The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  And nothing in his story would be vile or ugly. I wanted it all to be the chronicle of a hero, moving from triumph to triumph. I wanted him to succeed, I really did, and hoped all my doubts and suspicions were due to envy, because I could never be the man he was, never be as handsome, know as much, or have the ability to win a woman as beautiful as Julie.

  I had spent only a few hours in the man’s company, but I had come under his spell. I admit it. Because he was endless. I could not get to his limits, couldn’t even glimpse them. The first colossus I had ever met, and it was a chastening experience.

  I didn’t want to stop the car to watch him, and after awhile he and the graveyard were hidden behind a copse of bare, black trees stuck in the hard ground like grease pencils. I completed the circuit of Crittenden. As I headed for the Albany post road, the Coburn constabulary cruiser passed me again.

  This time the officer didn’t wave.

  The place wasn’t hard to find. There was a big red neon poodle out in front, and underneath was the legend: RED DOG BETTY’S. Even at noontime the sign was flashing on and off, and there were three semitrailers and a score of private cars parked in the wide blacktop lot. I made a complete circle, and then selected a deserted spot as far from the roadhouse as I could get. I parked where I had a good view of arrivals and departures. I switched off, opened the window a bit, lighted a cigarette.

  It was larger than I had imagined: a three-story clapboard building with a shingled mansard roof and dormer windows on the top floor. I couldn’t figure what they needed all that space for, unless they were running games upstairs or providing hot-pillow bedrooms for lonely truckers and traveling salesmen. But maybe those upper floors were something as innocent as the owner’s living quarters.

  There were neon beer signs in the ground floor windows, and I could hear a juke box blaring from where I sat. As I watched, another semi pulled into the lot, and two more private cars. That place must have been a gold mine. Over the entrance was a painted sign: STEAKS, CHOPS, BAR-B-QUE. I wondered how good the food was. The presence of truckers was no indication; most of those guys will eat slop as long as the beer is cold and the coffee hot.

  I sat there for two cigarettes before the blue MGB turned off the road and came nosing slowly around. I rolled down the window, stuck out my arm, and waved. She pulled up alongside, and looked at me without expression.

  “Your place or mine?” she called.

  Funny lady.

  “Why don’t you join me?” I said. “More room in here.”

  She came sliding out of her car, feet first. Her skirt rode up, and I caught a quick flash of bare legs. If she wanted to catch my attention, she succeeded. She took the bucket seat next to me, and slammed the door. I lighted her cigarette. Her hands weren’t shaking, but her movements were brittle, almost jerky.

  “Mrs. Thorndecker,” I said, “nice to see you again.”

  “Julie,” she said mechanically.

  “Julie,” I said, “nice to see you again.”

  She tried a small laugh, but it didn’t work.

  She was wearing a white corduroy suit. Underneath was a white turtleneck sweater, a heavy Irish fisherman’s sweater. Her fine, silvered hair was brushed tight to the scalp. No jewelry. Very little makeup. Maybe something around the eyes to make them look big and luminous. But the lips were pale, the face ivory.

  She was one beautiful woman. All of her features were crisp and defined. That heavy suit and bulky sweater made her look fragile. But there was nothing vulnerable in the eyes. They were knowing and, looking at her, all I could see was a gold slave bracelet glittering on a naked ankle high in the back seat of a cop’s car.

  “Been here before?” she said absently.

  “No, never,” I said. “Looks like an okay place. How’s the food?”

  She flipped a palm back and forth.

  “So-so,” she said. “The simple stuff is good. Steaks, stews—things like that. When they try fancy, it’s lousy.”

  I wasn’t really hearing her words. I was hearing that marvelous, husky voice. I had to stop that, I decided. I had to listen to this lady’s words, and not get carried away by her laughing growls, murmurs, throaty chuckles.

  I didn’t give her any help. I didn’t say, “Well?” Or, “You wanted to see me?” Or, “You have something to say?” I just waited.

  “I like Coburn,” she said suddenly. “I know you don’t, but I do.”

  “It’s your home,” I observed.

  “That’s part of it,” she agreed. “I never had much of a home until I married. Also, I think part of it is that in Coburn I’m a big frog in a little pond. I don’t think I could live in, say, Boston or New York. Or even Albany. I know. I’ve tried. I was lost.”

  “Where are you from, Julie? Originally?”

  “A little town in Iowa. You never heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Eagle Grove.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I never heard of it. You don’t speak like a midwesterner.”

  “I’ve been away a long time,” she said. “A long, long time. I wanted to be a dancer. Ballet.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Were you any good?”

  “Good enough,” she said. “But I didn’t have the discipline. Talent’s never enough.”

  “How did you meet your husband?”

  “At a party,” she said. “He saved my life.”

  She said that very simply, a statement of absolute fact. So, of course, I had to joke about it because I was embarrassed.

  “Choking on a fishbone, were you?” I said lightly.

  “No, nothing like that. It was the last party I was going to go to. I had been to too many parties. I was going to have a good time, then go back to my fleabag and eat a bottle of pills.”

  I couldn’t believe it. She was young, young, young. And beautiful. I just couldn’t make the connection between suicide and this woman with the cameo face and limpid body who sat beside me, filling the car with her very personal fragrance, a scent of warm breath and fresh skin.

  All I could think of to say was: “Where was it? This party?”

  “Cambridge. Then Telford came over to me. He had been staring at me all evening. He took me aside and told me who he was, how old he was, what he did, how much money he had, how his wife had died a few months before. He told me everything. Then he asked me to marry him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” she said, nodding. “And I said yes—just like that. The shortest courtship on record.”

  “You think he knew?” I asked her. “What you intended to do?”

  “Oh yes,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t tell him, but he knew. I didn’t tell him a thing about myself, but he knew. And asked me to marry him.”

  “And you’ve never regretted it?”

  “Never,” she said firmly. “Never for a minute. Do you have any idea of what kind of man he is?”

  “I’ve been told he’s a genius.”

  “Not his work,” she said impatiently. “I mean him?”

  “Very intelligent,” I said cautiously. “Very charming.”

  “He’s a great man,” she said definitely. “A great man. But I have a problem.”

  Sure you do, I thought cynically; you fuck Indian cops: that’s your problem.

  “His daughter,” she went on, leaning forward to peer out the fogged windshield. “Mary. She’s really his stepdaughter. His first wife was a widow when she married Telford.”

  I didn’t tell her this was old news to me. I lighted cigarettes for us again. She was slowly calming, her movements and gestures becoming easier, more fluid as she talked. I wanted to keep her talking. I was conscious of that suggestive voice, but I was listening to her words now.

  “Mary is older than me,” she said. “Four years older. She loves her stepfather very much.”

  She suddenly turned sideways on the seat. She drew up her legs so those bare knees were staring at me. They were round, smooth, h
airless as breasts.

  “Very much,” she repeated, staring into my eyes. “Mary loves her stepfather very much. So she resents me. She hates me.”

  I made a sound. I waved a hand.

  “Surely it’s not that bad,” I said.

  “It’s that bad,” she said solemnly. “And also—I don’t know whether you know this or not—Mary is a very, uh, disturbed woman. She’s into this religious thing. Goes to some outhouse church. Shouts. Reads the Bible. Born again. The whole bit.”

  “Maybe she’s sincere,” I said.

  She put a soft hand on my arm, leaned closer.

  “Of course she’s sincere,” she whispered. “Believes every word of that shit. That’s one of the reasons she hates me. Because I took her mother’s place. She thinks I’m committing adultery with her father.”

  I was bewildered.

  “But Thorndecker isn’t her father,” I said.

  “I know that. You know that. But Mary is so mixed up, she thinks of Telford as her father. She thinks I stole her father from her and her dead mother. It’s very complex.”

  “The understatement of the year.”

  “Sex,” Julie Thorndecker said. “Sex has got a lot to do with it. Mary is so in love with Telford, she can’t think straight. She thinks we—she and I—are competing for the love of the same man. That’s why she hates me.”

  “What about Dr. Draper? Where does he fit into all this?”

  “He’d marry Mary tomorrow if she’d have him. She never will. She wants Telford. But Draper keeps tagging after her like a puppy, hoping she’ll suddenly see the light. I feel sorry for him.”

  “And for Mary?”

  “Well … yes. I feel sorry for Mary, too. She’s so mixed up. But also, I’m scared of her.”

  “Scared?” I said. “I can’t picture you being frightened of anything or anyone.”

  “I thank you, kind sir,” she said, tilting her head, giving me a big smile, tightening her grip on my arm.

  She shouldn’t have said that. It was a false note. She was not the flirty, girlish type of woman who says, “I thank you, kind sir.” I began to get the idea that I was witnessing a performance, and when she finished, the audience would rise, applauding, and roses would be tossed.

  “Why are you frightened of Mary?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “She’s so—so unbalanced. Who knows what she might do? Or say? Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not frightened of what she might say about me. That’s of no importance. But I’m afraid for my husband. I’m afraid crazy Mary might endanger his career, his plans. That’s really why I asked you to meet me here today, to have this talk.”

  “You’re afraid Mary might—well, let’s say slander her stepfather?”

  If she had said, “Yes,” then I was going to say, “But why should Mary endanger Thorndecker’s career and his plans if she loves him as much as you say?”

  But Julie didn’t fall into that trap.

  “Oh, she’d never do or say anything against Telford. Not directly. She loves him too much for that. But she might slander me. Say things. Spread stories. Because she hates me so much. Not realizing how it might reflect on Telford, how it might affect the grand dreams he has.”

  I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette. The movement had the added advantages of removing my arm from Julie’s distracting grasp and tearing my eyes away from those shiny knees.

  “What you’re saying,” I said slowly, “is that you hope whatever Mary might say about you will not affect Dr. Thorndecker’s application for a Bingham Foundation grant. Isn’t that it?”

  “Yes,” she said, “that’s it. I just wanted you to know what a disturbed woman she is. Whatever she might say has absolutely nothing to do with my husband’s application or his work.”

  Then we sat without speaking. I became more conscious of her scent. I’m sensitive to odors, and it seemed to me she was exuding a tantalizing perfume that was light, fragrant, with an after-scent, the way some wines have an after-taste. Julie’s after-scent was deep, rich, musky. Very stirring. I thought of rumpled sheets, howls, and wet teeth.

  I came back to this world to see the Coburn constabulary cruiser move slowly by. It drove up behind us, passed, made the turn behind the roadhouse, and disappeared. The officer driving, the same one I had twice met near Crittenden, didn’t turn his head as he drove by. I don’t know if he saw us sitting together or not. It didn’t seem important. But we both watched him as he went by.

  “I love my husband,” Julie Thorndecker said thoughtfully.

  I was silent. I hadn’t even asked her.

  “Still …” she said.

  I said nothing.

  “You’re not giving me much encouragement,” she said.

  “When did you ever need encouragement?” I asked her.

  “Never,” she said. “You’re right. Could I have a cigarette, please?”

  We lighted up again. I ran the window down to get rid of the smoke.

  “Too cold for you?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, “too cold. But not the weather. Leave the window down. The trouble is …”

  Another Coburnite. The unfinished sentence.

  “What’s the trouble?” I said.

  She turned her head slowly to stare at me. I could read nothing in her eyes. Just eyes.

  “I’d like to fuck you,” she said steadily. “I really would. The trouble is, you’d think I was flopping so you’d give Telford a good report.”

  I don’t care how much experience you’ve had, what a hot-shot cocksman you are. You’re still going to feel fear when a woman says, “Yes.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d think,” I said. “What I’m thinking.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “It’s not like that at all. If you picked me up in a bar …?”

  “Or met you at a party? A different can of worms.”

  “A lovely figure of speech. Thank you.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “In another place, another time.”

  She looked at me shrewdly.

  “You’re sure you’re not making excuses?” she said.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not sure of anything. I’m especially not sure of a woman who makes an offer like that right after she’s told me she loves her husband.”

  She looked at me in astonishment.

  “What has one got to do with the other?” she asked.

  She wasn’t dissembling. She meant it.

  There’s so much about living I don’t understand.

  “Mrs. Thorndecker,” I said. “Julie. I’m not making any value judgment. I’m just saying it’s impossible. For me.”

  “All right,” she said equably. “I can live with it. What about Millie Goodfellow?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s married. Is your fine sense of propriety working there?”

  “Not much point to this conversation,” I said. “Is there?”

  “You’re something of a prig, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Something. I’ll just have to live with it.”

  She opened her door, then turned back.

  “About Mary,” she said. “She is disturbed. Please remember what I told you.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  She gave me a brief smile. Very brief. I watched her drive away. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I felt like a fool. But I’ve felt like that before, and will again.

  I put up the window. I scootched far down on the seat. I tilted my lumpy tweed hat over my closed eyes. I wasn’t dreaming of my lost chance with Julie Thorndecker; I was remembering a somewhat similar incident with Joan Powell. It had started similarly; it had ended differently.

  We had spent a whole Saturday together, doing everything required of an unmarried couple on the loose in Manhattan: wandering about Bloomingdale’s for an hour, lunch at Maxwell’s Plum, a long walk over to the Central Park Zoo to say hello to Patty Cake, then a French movie in whi
ch the actors spent most of their time climbing sand dunes, dinner at an Italian place in the Village, and back to Powell’s apartment.

  It should have been a great day. The sun was shining. Garbage had been collected; the city looked neat and clean. I think Joan enjoyed the day. She acted like she did. She said she did. But sometime during the afternoon, it began going sour for me. It wasn’t the movie or the restaurants. It wasn’t Joan. It was just a mood, a foul mood, without reason. I couldn’t account for it; I just knew I had it.

  Powell assumed we’d end our busy day in bed. A reasonable assumption based on past experience. When we got back to her place, she went into the bathroom for a quick shower. She came out bareass naked, rubbing her damp hair with a big pink towel.

  Joan Powell is something to see naked. She really fits together. Nothing extra, nothing superfluous. She’s just there, complete. She’s a small woman, but so perfectly proportioned that she could be tarnishing in the garden of the Museum of Modern Art.

  I was sitting on the edge of her Scarpa sofa, leaning over, hands clasped between my knees.

  “How about mixing us something?” she suggested.

  “No,” I said. “Thanks. I think I better take off.”

  She looked at me.

  “Sick?” she said.

  “No,” I said, “just lousy. I don’t know what it is. Instant depression. I think I better be alone. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “That’s what I want you to do,” she said. “Bore me.”

  “When you get out of those Gucci loafers,” I said, “you can be incredibly vulgar.”

  “Can’t I though?” she said cheerfully. “Take off your clothes.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned, “haven’t you understood a thing I’ve said? I just don’t feel like it.”

  She tossed the towel aside. She moved naked about the room. Lighted her own cigarette. Mixed her own Cutty and soda.

  “You don’t feel like it,” she repeated. “So what?”

  “So what?” I said, outraged. “I’ve just said I don’t feel like fun and games tonight. What are you going to do—rape me? For God’s sake, it’s got nothing to do with you. I just don’t feel like a toss, so I’m taking off.”