by Joy Fielding
Gail had read this item three times through to make sure that she understood it, that she hadn’t left anything out. When she was satisfied that she had indeed read it correctly, she lowered the magazine to her lap and let her eyes drift to where Jack sat reading a spy novel on the sofa. The message of the article was fairly clear, she decided. Children were somehow less than people; the deviant would be set free.
Another story concerned a woman, two of whose children had died previously under highly suspicious circumstances—one had drowned in the bathtub at the age of seven months, and the other had apparently swallowed some sort of poison—who was now accused of causing the death of her three-month-old daughter by willful neglect. She had been found guilty and was sentenced to a grand total of two years less a day in prison. She vowed that once she got out, she intended to have many more children, that no one could stop her from having as many children as God intended.
Again Gail had lowered the magazine to her lap, pondering the meaning of what she had read. It was all right to kill a child, she reasoned, especially if it was your own child. Again children were considered less than people. The murderer of probably three defenseless children had been sentenced to only two years in jail.
There were similar stories in the Sunday New York Times: a man who had shot and killed his wife had been given the same sentence as that of the woman who had killed her babies, because he had shown genuine remorse and was unlikely to commit such an act again; two men were freed after a judge ruled that the woman they had raped and sodomized had consented to the acts. He cited the photographs one of the men had taken which showed the victim smiling through her tears while she was being buggered as sufficient evidence to dismiss the charges, despite the victim’s testimony that the men had threatened to kill her if she did not smile for the camera. The judge had ruled that the woman was obviously enjoying herself. He dismissed evidence of her two subsequent suicide attempts and lingering depression. It was obvious, he had ruled, that she had been remorseful only after the fact.
Toward the back of one of the newspapers were two more stories of a slightly different nature. A man in Florida had shot and killed two young men who had attempted to rob his store. Apparently, he had actually killed one as the youth was ordering him at gunpoint to open the cash register, and then he had calmly walked over to the by now cowering second young man and fired a bullet into his brain. The shop owner was now considered something of a local hero and was happily giving interviews on the right of the American people to protect their property.
In another incident, a group of irate New Yorkers, who upon seeing an old and well-liked shopkeeper shot dead by a robber, had, rather than calling the police, taken off after the killer themselves. They caught up with him and fell on him, tearing out his eyes in furious revenge.
Gail read both these last stories again with a mixture of revulsion and curious satisfaction.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked suddenly. Gail looked up to find him staring at her, his book in his lap.
“Yes,” she answered. “Why?”
“You were shaking.”
“Was I?” Gail asked in surprise. She shrugged and folded up the paper.
Jack looked at his watch. “It’s almost midnight,” he said. “I think I’ll call it a night. You coming?”
“I thought I’d wait up for Jennifer.”
“What for? She’s with Eddie, isn’t she?”
“Just thought I’d wait up in case she felt like talking. You know that I never really fall asleep until I hear her come in anyway.”
“Maybe you’re the one who feels like talking,” Jack pressed gently. “Upset because Carol leaves tomorrow?”
Gail shook her head. “No. It’s time.”
“It’s time for a lot of things,” Jack said softly, walking over to her chair and taking her hand in his. “Time we started seeing some of our friends again …”
“I know.”
“Laura and Mike invited us for dinner again next week …”
“I’m sorry about this weekend. I just didn’t feel up to celebrating.”
“I understand, and so do they. I didn’t feel much like celebrating either. But a quiet dinner with friends might be something to look forward to.”
“Maybe.”
Jack knelt down beside her. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
“How are you? How are you really?” he probed. “Look at me when you answer. Don’t try to hide anything from me.”
“I could never hide anything from you,” she said, pushing the newspaper deeper into her lap. “How am I? What can I say? I’m lonely,” she said after a long pause. “More than anything else, I guess I’m lonely. I miss her so much.”
She saw Jack’s eyes instantly well with tears and he turned his head to face the wall. “Look at me,” she told him softly, repeating his words. “Don’t try to hide anything from me.”
“I miss her too,” he said, his voice husky and strained.
“You have your work, at least that’s something. It keeps your mind occupied, keeps you busy.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “and it’s been a lifesaver in many respects. But there are days when some guy will come in with his little girl and they’ll both be crying over some runover cat, and I can hardly see the cat for the little girl, and I wish I’d had more time with my own little girl. You were so lucky, you know, lucky because of all the time you got to spend with her, although I guess that’s one of the things that makes it so hard for you now.” He shook his head. “It’s affected my work,” he said after a pause.
“What do you mean?”
“I guess it’s a question of caring. I don’t care as much anymore.”
“But Jack, you’ve always loved what you do.”
“I know. But after something like this happens, it’s hard to get too worked up over whether a cat lives or dies. They’re just animals, for God’s sake.” He paused, shaking his head. “Although I must admit I had the cutest little dog in the other day. I’ve been as busy as hell, you know; you’d think I was the only veterinarian in Essex County, probably because of all the publicity. Whatever the reason, I’ve never seen so many sick animals.”
“Tell me about the little dog,” Gail said.
“It was a mixed breed, part poodle, part Pekingese, which sounds like a terrible combination, but it wasn’t at all. It was a beautiful little thing, apricot in color. Smart as a whip. Mixed breeds usually are. Much smarter than purebreds. This was a female. She was in because her back legs were bothering her. You see that a lot with poodles. It’s very interesting,” he continued, lost in his own recollections, “because she really doesn’t look like either a poodle or a Peke. She looks more like a cocker spaniel. I don’t know where that comes from.” He stopped, smiling at Gail sadly. “It looks like I’m the one who felt like talking.”
“That’s all right. I feel like listening.”
“They’re thinking of breeding her,” Jack continued. “They’ve offered me the pick of the litter.”
“You want a dog?” Gail asked in surprise. “You always said you saw enough animals at work.”
“This one sort of got to me. I don’t know. Something to think about.”
“A puppy,” Gail said, turning the thought over in her mind “They’re more work than having a baby.”
“We could do that too.”
Neither said anything for several long seconds.
“You can’t replace one child with another,” Gail said carefully.
“I know that.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about this yet,” Gail whispered.
Jack patted her shoulder. “I’m going up to bed.”
He stood up and held out his hand. “Come with me.” There was a question in his voice.
Gail looked into his eyes. “I’m not ready for that yet either,” she said quietly. “Please don’t be angry.”
“Why would I be angry? I’m a very patient ma
n.”
“I love you,” Gail told him, thinking he deserved better.
“I know you do. Don’t stay up too late.”
Gail watched him leave the room, wondering how her ex-husband, Mark, would have handled such a tragedy. Most likely, he would have suffered through a month full of stiff drinks and then disappeared. Their marriage never would have survived the strain. He would have hopped into his metallic sports car and driven off into the sunset, buried himself and his memories in liquor and women. Certainly, he would never have displayed the compassion and understanding that Jack Walton just had.
She pictured Jack up in the bedroom, taking off his clothes, his strong body exposed and strangely vulnerable. They hadn’t made love since the tragedy.
Sex had been one of the wonderful surprises about Jack. While sex with Mark had been probably the best thing about him, Mark looked as though that was the way things were supposed to be. He carried his sex appeal like a portfolio, and anything less than a superb performance in bed would have been a profound disappointment, a form of false advertising. Gail was aware that many good-looking men were less than sensational in bed, too preoccupied with their own bodies to give much attention to their partners, but Mark had not been like that. He really appreciated a woman’s body. Unfortunately, Gail came to realize, he appreciated any woman’s body, and after a while this came to alter her perception of their lovemaking. With Jack, Gail had expected a competent lover. She assumed he would be as workmanlike as his appearance, forceful yet caring, but not terribly original or demanding. She was only partly right. As a lover, Jack Walton was a constant well of surprises. He was indeed forceful and caring. He was also, as befitted the occasion, passive and shy, aggressive and abandoned, playful and gentle. After almost nine years of marriage, they had still made love often and eagerly.
But that was before the afternoon of April 30. Before some stranger lurking behind a clump of bushes had, with his own perverse desires, robbed her of any desires of her own.
Gail waited until she heard Eddie’s car pull up outside and knew Jennifer was home safe before she folded up her papers and went upstairs to bed.
Jack was already asleep when Gail crawled in beside him. She stared through the darkness at his face until she was able to make out his features clearly, her eyes focusing on the soft curves of his barely parted lips.
He was so strong, she thought. So caring. He was trying so hard. She knew that despite his assurances to the contrary, she was disappointing him, letting him down.
Gail lay her head on the pillow next to his, staring up at the ceiling, thinking that her husband would be better off without her.
TWELVE
She was asleep when she heard the noise.
There was someone at the front door. But the bell had not rung; she knew that no one had knocked. It was a different sound, and it took her a few minutes to realize that it was the sound of glass breaking. She sat up in bed and realized immediately that Jack was not beside her, that it was morning and that she seemed to be the only one in the house. She glanced quickly at the clock by the side of the bed. It was ten o’clock.
Her mind raced through the subsequent ramifications. Carol’s bus had been scheduled to leave for New York at eight forty-five. Jack was going to drive her to the bus stop. Jennifer was starting to work for her dad at nine o’clock sharp. That meant she had missed them all.
Had she really slept so soundly?
Had they tried to rouse her and failed? She’d been very tired, it was true, her mind weighted down with the information of her recent research, and Jennifer hadn’t arrived home until almost 2 A.M. She’d have to speak to Jennifer about that. Two o’clock was too late to be coming home even during summer holidays.
Gail got out of bed and walked to the window, pulling back the blue curtain and looking into the backyard. Her senses felt dulled. She seemed to walk as if in slow motion, every action exaggerated and heavy. Her sister had left without saying goodbye, she puzzled, hearing the sound of more glass breaking.
She froze. Someone was trying to break in.
She stood absolutely still for several long seconds, not sure what she should do. Whoever it was obviously thought that no one was home. What would they do if they found her here? In an article she’d read recently, an old woman had been killed when she had surprised a robber in her home. The killer-thief had received a sentence of five years in prison.
Gail looked toward the phone and wondered if she had time to call the police. Then her eyes shot to the silver button on the wall above the phone, the “panic button” which rang directly into the police station when pressed, signifying an emergency. She had protested when Jack had insisted on installing it along with the burglar alarm system he’d had put in just after the robbery.
“They won’t come back,” she had argued. But they obviously had.
She heard someone forcing the lock on the inside of the door and knew that whoever it was was only moments away from getting inside, that in several seconds his feet would be on the stairs. She had time to get to the button, she realized, and the sound of it would undoubtedly frighten the burglar away. She made a move toward the button and then stopped, holding her breath with the sudden realization that she didn’t want to frighten the man away. Maybe it was the same man who’d murdered Cindy.
Lieutenant Cole could have been wrong when he’d said it was unlikely that Cindy’s killer had also been the man who robbed their house. The police profile postulated that the killer had a past record of arrests for petty crimes. It was possible, she thought, catching her breath. God, anything was possible. At any rate, she was going to stand right where she was and wait for him. She was not going to move.
Suddenly, she heard a voice coming from the hallway.
“‘Mom,” Jennifer was asking, “what’s that noise?” Gail stared at her daughter who stood staring back at her from the doorway. “What are you doing home?” she asked.
“I slept in. I was out kind of late,” she admitted sheepishly. “I called Dad. He said it was okay to start this afternoon instead.” A look of fear crept over her face. “What’s that noise, Mom?”
So, she was not alone in the house. Jennifer was there. She couldn’t stand there and wait for the man at the door. She had to protect her child.
An instant later, she heard the front door as it gave way. “Oh my God,” she muttered, grabbing Jennifer’s hand, aware now that footsteps were circling the inner hallway and moving into the downstairs rooms. “Quick,” she shouted at Jennifer, pulling her hand and running with her to the hall, not sure in which direction to turn. She started to her left, then quickly backtracked to her right, Jennifer’s feet tripping over themselves in the confusion, her hand slipping out of her mother’s, her body careening toward the floor, a loud gasp escaping her mouth.
Gail raced back and grabbed her hand, pulling Jennifer to her feet and dragging her along the hallway. Jennifer cried out in dismay. “Be quiet,” her mother admonished with growing panic as the men—there were two of them, she noted quickly, one young with light brown hair—reached the top of the stairs. Gail pushed her daughter back into her bedroom and they slammed the door behind them. “Help me,” she yelled to Jennifer, and the two women pulled first a chair, then a small table toward the door. “Press the panic button,” Gail commanded, and Jennifer rushed in its direction as Gail dragged the heavy dresser which sat across from her bed to further block the entrance to the bedroom. Jennifer pressed the button in the same second that the men began pounding against the newly erected barricades. It sounded immediately, but the noise from the alarm did nothing to deter them. Gail grabbed Jennifer, hugging her close, then ran with her into the adjoining bathroom. Frantically, with Jennifer now starting to weep, Gail pulled the contents of one of the cupboards under the sink out onto the floor. “Get in there,” she commanded, surprised at how easily her daughter was able to fit inside. “Don’t move or make a sound.” Someone would come to help them soon, she tried to re
assure her, and it was imperative that Jennifer not let anyone know where she was until she knew she was safe. Then Gail quickly piled the contents of that drawer into another before racing back into her room, to the intercom on the bedroom wall. Flipping the button which connected to the front door, she began screaming for help. Surely people would hear her screams as they walked past the house and someone would rush in to save them. She stared at the panic button—where were the police? Gail saw that the furniture was beginning to give way in front of the bedroom door, and knew that she had only a few minutes before the men on the other side would succeed in breaking through. She resumed her screams into the intercom, finally abandoning the attempt when she saw the bedroom door beginning to open.
She ran quickly, her heart thumping wildly, into the bathroom and locked the door. The lock could be easily picked with a bobby pin and wouldn’t hold for long, she knew. One good slam would send it flying open. She looked to the bathroom window and toyed with the idea of jumping out. Even though they were on the second floor and the fall to the ground would probably injure them severely, she decided it would be better than risking certain death at the hands of the lunatics who had now succeeded in breaking into her bedroom. She looked around for something to hurl through the window, to shatter the glass. There was nothing. The men were at the bathroom door. They were laughing, arguing loudly and playfully with one another over who should have the honor of busting it, which woman they would have first. Gail hurried to the medicine cabinet and pulled out Jack’s straight razor, lunging back behind the door just as it burst open.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” one of the men sang in a gross parody of the children’s song. While his companion began tearing apart the bedroom, the first man—the young one with the light brown hair—strode purposefully toward the cupboard under the sink as if directed by magic. As he lowered his hand to pull open the small door, Gail lunged in his direction, her arms grabbing his head and pulling it sharply back, the straight razor slicing across his throat like a line of red ink. He fell back gurgling, his eyes filled more with surprise than pain, as the second man—and now Gail noticed that he too was young, with the same color hair as the first—came rushing to his aid.