by Packer, Vin
“I’m going up there and use their phone!”
“Dru, we’ll hail a car and ask the driver for a ride to the nearest gas station.”
She said, “We can’t just leave the car. Anyone going up or down this hill could be killed, Archie.”
“Then we’ll hail a car and ask the driver to report the trouble to the nearest gas station.”
“They might not have a tow truck. He might say he’d do it and not do it. Oh, look, Archie,” she said. “It’s Margaret Dana’s fault. You stay with the car, and let me go back and use their phone.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No! Somebody has to stay with the car … Honey, are you sure you’re all right, Arch?” “Yes. Are you sure you are?” “I am, but you’re all out of breath and upset.” “Dru, I’m not upset! Jesus! We almost got killed!” “Give me the flashlight. You stay with the car.” “I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t want you with me, Archie. If they’ve been fighting, it’s best for a woman to go up there.” “What sense does that make?” he said.
“Because Margaret Dana and I have talked on the phone. So I know her a little.” “And my twin?”
“I’m a woman in distress, remember?” Dru said. “And if he’s anything like you, bubby, I can handle him.”
CHAPTER 6
One day Margaret had said, “Look, Neal, what I bought for us. Aren’t they cute?”
“What are they?” One was pink and one was blue. They looked like pillows with attached handles.
“They’re called Slumber Bags, dear. Fifteen ninety-nine apiece—I got them at Sears.”
“But what are they, Margaret?”
“Sleeping bags! They’re specially treated to repel water and mildew. They have cotton flannelette liners, and they’re machine washable. Ideal for camping trips.”
Camping trips.
When had they ever gone camping?
At the time, Neal had been reminded of a study he had read in one of his professional journals dealing with housewives’ spending habits. It claimed that one of the reasons women bought so many utterly useless things, like bric-a-brac, or decorative wall shelves, or yard ornaments (or Vycron polyester sleeping bags?), was that they felt unloved and were forcing their husbands to buy them these “gifts” out of the household budget.
As Neal had predicted to himself, they had never found a use for the Slumber Bags.
Now, at least, there was a use for one of them.
Margaret’s body was contained in the pink one.
So often Neal had asked the criminal patients he treated, who always swore they were innocent of the crimes for which they had been convicted, “But why did you run? Why didn’t you face the police if you weren’t guilty of anything? Only the guilty run.”
Behind him in the bathtub, his bloodstained shirt and pants and socks were soaking in cold water.
Call the police? For what? To be told that a Doberman pinscher couldn’t testify that Neal was treed while his “lover” arrived for an unexpected confrontation with his wife?
Penny had expected Neal to come out and greet her. She had combed her hair and fixed her makeup, finished her cigarette before getting out of the Falcon. She knew how hard it was to distract Neal if he were working; he had mentioned that he was trying to finish his outline. Finally, she had gone inside.
—Darling, I’m here! Where are you, Neal? A bird whistled, a black parrot in a white cage on the living-room table.
—Hi, who are you, bird? —I’m Sinister.
—You’re Sinister? Har de har, har, har. You don’t look Sinister. You look like a grouchy old parrot … Neal, are you upstairs, darling?
—I’m Sinister. I love the view.
—It’s a nice view, you’re right … Shall I come up, darling?
—“It came upon the mid-night clear, that glor-ri-ous song of old.”
—It isn’t Christmas yet, bird! Neal, are you in the John?
—“From Ang-gels bend-ing near the earth, To touch their harps of gold. Peace on earth, Goodwill to men!”
—Did you fall in or something, darling?
—Dove c’è qui un buon ristorante?
—Be quiet, bird! You talk too much!
—Non c’è nessuno che parli inglese?
As she went up the stairs, she said, —Am I too early, Neal?
—I suspect you’re right on time.
They met like that at the top of the stairs.
—Mrs. Da-Da-Dana?
—Good evening.
—I … Good evening.
—Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?
—Yes. I. Oh, cripes.
—Penny Bissel?
—Oh wow. Yes.
—How do you do?
—Cripes. I mean, all right, I’m caught red-handed.
—Neal’s at the store. He should be back soon.
—I mean, there’s no sense being polite about it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but Neal and I are in love.
—Pffft.
—What’s that supposed to mean? That we’re not in love?
—That’s a very pretty dress you’re wearing, Penny.
—Don’t try to be nice to me like I’m nothing!
—What would you like me to do, dear?
—Give Neal a divorce.
—As he wishes.
—Well, he wishes you would. He would have had to tell you eventually anyway.
—Would you like some soda pop? I think we have some. I keep a supply of it for the neighborhood children who come up to use our pool.
—Listen, Mrs. Dana, Neal and I love each other very much!
—I think we have some chocolate Yoo-Hoo. Would you like a glass while you’re waiting for Neal to return?
—It isn’t fair for you to hold on to Neal!
—Or just plain Coke?
—You can’t give him children! Neal would make a great father!
—Don’t go too far, Miss Bissel.
—That hits home, doesn’t it, Mrs. Dana?
—D’accord.
—What?
—I agreed with you.
—So don’t treat me like a child, Mrs. Dana. I’m more of a woman than you are, or ever were!
—May I ask you something?
—Go ahead.
—How did you become so stupid! Deceiving yourself this way, humiliating yourself this way, without any semblance of character or integrity; cheap, CHEAP!
—Shut up! You shut up!
Then Neal’s voice from downstairs. —Margaret? Margaret!
—No, I won’t shut up! Face what you are—cheap, CHE—
And even if the police did believe that Neal had been treed or running up the hill through most of it, would they also believe that Margaret had fallen because she had jumped back after slapping Penny?
At best, wouldn’t they imagine that Penny had pushed Margaret?
And since they were trained to suspect the worst, wouldn’t they discard all those details and dream up a new version, starting with Neal as Margaret’s murderer, Penny his accomplice?
“Neal?” Penny came into the bathroom, her long blond hair pushed behind her ears, her eyes swollen from crying. “The car went around the bend. There were two people in it, Neal. There was a woman with him.”
“Get me a shirt from the top drawer in the bedroom on the right,” he said. He was pulling on a pair of old khakis.
“Who were they, Neal?”
“I don’t know. He said Margaret invited him. She was planning some kind of surprise. I don’t know, and I don’t have time to think about it now.”
“Oh, cripes.”
“Penny, get me that shirt!”
• • •
At least she had stopped crying. Stupidly, they had gotten into an argument, with Margaret’s lifeless body between them, just before the stranger had knocked on the door.
—Didn’t you see my car at the bottom of the hill?
—No, Neal. I didn’t.
&nbs
p; —Didn’t you see the Volkswagen still in the yard. You know I don’t drive a Volkswagen, yet you walked right in the house without giving it a thought!
—For all I knew she could have taken the bus to New York!
—The bus! The bus only goes to 138th Street! Why would she go on the bus when she has a car?
—I didn’t think, Neal! I was too excited about seeing you, your house!
—Stop calling it my house. It was Margaret’s house, too!
—Margaret! Margaret! You came in and called her name! You didn’t call my name!
She had burst into noisy, quacking tears, crying the whole time the stranger was talking with Neal at the door. Neal had been forced to slap her face to make her quiet.
He had told her, “Now you listen to this: this is a whole other ballgame! Do you understand? Murder. Do you appreciate that?”
“I didn’t touch her, Neal.”
“I believe you. Who else do you think will, under the circumstances?” “No one will.”
“And no one’s going to get a chance to disbelieve you. But you’ve got to pull yourself together, Pen. You’ve got to!” She did.
Could she maintain it? Not just through the next few hours, but through the months ahead?
• • •
She appeared in the doorway with a white shirt in her hand.
“Not a white one!” he barked at her. “I’m not going out and dig in a white—“
Her face began to wither. “Dig,” was all she could say, as though the fact he had to bury Margaret’s body was just beginning to sink in.
“Pen,” he said gently, “Oh, Pen, listen,” holding her arms with his hands. “I know how you feel. I know I’m not helping any—shouting at you, losing my temper, but we’ve got to do this, Pen; we’ve got to save ourselves. It was a terrible accident, Pen, but it was an accident. Penny, the only sin we’ve committed is that we became involved. We didn’t wish Margaret any harm.”
She murmured something Neal couldn’t hear.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I said, would you have divorced Margaret for me?”
“Pen, listen. Listen! Pay attention to what’s going on right now. We can’t afford to think of anything else now. Do you see?”
“You wouldn’t have,” she said.
He had no choice but to hold her with firm hands and tell her emphatically, “Of course I would have! You know I would have!”
• • •
He would bury her in the woods in back of the house.
No one ever walked through them because of the snakes. There were rumors that there were rattlers as well as copperheads up there. Neal had posted signs on several trees surrounding the woods, warning people of the danger. Neighbors lectured their children about it, and when the man came to read the electric meter, which was placed on a post at the entrance to the woods, he made fast work of it, and wore high boots like the ones Neal was pushing his feet into now.
A rattler, a copperhead, was no more terrifying to Neal Dana than a common garter snake; any sort of snake was loathsome to him. He had tried to rid himself of this prejudice, this fear, ever since he was a small boy. A framed copy of a poem D. H. Lawrence had written hung above his desk at Rock-Or. “Snake.” About a man who had killed a blacksnake and then regretted missing “my chance with one of the lords/Of life.” But no such noble sentiment moved him that night to face the possibility of an encounter with a reptile; he was moved by the rote reaction to save himself. Survival … the most basic human motivation.
He was aware of how close he was to losing his presence of mind and how carelessly he was provoking Penny into losing hers. While he waited for her to bring him another shirt, he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as though to prove to himself that he had hold, that he would be able to handle it now.
He didn’t know how he was going to explain Margaret’s disappearance, and he didn’t try to estimate his chances of getting away with what he was doing; there was no time for any of that.
Penny brought him a blue work shirt. Neal put it on and headed for the basement to get the shovel.
When he reached the landing where Margaret had died, he heard the knock on the door.
“Just a minute!”
He turned around and went up the stairs.
“Pen? There’s someone at the door.” His voice was calm. She was standing by the bed. “I want you to stay here. Don’t make a sound. I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
She sat down on the bed and nodded her head affirmatively.
He smiled. He knew enough to say, “I love you, Pen.”
She answered him with a weak tip of her lips.
Before he went downstairs, he closed the door of the bedroom containing the pink Vycron polyester Slumber Bag.
CHAPTER 7
“Don’t you think you ought to call a service station before you come out?” Dru asked.
“Let me take a look.” He held the screen door for her, waiting for her to follow him off the porch.
“But it isn’t a simple wreck. We won’t be able to drive away from it.”
He didn’t answer.
She sensed that he didn’t want to let her inside the house. “I’m sorry we’re so much trouble.”
He didn’t answer. She walked alongside him in the bright moonlight. Archie was right; he did resemble Joe DiMaggio. But not the smiling baseball hero. He looked more like the DiMaggio whose pictures in the newspapers had worn such a melancholy expression after Marilyn Monroe’s death.
“I know you weren’t expecting us, but your wife—”
“You must have mistaken the date. She’s not here.”
“I didn’t mistake the date.”
“Well, she’s not here.”
Dru was tired of all the pretense. She said, “Your wife must have told you about us.” “What about you?”
“My husband isn’t any more enthusiastic about astrology than you are. Neither am I. But Archie’s not using a serious approach to the show. He’s writing it sort of tongue-in-cheek.”
He said, “I don’t know anything about a show, Mrs. Gamble.”
“Druscilla,” she told him. No one she liked ever called her that, but she was feeling testy now, which always made her approach to things a little stilted. She was sure he knew all about the show and the reason she and Archie were there.
“I don’t know anything about a show, Druscilla,” he repeated.
“Well, my husband’s writing a television special about astrology,” she began, and then she went into all of it very quickly, winding up with her telephone call from the gas station to Margaret Dana. He walked along beside her with that same sad expression on his face, and when she was finished he didn’t even comment.
So she said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but in a way it is—because we drove all the way from New York to see you. It’s a little odd that your wife would leave when she was expecting us.”
“I see,” was his answer.
“Oh, look, Mr. Dana—”
“Neal,” he said.
“Neal … My husband said he wouldn’t blame you if you gave Mrs. Dana a good clout in the mouth for pulling this on you. We understand.”
He said nothing for a few seconds; then: “Is that your car up ahead?”
What else? It was on his hill, and Archie had set up the emergency flash signal lamp at the side.
Dru said, “No, I think that’s a flying saucer. Didn’t your wife tell you about that, either?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said, but there was no levity in his tone.
Poor Archie, a jack in one hand, a grease mark streaked across his nose, came stumbling forward with a big grin, the other hand outstretched, foolishly exclaiming, “We meet again.”
Neal Dana established a world record for a brief handshake and said, “What happened?”
“My brakes didn’t happen,” said Archie.
Neal Dana was actually wiping the hand which had shaken A
rchie’s on his trousers. “You won’t be able to drive this car back to New York tonight,” he said. “You can take our Volkswagen.”
He produced a key ring from his pocket, unfastened it, and handed Archie one of the keys.
Archie said, “Look, how much would a taxi cost?”
“You’d have to wait a while for a taxi,” said Neal Dana.
Money was not the object, from his point of view; getting rid of them as fast as possible was.
• • •
“Well, what did you expect him to do,” Archie said as they turned off the West Side Highway at 19th Street, “ask us to stay over for a pajama party?”
“He could have given us a drink,” Dru said. “I didn’t like his attitude at all.”
“When people are having a fight, they don’t want company.”
“He could have invited you in to wash up.”
“Sure. Excuse me, Mrs. Dana; I’m sorry you’re hysterical, but my hands are dirty and I’ve got to take a leak.”
“I don’t ever want to see him again!” said Dru. “You can go back and pick up the car by yourself.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, he was rude and you let him be.”
“I let him be, folks. Did you hear that?”
“You did, Arch. When I told him we’d have to get our car off the hill before we could get the one he was loaning us down it, he said: ‘That’s hardly necessary. I said it was a Volkswagen.’ You heard his tone of voice.”
“Honey,” Archie said, “the poor guy comes home from the office, see, an ordinary Wednesday night; he’s had a hard day; he’s not expecting company, much less his ‘astro—’ “
She interrupted him. “Don’t make excuses for him … ‘That’s hardly necessary,’ says he, ‘I said it was a Volkswagen.’ “
“Dru, he knew you were stalling around. You wanted to get inside that house, and he knew it!”
“Sure, I would have liked a drink, liked to sit down and calm my nerves.”
“Liked to snoop,” said Archie. “Sure.”
“I have a right to be curious. I was invited out there!”
“We were invited out there, and we didn’t have a right to snoop. You’re a busybody; you always were. Remember how you used to go through my mail when we first met? That almost turned me off about you. It really did.”