Break and Enter

by Colin Harrison

  Top of the stairs. Louis Armstrong, razz-voiced, romantic, a trumpet, a smile. Through the music, he heard them talking. The door to Janice’s room was open. It was dark.

  “What are we going to do when the house is done?” asked John Apple.

  “I’ll get a place not too far, someplace nearby.”

  A moment of silence, filled with the last strains of Louis Armstrong. Peter sank to the top stair with infinite quietude, holding his breath, still tasting chocolate. The sweat was soaking his clothes through, and he breathed rapidly, yet he was a genius of quietude, slowing each inhalation. Every nerve wired in to silence. He crawled along the floor until he was squatting only five feet away from them. As he lifted his coat so the gun would not knock against the floor, the cassette deck clicked to a stop in the bedroom.

  “I see my lawyer tomorrow,” Janice said.

  “Mmm?”

  “He says Mastrude is taking too long on everything.”

  “He’s a bad lawyer?”

  “No, it’s probably Peter,” Janice answered. “He’s got a lot of stuff going on, what with this case. I saw him on television the other day, on the news.”

  “Yeah,” came Apple’s unenthusiastic reply, unwilling to grant Peter’s importance.

  “I saw that boy they’ve charged with the murders.” Janice’s tone was one of sympathy for Carothers. “He looked so scared. I’d be terrified, too. I know what Peter’s going to do to him, I’ve seen it. He can be absolutely vicious. He’s going to turn him inside out and go for the death sentence.”

  “I don’t believe in it.”

  “Neither do I. Maybe that was a basic problem, John.” Her voice sounded sad, reflective of her own shortcomings, too. “Peter’s probably at home right now, trying to think up ways to get that poor man executed.”

  Peter laughed wickedly to himself.

  “Hey,” Apple soothed. “Someday you’ll look back on this—”

  “You’re right, John. I just wish …”

  There was the sound of bedclothes rustling.

  “Hmmm?” Apple asked.

  “Feels nice.”

  More loud silence.

  “Again?” Janice asked in mock surprise. “You’re Mr. Energetic.”

  Fucking a second time—they’d done it once to the music while he was running around outside, knocking on the door, and breaking glass. No wonder they hadn’t heard him. The man would screw Janice twice in Peter’s presence?

  Yes—the sound was unmistakable. Fragments of words, pieces of breath. He shut his eyes. The bed creaked.

  “Here, just move down a little,” Apple told her. “Okay.”

  A rhythm began. Peter stared at the wall before him. Did he dare to stand up and enter the doorway, to see? Could he do that? To them or himself? He did want to see, didn’t he? Oh, God, yes. To see—to find out if he could take it, or if he couldn’t. To feel the full power of his anger. Wasn’t that it? Janice was having a good time, the bed creaking faster. Her breath was shortening, her voice uttering broken cries, rungs on a ladder. Peter had taught her to make those sounds. Didn’t they belong to him? And Apple was making some sort of ungodly swinelike groaning and snorting and growling, the bed about to fly apart, Oh God, I love to fuck you, Janie, he was slobbering, and then, right there, a happy determined madman, Peter yanked the gun from his pocket and held it out from him, aiming toward the bedroom, nodding his head forward with the rhythm of the fucking on the other side of the wall, faster and faster, and then he aimed the barrel at himself, actually putting his finger on the trigger and staring his right eye into the barrel, looking into the tiny black hole an inch before him, wondering if the gun might go off accidentally—it was a cheap gun, maybe even faulty—listening so well, wondering if he could hear the shot or feel the impact of the bullet as it splintered through his skull, hearing so clearly as Janice began to contract in pleasure, every rasping breath singing a shut-eyed lush world of pleasure—he could see and feel and taste her and he could not stand to hear another man make her make these sounds.

  He slipped the gun back into his pocket, stood up, and stepped into the doorway. The sheets were gone and John Apple’s hairy, muscular ass pumped high, then deep—quickly—and Janice’s legs were lifted and bent. Apple’s moaning heightened suddenly and Peter recognized this sound.

  “Stop!” Peter roared, filling the room with a huge, violent sound.

  Janice screamed. The couple tore apart awkwardly, grabbing sheets for cover. Peter flicked on the wall switch.

  “Peter!” Janice screamed.

  He towered over them in his dark coat. They were absolutely terrified, gulping breath.

  “Janice,” he breathed slowly, letting each word slip from his lips, “I need to talk with you. Now.”

  “Hey!” Apple exclaimed hoarsely. “You’re the guy outside the house. Before dinner.”

  Janice looked to Peter.

  “You’ve been here?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve been here all along? Why, Peter?”

  “Janice,” he said, “I’m in a lot of trouble. I need to talk. Now, to you.”

  “Oh, Peter.” She pulled on her nightgown, which had been crumpled on the floor by the bed, dressing quickly and modestly under the sheet, as did Apple, who struggled into a shirt and shorts. Janice’s face did not hide her concern for him. He was desperate, and there was something touching in that—sad, dangerous, but touching, her eyes seemed to say. “You know this is impossible.”

  “Just send this guy home for a while so we—”

  “I can’t do that.” She shook her head.

  John Apple stood up, ready to change events. Peter immediately shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Listen, if she doesn’t want you here, you’ve got to leave.”

  “Shut up,” he snapped, anger starting to leak into his words, “this is between the two of us. Don’t think you’re a part of this. This is about things you don’t know about and never will.”

  “Wait.” Janice held her arms out. “Why couldn’t you have called me at work, Peter? This isn’t fair. You know that.” Her eyes were wet.

  “Just tell your pal to hit the road for the night.” Breathing hard, still shivering, he looked at Apple. “You can tear yourself away from my wife for just one evening, can’t you, big guy? It’s pretty good, though, isn’t it? Hard to leave stuff that good, right?”

  “You don’t have to deal with this crap, Janice,” Apple responded, helping her stand. “This guy’s fucked in the head.”

  “You’re wrong,” Peter interrupted. “It’s me who doesn’t have to deal with you. Why don’t you just get the hell out of here and let us talk?”

  Janice’s eyes darted from one man to the other, her mouth twisting in dismay.

  “I’m not leaving unless Janice feels comfor—”

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you to leave,” Peter stated. “Janice, tell this guy he has to leave. I don’t want any trouble, but he’s got to drag his ass out of here, now.”

  He had to get rid of Apple. She’d understand everything he’d done as soon as he could explain.

  Janice unconsciously hitched her hand against her nightgown, shifting in unease. She had just gotten out of bed, he realized, and she usually washed herself afterward—now Apple’s semen was leaving her, crawling down her thighs, making her uncomfortable. But this sensation seemed to help her find a measure of control. She shook her head. “I can’t talk with you tonight. We can talk about everything, but not tonight. Okay?”

  The room felt smaller. “No. I’ve come here.”

  “Hey, Peter,” Apple said, holding his open hands out, attempting a mediation. “I appreciate that this is a tough situation for you. I mean, no hard feelings. I’ve been there before. No shit, man. But—I mean, we’re all responsible adults here, so let’s work this—”

  “Be quiet,” Peter ordered. “Janice, we have to talk. Now, tonight.”

  She was shaking her head, one anxi
ous hand gathering in the material of her nightgown.

  “I can’t, Peter. I really can’t.”

  “Okay, you heard her,” Apple said firmly, stepping so close that Peter could see the wetness in his beard. “Let’s go.”

  He fingered the revolver—his hands were warm enough now to feel the cold metal—then pulled the gun out of his coat.

  “Oh, shit.” Apple jumped back.

  Janice stared at him, her mouth small, watching him, he knew. Good. She saw how serious he was. He had her attention.

  “Peter, put that away.”

  He only stared angrily.

  “Put it down.”

  They didn’t believe how serious he was, they thought that they could just sweet-talk him out of the house. Be nice to him, he’s acting crazy. John Apple stood in a slight crouch, ready to spring or run, yet also by his expression scoffing at Peter. The gun was now a terrible, potent weight in his hand, and he was conscious of the thin arc of the trigger that cupped his forefinger. And with this awareness came an idea: If he fired the gun away from them, then they might realize that he was angry and that he was to be respected. This was only half an idea, carried by a fragment of conviction.

  “Put it down, Peter.” She examined him, made a decision—he saw it in her eyes, just as he had seen it the moment she’d told him she was leaving. And, with a grace that looked nearly practiced, she took a long step toward the stairs and touched a red button on the wall.

  “Don’t do that!” he yelled.

  She turned, her eyes sad and yet resolute.

  “You fucker,” Apple snapped at Peter. “That’s a police call button, a silent alarm.”

  “Call them back,” Peter ordered. “You have maybe half a minute to call them back.”

  “No,” Janice said.

  “I will, then.”

  “There’s a code.”

  “Call. Tell them the code.”

  “I won’t, Peter.”

  “Hear that?” Apple said.

  “You!” Peter stepped toward Apple and pointed the gun at his head. “God, I’d like to blow your head off, you motherfucker. Get down, now. Now! I mean it!” Apple collapsed heavily onto the floor and this angered Peter even more. Apple lay at his feet; Peter raised his foot and jammed the sole of his shoe into the man’s back.

  “Peter!” Janice screamed. “Stop!”

  He pointed the gun at Apple’s head.

  “Call, Janice.”

  Apple had risen to his hands and knees. Peter kicked hard, in the fleshy part between the hipbone and the bottom rib.

  “No,” she cried, weeping, “I can’t.”

  He touched the gun to Apple’s head.

  “Please, man, I’m fucking begging you,” Apple cried. “Janice, please call.”

  Peter began, slowly, to squeeze the trigger, knowing that it would take a deliberate contraction of his finger to pull the trigger to the point that it offered no resistance such that the gun would go off. As he watched their faces, frozen in anticipation and anxiety, this minute increment of space widened in his mind, and as he held the gun and the obvious danger of it—the muscles in his forearm drawn tight—he pressed the trigger ever so slightly more, experimenting where the resistance changed. There would be a great noise, the jerk of motion, a bloody spray against the wall. He felt the string of control running from his brain to his finger. Apple lay rigid.

  “You lied to me and planned it for months.” He looked at Janice. “You took my parents’ money, you thought you could just cut me out. You lied to me as carefully as you could.”

  She nodded, weeping.

  He clutched the gun tightly, and with the means of destruction at hand, the impulse was great. He checked that John Apple did not move. It seemed most natural that he kill Apple, and the desire to do it was unchecked by further thought. Apple had impeded his plan to get back his wife. Janice sank to her knees, her cheeks wet now, a grieving tenderness in her face, and he resisted the sight of her, resisted the meaning of her torment, for it confused his resolve to destroy the both of them.

  “Peter, you have to go. They’re coming.”

  “What the fuck do you care?” he responded.

  “I care. About what happens next.”

  He stared at her.

  “You can’t, Peter,” she whispered.

  “Listen to her,” Apple cried hoarsely.

  Without answering, he put his foot heavily on Apple’s head.

  “You’re not this mean, Peter. Not this mean to anybody. Not even to yourself.”

  Janice wept quietly, her eyes locked on his. He felt clearer, cleaner. Always her crying had done this—shocked him, drained him of malice—for her tears came from the deepest part of her, where she saw a world torn apart again. He hadn’t the heart for any more. He lowered the gun.

  “I loved you, Janice.”

  She nodded, again and again, wordlessly. The siren neared.

  “Go, Peter,” Janice whispered. “Please go.”

  OUTSIDE, HAVING LAID THE KNIFE next to the chocolate cake and hurried through the back door, Peter lingered at the window. The siren ebbed directly outside, the light spinning noiselessly across the leafless trees and alley. Apple came to the door, holding both arms around his middle where he had been kicked, but Janice motioned to him with a violent, insistent waving of her arm to go upstairs and not be seen. Apple left the room. Now car doors slammed, and inside, Janice heard this, as did her husband. She wiped her eyes quickly on her sleeve and pulled on a coat from the closet. The knock came. She opened the door and invited the patrolmen in, pretending to shake her head in embarrassment,quite obviously explaining the accidental alarm, apologizing at the stupidness of what she had done.

  MINUTES LATER, running in his long coat and breathless, Peter reached Penn’s Landing on the Delaware River, across from the lights of Jersey on the other side. The water moved blackly before him, the wind whipped the sweat from his face. It was upon this old shore that the city was born with the force of hope. Behind him rose the low brick row homes, then City Hall and the glass towers of the future. He would, he knew, have to find his way back through the old crooked streets, and figure out how to get out of the mess he was in—set his mind to it, and at the very least tell the people of Philadelphia what he knew. The city must know about itself, and he was ready to carry to it what he held of the truth. This was the only way to continue. He was still poisonously angry, almost to the core, and filled with a full wretched vision of his guilt. Thus, there was some small satisfaction in heaving the gun as far as he possibly could toward the black swelling water, grunting with the effort. His arm ached immediately and this was good.

  Epilogue

  PETER SCATTERGOOD SAT ALONE in one corner of the old meeting house, a large and austere room of white plaster and unfinished wood where for several centuries Quakers had sought answers for their questions in the compelling silence of worship. The meeting house stood in a compound of trees behind a brick wall at Fourth and Arch streets. And now, with a blustery, wet April morning washing in gusts against the windows, Peter sat motionless in the shadows of natural light on the hard, wooden bench, seeking in his silence to know just why, eight weeks prior, he had been so lost to himself and to those whom he loved as to point a loaded gun at Janice and John Apple.

  The other worshipers had long since left the room, disappearing after the regular Sunday meeting had finished with a handshake by the elders, as was the custom. No one had chatted with him. Peter leaned forward on the bench just as he had done all his life whenever problems needed thought. He felt heavy and tired, another year older, changed by this winter. Just this morning he had caught a sideways glimpse of himself in the mirror, seeing not himself but someone who looked a bit like his father, more time in the face, the first real wrinkles pulling at the eyes, the squint of experience resting in his expression.

  The days were brutal now, spinning past in a whirl of lights and public argument, with Peter assuming the grotesque proportions
of a man who suddenly everyone knows. The newscasters already had pasted the usual descriptions to his name: “embattled prosecutor Peter Scatter-good” and “the suspended Assistant District Attorney who alleges,” and so on. And this sudden transmogrification of his identity was just one of many, for the city now watched all the actors in this latest scandalous drama with disgusted judgment on their faces. No one was innocent and no one would come out of it clean. Peter pressed his fingers to his face and closed his eyes. On Friday he had received official notice from the District Attorney that he had been fired. On Monday he was to be questioned by the U.S. District Attorney’s anticorruption office about the extent of his activities with Vinnie. The bank had informed him that it was initiating foreclosure proceedings on the Delancey Street house due to missed mortgage payments.

  He sat motionless, seeking revelation as to how disaster had resulted from the best of hopes. On the night he almost killed Janice and her lover—and that, he decided, was really the truth; he had wanted to do it, he had been as close as you could get without actually pulling the trigger—he had found it in himself to seek justice, as he had been taught. All other avenues seemed ruinous and so he had called Karen Donnell, the Inquirer reporter, who happened to be working late that night. Standing in the cold, he had briefly explained that he needed to talk to her and she had responded guardedly, as might be expected when a city official tries to feed information to a reporter. But still she agreed to meet him at a public place in an hour. She would hear him out, she said, but make no promises. He had retrieved the Carothers file from his car and they met in the Greyhound bus station, where amid sleepy travelers and the homeless, he outlined the cover-up being engineered by the Mayor and Hoskins; about Tyler Henry’s real father, all of it. He gave her Detective Westerbeck’s name and told her to call him to confirm the arrest of Geller. This was the end of his legal career in the city, but the reporter didn’t seem to care. He dumped the whole file on the bench. “There it is,” Peter said. “Take it.”