into the house and up the stairs without her help. He was short of breath by the time he reached their bedroom, and his face was pale.

  “Sit down,” she said. “You’ll be more comfortable in bed, darling. Do you want help with your clothes?”

  “Don’t need it.”

  “I’ll get your pajamas.”

  He sat up in bed, propped up with three pillows. He said, “It’s a hell of a thing. A man’s a man all his life and then he’s barely got enough of himself to walk a flight of stairs.”

  “Climbing is hard exercise. I understand it’s more tiring than sawing wood.”

  “What a mine of information you are.”

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  “It truly is. But what I was saying. It’s a hell of a life when a man can’t live the way he’s used to living. You hear about these people they keep alive in hospitals for months or years, machines hooked up to them and tubes running in and out of them. Can’t make ’em better and won’t let ’em die, and what sense is there in that?”

  “Some people just want to go on.”

  “Some people don’t.”

  She walked to the window. “It’s so close in here,” she said. “I should have told the Robshaw girl to open a window while she was here. It feels like rain, doesn’t it? We could use a little rain. This summer I never thought I’d hear myself say that again. The silver maple’s starting to turn. It’s early this year. Does that mean a hard winter or a mild one?”

  “I can never remember. I think it means an early winter, doesn’t it?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Never did like winter. Didn’t mind the cold. Always the damned inconvenience of it. Slopping around through snow and slush, shoveling cars loose, skidding around on the roads. Cold never bothered me because I always had enough antifreeze in my radiator. A man would sure feel the cold without it.”

  “Can I get you anything, Clem?”

  “Well, that depends. Do we put on an act for each other or don’t we?”

  “It’s a little late in life for that.”

  “Yes, it’s late in life, and I never did like winter. You know what I want, Olive.”

  She went downstairs. There were blank spots on some of the walls. She looked at each spot and remembered immediately the picture that had hung there.

  She came upstairs with a bottle and a glass. He filled the glass to the brim and held it to the light, admiring its color. “All due success to temperance,” he pronounced.

  “I wonder how long you’ve been saying that.”

  “Seems as good a toast as any.” He drained the glass in two long swallows. “Well, I needed that,” he said. “They can poke all the needles in the world into you and it’s not the same thing. By God I needed that. I was cold sober for over a week and I can’t remember the last time I could have made that statement. You rarely saw me drunk but did you ever see me sober? Well, once or twice, I suppose.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  He poured another drink but sipped this one. “You know, I’ve got to be the luckiest son of a bitch who ever drew breath. Never been much good at or for anything—”

  “I could dispute that.”

  “Oh, maybe I was all right at that, but not much else. But what did I ever do to deserve you? All the hours I’ve spent sitting around and wondering about that.”

  “If I have to listen to much more of this I’ll have to start drinking myself.”

  “It’s nothing but true.”

  “Try to make me out a saint and I’ll take your bottle away,” she said. “Understand?”

  He grinned. “But God knows you’re an ornery bitch under it all.”

  “That’s be
tter,” she said.

  On good days they would go out in the garden together. He would sit in a canvas chair with a glass in his hand while she readied the flower beds for winter, pulling the late weeds, cutting back roses and perennials, spreading a mulch of peat moss. Often they would go for hours without either of them speaking a word.

  On other days, when the weather was bad or when he was not feeling well enough to go downstairs, she spent long hours in the bedroom with him. Sometimes she read poetry to him. He liked to sit with his eyes closed and hear her read poems he had read long ago. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they merely sat together.

  Just before dawn on November’s first Thursday she awoke to hear him coughing beside her. She switched on the light. He was lying on his side and his pillow was dark with blood.

  He said, “This is it, kid. No, don’t call anyone. They can’t do anything now and if they could I wouldn’t go through all of that again. Just give me your hand.”

  “Oh, my darling.”

  “What a good month this was. Best one of my life. I wanted to last until Halloween. Always liked Halloween. Never cared much about Christmas but I always liked Halloween. Wonder why that is… . ‘It’s coming along nicely.’ First words you ever said to me.”

  “I remember.”

  “ ‘It’s coming along nicely. Is it for sale?’ I thought, by God, that’s a woman, and I never met one before … It hurts but not so bad now … . I never gave you enough.”

  “You gave me everything.”

  “Took and took and gave you nothing. Always loved you, though. Hope you get a better one next time round … . I want to hold your hand. I can’t feel your hand, I want to hold it … .”

  But she was holding his hand.

  The funeral was far better attended than she had thought it would be. She hadn’t realized how many friends Clem had had. She remained dry-eyed throughout the service and the burial, accepting sympathy gracefully however awkwardly it was extended. After the service was concluded she managed to get rid of the minster’s company without offending him. She went home and sat in the living room until it was late enough o go to bed.

  Three days after the funeral she called Henry Biedemeyer. She had seen him at the services and he had said then what a good man Clem had been. Now he made the same little speech. It was tiresome enough hearing that sort of thing once, but she heard him out politely.

  “I’ll want to have a new will drawn,” she said. “Do you think you could see me today?”

  He said that he could, and offered to come to her house.

  “No, I’d as soon get out of the house myself. An hour from now? Will that be all right?”

  An hour later she was sitting in his office. Her will was a simple one, essentially the same document Oscar Biedemeyer had drawn shortly after her marriage. All of her estate was to be placed in trust, with the entire income payable to her husband. Upon his decease the principal was to be divided among various charitable institutions. The only changes she had seen fit to make over the years had been related to the ultimate bequests.

  “This should be simple enough,” Henry said. “We’ll just eliminate the trust and make the dispersal immediate. Unless you had other changes in mind?”

  “Nothing earthshaking. Just let me look at that list now and see who I’m mad at. I used to drive your father crazy. There was a time when I was in this office every few months cutting off one outfit and adding another. Let’s see now. These look all right. Doylestown General. How do I feel about Doylestown General? Oh, I guess we can leave them in. Hold on, now. Why in pure hell is the March of Dimes still here? Didn’t Salk put them out of business?”

  “They’re working on other crippling diseases now.”

  “Might have known they wouldn’t put a going operation like that on the shelf. No, let’s cross them out of there. Now there’s an organization dedicated to saving wild horses and ponies from extinction, here’s a circular I got from them, and they can have the March of Dimes share.”

  “You seriously want to give that much money to wild horses and ponies?”

  “If I didn’t know some fool would contest it, I’d be strongly tempted to give the whole shooting match to wild horses and ponies.”

  “Well, you’re the boss.”

  And don’t forget it, she thought. She said, “One other thing. There’s a young girl who works for me, Linda Robshaw. She’s been a great help to me all year and I know she’s at loose ends. I think it would do her good to have the shop, and I’d like to see the Lemon Tree stay in operation after I’m gone. God knows it’s little enough in the way of a monument. Can you add a codicil to that effect?”

  “That’s easy enough. I can also make it contingent upon her operating the business for a specified length of time.”

  “Oh, the hell with that. I don’t put strings on things, Henry. She won’t have a problem with inheritance tax, will she?”

  “On the shop and the inventory? You rent the store, so all that’s involved is fixtures and stock. What’s that worth?”

  “Damn near nothing.”

  “Under fifty thousand dollars?”

  “So far under you couldn’t see it from there.”

  “Then you can forget inheritance taxes.”

  “She might need money for cash flow, though. I wonder if I shouldn’t give her a few thousand dollars free and clear?”

  “You could,” he said. “There’s an easier way. Just set a higher balance in the Lemon Tree checking account You’ll lose a few dollars’ interest every year but that’s no hardship in your position. And it simplifies things.”

  “I should have thought of that myself.” They went over a few details and were finished. She got to her feet “When can you have that for me, Henry?”

  “Let me see. Today is Wednesday. How would Monday be?”

  “Monday?”

  “Monday, Tuesday at the latest. I’ll give you a call.”

  “I’m certainly glad we simplified things.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I think you’re stalling me, Henry, and I think I know why you’re stalling me. And I don’t think I like it”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “These things take time, Olive. Even a relatively simple matter—”

  “You could dictate the whole damned document in fifteen minutes and we both know it, and even in this day and age it shouldn’t take your girl the better part of a week to type it. You’re implying something and I do not care for it.”

  He sighed heavily. “Force of habit,” he said.

  “I still don’t like it”

  “It’s not what you think. I know you well enough, I know you wouldn’t—we do this frequently, Olive. People can change their minds. And signing a will is a depressing thing, and—”

  “It’s a sight more depressing to know you have a will in force that’s not as you want it. I expect to live a good many years, Henry, and I’ll get off to a better start when I know my property will go where I want it to go. It’s eleven o’clock. I’ll be back at four this afternoon to sign it. I hope it will be ready.”

  “Oh, it’ll be ready.”

  “Is something funny?”

  “I was just thinking of something my dad used to say. Excuse the language, but he said you’ve got more balls than a bowling alley.”

  “He told me as much to my face once. I always took it a compliment.”

  “You were right to. That’s how he meant it.”

  She crossed the street to the bank. Standing in line she thought about Oscar Biedemeyer. How long had it been since she’d gone to his funeral? Ten years in the spring, and it didn’t seem that long. He had been a good man. Well, Henry was a good man himself. A decent lawyer always tried to tug you along on a leash. You couldn’t hold it against him. But you had to know how to stand up to him.

  She transferred six thousand dollars from her personal account to the Lemon Tree account. She
filled out some forms and was given a signature card to take along with her. On her way out the bank manager headed her way, obviously intent on expressing his feelings for her loss. She pretended not to notice him and managed to dodge the encounter.

  It had been raining off and on all morning. Now it was clear and the sun was shining as she walked down Main to the Mall. “I may be taking a trip,” she told Linda. “A couple of weeks away from here would probably do me good. I haven’t made any plans yet, but I’ve arranged with the bank so that you can pay any bills that start to pile up. They need to have your signature on file.”

  She returned the signed card to her purse, lit a cigarette, walked idly around the little shop. She said, “I don’t suppose I have to tell you you’ve been a godsend to me. I’d have just closed up. I’d close now if I didn’t have you to run it for me.” She picked a poorly carved giraffe from a shelf, clucked at it, put it down again. “But you enjoy it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you like the town.”

  “Yes, I do like it here. I’m just beginning to realize how much I like it here. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about finding an apartment.”

  “It’s pointless to stay in that tenement for any length of time.”

  “It is, and I’m willing to commit myself to a lease. To the idea of spending the next year here.”

  “And not getting married in the meantime?”

  “Oh, that’s over. That’s been over for awhile.”

  “I think that’s as well.”

  “Do you?”

  “I think a woman’s better off waiting for the right one. Even if he never comes along.”

  “And he wasn’t the right one?”

  “No. Or you wouldn’t be looking for an apartment, would you?”

  She lunched on a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was raining when she left the lunchroom, a soft and tentative rain. She walked quickly to George Perlmutter’s house on Ferry Street. There were patients in his waiting room but he took her ahead of them.

  “I could have waited,” she said. “It’s nothing all that urgent.”