Too Easy

by Bruce Deitrick Price

  Hey, what about the cordless phone? I’ll tell Anne to take it to the door, hand it out to the person at the door. Don’t talk to her, Anne. Don’t let her in. Make her stand back four feet. Put the phone out on the stoop. Yes, that’s it. Alright, I’d have to tell her the truth, some of it, but at least I can stop everything. Then the truth’ll be out. And we’ll deal with that. Kathy can say, I’m here to talk things over. No mention of . . . anything else. Anne never has to know.

  Oh, dear God, how did I ever get into this position? I mean, this is really crazy. I’m an accessory. . . . I do love Anne, that’s the amazing thing. Maybe not as much as I love Kathy. But if you add everything up, it’s not all that different. Maybe she’d have let me go. Why didn’t I just ask her straight out? Damn it, Anne, I need this! Lay down the law. That’s what I’ll do.

  The clock’s at 12:34. Not much time, Robert thinks. My back’s against the wall. The worst call I’ve ever had to make. Damn. I’ve just got to. It’s just no good. I can’t do this. . . . Can’t live with it. Probably go wrong somehow anyway. Dear God, please, I need a lot of help here.

  A reporter knocks and comes into Robert’s office.

  “Tom. No way. Big family problem.” Robert waves him back. The same hand keeps going, comes down on the phone, and gets the receiver up to his ear. He winces as he dials. He’s shaking from his head to his feet as the number goes through.

  Anne’s voice, he thinks, let me just hear it.

  Busy! Oh, fuck no. I got the courage up, and then it’s busy.

  Robert waits twenty seconds and pushes the REDIAL button. . . . Busy.

  He punches O. “Operator, I need to interrupt a call. A press emergency. Totally urgent. . . . Lady, just make it happen. Life and death. I’m not kidding.”

  Good, Robert thinks. I’m on a roll now.

  He springs up so he can pace by the desk. Listening with angry impatience to the process of breaking into a call. Two minutes go by before the operator comes back and says, “There’s no call in progress. Either the phone is off the hook or there’s a malfunction. Would you like to report this problem to Service?”

  Robert stares at the phone, the operator’s words just a grating whirr. Please no, he wants to scream. . . . Don’t tell me this. . . . What’s it mean? Tell me that! . . . “No,” he finally shouts. “I mean yes! You know the damned number. Get it fixed.”

  He hangs up the phone. His face feels hot and prickly. His body seems to be collapsing, the strength rushing out of him.

  Alright, I call the police, send them there for a domestic disturbance. Some bullshit. Anything, just disrupt Kathy’s plans. But no, hell, it’d have criminal written all over it. How could I make this call? How’d I know enough?

  Robert lurches out of his office. Somebody has a cellular phone, who is it? It’s lunch. Where is everybody? Why’s the phone busy but nobody’s on it? He moves to the center of the open area, shouts. “I need a cellular phone. I’ve got a . . . big story. Now. Now, damn it!”

  There’s only three people, all staring at him. One of them says, “Here you go. Hey, you people are my witness. The boss has my phone. . . . Whoa . . .”

  Robert snatches the phone and starts toward the elevators. He punches in the number, hears the busy signal. He goes down to the street, walking through the soft drizzle toward Grand Central, carrying the phone in his left hand, punching REDIAL every half minute.

  What the hell am I doing? . . . I can’t stay still. I’m supposed to be over on Sixth a little later for the alibi. Fuck it. Why is the phone off the hook? . . . Maybe it’s all over. They had a fight, knocked the phone off. . . . Yeah, but Kathy would put it back, wouldn’t she? . . . It’s just one of those stupid accidents. That damned cordless phone we’ve got. The receiver doesn’t nestle properly. . . . Hell, we’ve talked about that. We’re both careful. . . . I’ve just got to start out. I can’t stay here.

  He reaches Track 23, realizes all his clothes are damp. But not from the light rain.

  “Christ,” he mutters, pacing six steps one way, then six steps back, “I’m sweating like a man with malaria or something.”

  Anne, he thinks, I really do like you. I love you. You have to understand that. This whole thing just got out of control. Can you forgive me?

  He stares down the empty track. I could take a cab, all the way up there. No. The train’s got to be faster.

  Maybe it’s all over now.

  He pushes the REDIAL button again.

  Chapter

  36

  • Kathy follows Anne into the house. Now they’re in an open sort of foyer, living room to the left, dining room to the right, steps to the second floor ahead of them. Actually, Kathy thinks, a fairly typical old house, and not very well decorated. I’d make it so much prettier.

  “What a lovely home,” she says, glancing about, as though admiring the place. Actually making sure the layout she has in her mind is accurate. Feeling pretty good, she thinks, considering. It’ll all be over in a few minutes. Easy now. Just do one step at a time. One, two, three.

  “Oh, take off that wet coat,” Anne says. Watching closely to see whether the woman favors the pocketbook or the coat.

  “Oh, alright. . . . Thank you.” She puts the pocketbook on the floor by her right foot, as if she doesn’t want it to get far away, and takes off the coat.

  Anne sees she has a good figure. Damn, she thinks. Never mind. You’re not taking anything that’s mine.

  “Oh, just drape it there.” Anne gestures with her right hand at a nearby chair. Doesn’t look right, she thinks, I ought to hang it up. . . . It’s a good thing people have such lousy manners these days.

  “I do hope it’s not a bad time,” Kathy says casually. “I mean, you don’t have friends over or anything, do you?”

  Of course, Anne thinks, she’s got to be sure I’m alone. It’s like a slow pitch over the plate. Well, hit it, girl. “Oh, just Marge . . . unless she’s gone.” Anne glances uncertainly toward the kitchen.

  Kathy stares to her right into the dining room. She can see the door that goes to the kitchen. Is somebody in there? “I’m sorry?” She’s smiling brightly as she reaches down and picks up the pocketbook.

  “Marge,” Anne whispers. “A pest.” A thin smile. “So, you might move into our wonderful neighborhood? Phyllis, is it? You want to sit down?”

  Kathy isn’t liking this. Maybe there’s somebody in the kitchen, maybe not. There’s definitely something stiff, maybe even tough, about the way the woman’s holding herself, the way she’s talking. Something not quite right. A pleasant enough woman, just to look at her. Kathy can imagine Robert with her, on his slow days. Still, there may be something wrong. Oh, of course—she is home because she’s having a bad period. She could end up in any kind of mood. Maybe that’s it.

  Right, Kathy thinks, but now what? Ask a few questions and ease on out of here, that might be the best thing. Or switch tactics, just tell her about Robert and me—Hey, lady, give it up. Or I walk over there and look in the kitchen, settle Marge one way or another, and then get on with it? I’ve still got all my options, I’m in control. One, two, three. . . . “Well,” Kathy says calmly, softly, “I really don’t want to take that much of your time.”

  Anne can hardly breathe. Trying to be casual, trying to stay ready. Her left arm is getting stiff from being held in one position. When the woman doesn’t want to sit down, Anne becomes even tenser. Oh, it’s going to happen right away?

  “Well, how can I help you?” Anne asks in a tight voice, unable to stop herself from glancing at the pocketbook.

  Kathy looks at the other woman, then toward the door into the kitchen. “Really, is there anyone else here? I don’t want to intrude.”

  Anne grins more than she means to. Too much tension. I’m losing it, she thinks.

  The two women study each other curiously, as if each can read answers in the other’s face.

  Kathy knows something is wrong now. She also knows there’s no third person in th
e kitchen. So what the hell is going on? “Look, um, I’ll talk to you later. This is probably a bad day.” She’s still hesitating. “I’ll, uh, leave you my card.” Trying to keep all her options. Kathy lifts the pocketbook halfway to her chest.

  “No,” Anne blurts out, her face pale and tense. “You won’t do anything. . . . You know why?”

  “What?” Kathy pretends not to understand, desperately wanting to know what the woman means. She freezes, the pocketbook motionless in front of her stomach. I could get the knife in a second, she thinks. “What did you say?”

  “I, uh, have a recording system in the house. . . . Everything’s being recorded.” Anne can’t stop there. “Sooo—you’re the . . . the bitch?”

  Kathy’s eyes widen. The bitch?! Definitely all wrong now. Run? Go for it? Yes, this is a smart woman. Kathy can see that now. But not very happy. In fact, almost rigid with un-happiness. There’s not going to be any way to talk to this woman. What now? What do I do? What do I say? How does this woman know who I am? Robie! . . . Kathy can’t remember feeling so indecisive.

  “I said,” Anne says with grotesque emphasis, “so-you-are-the-bitch?”

  “I think you are confused—” Kathy sees the tension in the other woman’s shoulders and arms, thinks that Anne is about to attack her. Kathy flinches, raises the pocketbook a little more, to protect herself. Anne’s left hand jerks up, the elbow still by her ribs, and her fingers snap open less than a foot from Kathy’s face. The pepper gets into her eyes and nose. She immediately begins crying and coughing and gagging. “Wait . . . minute,” she tries to say, but the words are smothered. She blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear her burning eyes; she can see only light and a few colors. She lets go of the pocketbook. “Help me. . . .” She’s backing up, bending over slightly, touching at her eyes with both hands. Thinking, Robie . . . she knew . . . she knew! How could you let . . . ?

  Anne has already stepped to a nearby table and picked up a Steuben ashtray she put there earlier in the morning. Now she smashes it down as hard as she can on the other woman’s forehead, just above the hairline. Kathy’s legs give and she kneels on the floor, coughing and stunned. Her eyes clenched shut. She can’t move, can’t think clearly. Robie—my Robie—is vaguely in her consciousness, a small figure getting smaller, and everything she worked for is fading with him.

  Anne drops the ashtray and snatches up the pocketbook and rips it open, to find out what kind of weapon is in there.

  Chapter

  37

  • Anne stares blankly into the pocket-book. Then she sees the knife in a fold. She lifts it out, stares some more.

  “Why, it’s . . . my knife.”

  She glances toward the dining room, at the cabinet where the silver is kept. Her heart is beating so wildly, she thinks she might faint. She doesn’t hear the other woman’s hacking and sobbing. This knife—there’s no doubt it’s Anne’s, a gift that used to belong to her grandmother. There’s a fancy script M. . . .

  Her voice is soft and ghastly. “Oh, Robert. You gave her the knife to . . . Oh, who could think . . . ?”

  The knife maddens her. She drops the pocketbook and quickly picks up the ashtray. She hits Kathy again, in the same spot, harder. Again she drops the chunk of glass and pushes Kathy’s shoulder so that she sprawls back on the carpet. Anne squats beside her, placing the handle of the knife into Kathy’s right palm, careful that the cutting edge is down, the knife the way a person would normally hold it. Kathy is struggling in a weak and disoriented way, maybe not even conscious. She hardly resists.

  “You’re not taking anything else,” Anne tells her.

  Anne closes the other woman’s gloved hand and forces the hand across so that the blade goes in under Kathy’s left breast. “That what you had in mind?”

  Kathy can’t see or understand what is happening. She hardly reacts to the blade sliding into her heart.

  Anne pushes down hard on Kathy’s fist, moving the knife some. Kathy’s body thrashes but without strength. Blood oozes up around the blade. She twitches more feebly.

  Anne sees the color vanish out of Kathy’s face.

  Anne sits back on the rug. Trying to breathe in a normal way. “I thought it might come to this. . . . Maybe I hoped it would. . . .”

  She sees for the first time that Kathy’s hair is a wig. It’s slipped up a few inches. Well, well . . .

  Alright, she thinks, work this out. Now or never. . . . The knife, the damned knife . . . should I change the knife? What’s the best story? For me . . . for Robert . . . ?

  Anne stands up, looks at her clothes, at the room, the carpet. Trying to be sure she catches anything that doesn’t fit. She stares down at Kathy.

  Anne knows there’s something she has to do while she’s angry enough to go through with it. She reaches down and seizes Kathy’s arms and yanks the woman up, first to her knees, then all the way. Anne shakes her as violently as she can manage, back and forth, and side to side, to mess up her clothes. Then Anne kicks her on both legs and knees her twice. She knows a bite would be a good touch but she can’t do it. She lets the body topple backward onto the carpet.

  The knife didn’t move. Anne kneels down by the dead woman and again folds the limp right hand about the handle of the knife. Tears fill her eyes. . . .

  Okay, officer, it’s like this. The woman came to the door, wanted to ask me some questions about the neighborhood. No, never saw her before. So we’re walking and talking, go into the dining room there. And she starts to stare at me, real mean. She opens the cabinet, grabs a knife and comes after me. I grabbed the pepper shaker off the table, opened it and tried to throw pepper at her. We’re circling the table and I got some in her eyes. It slowed her down. So I run in here and get this ashtray and, what with the pepper and jumping around, I throw it and hit her pretty good. I was hysterical. We both were. I’ve probably got this all mixed up. So now we’re grappling and I get her hand in mine and I’m kicking and I bent her hand around and stabbed her. And I can tell you, I just hung on until I was sure she wasn’t coming after me anymore. Basically, that’s it. . . .

  Anne holds the woman’s hand tight about the handle of the knife for a few more minutes, until she sees it’s starting to hold by itself.

  “You poor bitch,” Anne whispers. “Robert sends you to do what he couldn’t. . . . I got that part right. . . . And who are you, Kathy?”

  Anne lets go of the knife and walks slowly into the kitchen. She puts the pepper away, cleans up any traces. Then she goes to the dining room table and opens the shaker there, throws some on the table, several places on the floor. She knocks two chairs over. She walks back to Kathy and sprinkles some pepper on her blouse, tosses the shaker across the room. No way she would be accurate in a real fight.

  The ashtray? . . . Fine where it is.

  Anne stares out the window, sees that a faint rain is still falling. The street gray and empty. Suddenly Anne wonders, Well, how’d she get here?

  Anne goes to the coat hanging on the chair, reaches into the pockets. She finds the car keys. She almost drops them. Oh, my God, they’re Robert’s! . . . He’s out there? No, the car’s out there. . . . And it couldn’t be unless he gave it to her. How can I ever save this man? Never mind whether I should.

  Anne makes the decision to keep on trying. She goes to the closet, gets a raincoat. . . . No, she thinks, hanging it up again. She puts on Kathy’s coat, uses her umbrella. She leaves the house, walks to the sidewalk, looks both ways. . . . Nothing. Alright, try the nearest corner. As soon as she turns the corner, she sees the car, walks purposefully to it. Glancing nervously about, not seeing anyone. She gets in the car, drives it back to her house, parks it beside her car. Alright, Robie couldn’t get it started, he got a cab. . . . No, he got me to take him. Yeah, that’s good. I was out this morning. Could have been. . . .

  She goes back inside, thinks about what she’s done. Terrible thing, she thinks, staring at the dead woman. Well, it’s supposed to be me there. . . . And then what
was going to happen? Robert comes home from a day at the office, finds his dear wife dead, and cries all the way to his next honeymoon.

  Anne thinks about Robert. Yeah, he’s probably waiting right now for a call. The poor bastard. I’ll try to save him. Then I’ll never talk to him again.

  Not sure she means this, but it sounds right.

  Anne wanders into the kitchen, to pull the phone out of the drawer, call the cops. Get on with the second half of her life. No, she thinks. That other Anne’s dead. . . . maybe that’s not the right way to say that. . . .

  She starts to punch 911.

  No. . . . She goes down to the basement, unclips the little wires that connect the recorder to the phone lines. Then erases the messages she kept. She thinks about hammering it into little pieces and flushing them down the toilet. Probably hard to do . . . and not necessary.

  She remembers a box full of old appliances. She throws the recorder against a cinder block wall two times. Now it looks old and broken. She wipes it clean of prints and puts it in the box with the tape player and the mixer and the slicer. The wires she carefully rolls and puts in the opposite corner of the same box.

  Boy, she thinks, you get into this stuff and you can’t stop. I’ll take it out tomorrow and throw it in the Hudson, if that’ll make me feel any better.

  Anne walks back to the kitchen, messes her hair, dishevels her clothes, and now she dials 911.

  Chapter

  38

  • Robert sees that the train is close to Bronxville. He’s staring with crazed eyes at the landmarks that tell him this. Then at his watch. Then at the phone, punching REDIAL again.

  Knowing he must look like a mad person. The kind of person they used to put a net over and lock up.

  Without any question, he thinks, the worst hour of my life. Each minute of it worse than the one before. There are so many bad possibilities. Something’s wrong at the house. There’s a dozen things right there. Or everything went right, and I should be in Manhattan now. How can I be an alibi?