by Marge Piercy
“Let’s synchronize our watches.” He was playing spy again. He did sound lighter, less banked in with anxiety.
“I have eleven twenty…seven?” She looked at her new watch, that Rich and Laura had given her. It was fancy, all silver, but it had no numerals, making it hard to read.
“You’re fast, but I’ll change my watch to match yours, so we both know the time you have to slip down and let me in.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to talk with them first? Prepare them?”
“Absolutely not. You’re just as surprised as they are to see me…. Things are still upbeat there? Everybody wearing a happy face and letting the money drop in their laps?”
“They’re in a good mood. Dick gave my mother diamond earrings for Christmas. He even gave Alison a gold necklace. They must feel flush and up.”
“Does Alison actually live there?”
“She sleeps in her office. She has a daybed.”
“Is she going to be around?”
“She’s out now. I think she went to church. Blake, it doesn’t really matter if she’s in the house. She’ll be up in her office diddling around with her computer. She would never interfere. Never!”
“I’d rather they be alone.”
“She’s Mother’s shadow, but I don’t see why she matters.”
“Don’t be superelitist. She may be your mother’s lackey, but she is a person.”
“If you say so. I’ve never been convinced.”
“Is there any time you can think of when she wouldn’t be there, when your parents would be all alone? Except for you, I mean.”
“Maybe if she got hit by a truck or developed appendicitis. Not otherwise.”
She heard him sigh. He was silent then for what felt like forever before he said, “Okay, we’ll proceed. I’ll be there at two sharp.”
“See you…. And bring your best luck. We’re going to need it.”
“I think we ran out of that a while back, babes.”
She wished she could throw herself on her bed and sleep until just before two. With so few people in the house, they did not eat a formal lunch, just grazed. There were plenty of leftovers, and Rosemary would scarcely eat, with so many dinners to attend during the holidays. Rosemary would always say in public when complimented on her slender figure that it must just be genetic, that she never went on a diet. That was true. Her normal eating was confined to such small quantities, it wouldn’t put fat on a Chihuahua.
They gathered briefly in the kitchen, standing around nibbling a cucumber (Rosemary), a roast beef sandwich (Dick) and yogurt (Melissa), then wandering off. Her parents had spent the morning in their bathrobes, but just before what passed for lunch, they dressed. She guessed it was in case someone should unexpectedly drop in—as was going to happen, if all went well. Dick was in cashmere sweats. Not that Rosemary was wearing jeans or sweats; her casual was a wool jumper over a silk shirt, with only stud earrings, a designer scarf at her throat. The girls she had gone to Miss Porter’s with would have identified the designer in thirty seconds, but she had never cared. If Alison did not take her shopping and buy her straight preppy gear, then she went with Emily, who always knew what was cool. Oddly enough, Rosemary, who cared passionately about the impression she presented, never did her own shopping—unless she was hanging around a boutique to meet some senator’s wife she wanted to befriend.
Rosemary and Dick had retired, presumably to make love, right after lunch. Melissa became increasingly worried that Blake would come and they would still be closeted. Fortunately, Dick wanted to watch the Eagles. By one thirty, he was lying on the sofa facing the TV and Rosemary curled up in a facing chair. She was reading an apologia on Kissinger, a thick tome she had been carting around the house. Rosemary had the ability to read through anything. Her grandma had told her, not in admiring tones, that Rosemary could be reading and her baby crying right at her elbow, and she would not hear. Whenever she turned a page, she glanced at the TV so that she could partake of enough of the game to be able to answer Dick’s comments on the loutishness of the opposing quarterback, the stupidity of the coach, the ineptness of the wide receiver. Melissa had never been able to figure out if her mother liked sports or simply endured televised games as she would a society function with people who bored her.
Melissa had put on a blouse she felt sure her mother would approve of, a plaid skirt, nylons, flats. She was creating the image of the proper schoolgirl, although once the revelations commenced, that wasn’t going to help. She had brushed her hair until it glinted. She put on lipstick and light makeup. She examined her teeth and gave them a brush. Then she went downstairs and took a seat as if to watch the game. She observed the score and thirty seconds later could not remember it. Her brain felt scrambled. Her hands were clammy. Her stomach ached with apprehension. She stared into her own lap. How many colors were actually in the plaid? Navy, dark green, a skinny thread of yellow…
Alison appeared in the hall shedding her coat, looking in on her parents. Damn it! Why did she have to come back so soon? Didn’t she have any friends? Alison did not bother to pretend interest in the game but asked Rosemary how she was finding the biography. Rosemary said it was fascinating and she would lend it to Alison as soon as she finished it, for there was much to learn from the career of a great man. She compared him to Richelieu. Alison nodded. Melissa wondered if Alison knew who Richelieu was; she certainly didn’t. Finally Alison climbed the steps to her office-bedroom. Melissa heard the door shut. Good. Now if Alison would only stay out of the way.
At five to two, Melissa got to her feet and slipped out of the room. Dick’s gaze was fixed on the TV. Rosemary was deep in her book. Neither of them glanced at her as she went into the kitchen. As silently as she could, she crept down the narrow back staircase. Below was the small dank basement she liked to imagine held a corpse buried under the floor. A skeleton from 1812, say. She unlocked the door and carefully, an inch at a time so they would not overhear, opened it and then the storm door. Blake was not in the yard. Her precautions were silly, since the roar of the crowd and the excited monologue of the announcer would have drowned out almost anything she did, short of clog dancing. She was almost relieved the yard was empty. She hoped Blake had abandoned his feeble scheme. Still, she slipped the bolt of the lock so it would not shut her out and walked into the small yard, paved over for parking, and glanced up and down the alley. She clutched her elbows against the cold. The row houses were similar, almost matching on the street out front, but in back they were eccentric and individual. One had a tiny backyard where a dog was chained. Another had a makeshift garage. Some yards, like this one, were paved over. One house had a funny sort of caboose sticking out to the alley. A couple of yards, had been turned into miniature gardens or play areas.
She stood in the cold, almost enjoying it. It was above freezing today, barely. The ice against the house had not melted, but on the two cars it evaporated in the faint sun that trickled over the high slanted rooftops of the town houses in the block behind them. The sun was pale and watery, reminding her of food service custard. She wished Blake would call her. Her cell phone was turned on in her pocket. She was pecking out his number when she heard a motorcycle in the alley. She took a few uncertain steps forward. She did not see anyone until Blake climbed the alley fence and dropped into the yard.
“I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”
“Why? I’m on time.”
She looked at her stupid watch again. He wasn’t late enough to make an issue of; she was just nervous. “I’m scared. What should I say?”
“Just let me do the talking.”
Slowly she walked up the steps to the kitchen. In her mind was an image from some movie, maybe a Western, of some guy mounting a platform to be hanged by the neck until dead. Why couldn’t she just turn and run? Why couldn’t she get on the back of his motorcycle and they would take off for parts unknown? Who would finally care? She would disappear. In a few years, she’d get in touch. They coul
d make a living, somehow. Probably Si and Nadine would forgive them and send money. She turned back toward him at the head of the steps, but he was already looking past her. His face was set, a grim mask of hardened intent. Maybe if it didn’t work, and it wouldn’t, they could take off at once while her parents were still stunned. But was Rosemary ever stunned into inaction?
In a tiny pocket of old unresolved anger and misery, she realized, she nurtured the ridiculous wish that what was going to happen, whatever it was, would show Rosemary and Dick that they had always underestimated her, always considered her far less than she was capable of being. Even if they hated her, at least they might respect her, might admit surprise at what she had done. Perhaps that was the best that could be hoped for. To astonish them.
Blake gave her a prod forward. “Move,” he whispered in her ear. “Someone could come in. Let’s do it.”
She saw herself walking forever toward the livingroom of the narrow row house, moving in ever slower motion and never arriving, like Zeno’s paradox from philosophy class. But she did not live in Zenoland; she lived here and now. Time would not stop for her or linger in ever smaller fractions. She must arrive in the doorway, and she did, pausing there and imagining herself suddenly transported away, teleported into some other, more friendly dimension. Blake moved into the doorway slightly behind and to the side. Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. Rosemary turned a page of her tome. Dick groaned and cursed mildly as the Eagles’ quarterback was sacked. Then somehow their presence registered. Rosemary looked up first and stared, freezing. Her response caused Dick to turn his head.
He got to his feet, hitting the mute button on the remote so that the house was suddenly still. She could hear the refrigerator running and Alison walking around upstairs. No one said anything for what felt like an hour but was, she guessed, perhaps one minute, perhaps two.
Blake broke the silence. “Mr. Dickinson, Mrs. Dickinson, we’ve met before in Washington, in your house there, when I was visiting your daughter.”
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Dick was drawing himself up to a dignified stance, smoothing down his cashmere sweats.
“Melissa let me in.” Blake stepped past her. He stood just in front of her and to the side, his hands loosely balled at his sides, his head slightly lowered. She guessed he was trying not to look confrontational but failing.
“Melissa, are you crazy? Why did you let him in?”
“I asked her to,” Blake said simply. “She knew I wanted to talk with both of you.”
“You’ve been stalking our daughter.” Rosemary sat upright now, her eyes glittering. “I know you hacked into her e-mail and you’ve been reading it.”
“I have a right to read her mail,” Blake said. “She’s my wife.”
“We’re married.” Melissa’s voice emerged almost as a squeak. She tried to regain control, lowering it into her throat so she would sound less of a ninny. “We’ve been married for a couple of months. We love each other.”
“Married?” Rosemary shook her head in disgust. “We’ll have it annulled.”
“You’re going to prison,” Dick said. “Don’t imagine manipulating Melissa into believing herself bound to you is going to change that.”
“We’re bound up regardless. That’s how it is. We got married because we wanted to be together. We’ve been keeping it a secret from you because Melissa was waiting for a good time to tell you—”
“For instance, after you finished feeding all those lies to that scandal-monger on the Inquirer? Was that when you planned to tell us?” Dick rolled his eyes. “Or when you decided to confess to hacking into our e-mail?”
“I wanted to tell you,” Melissa began, but Blake overrode her.
“Those weren’t lies. Yes, I tried to damage you. I couldn’t forgive you for my father’s death. I was with him that night and I know he was innocent, and I suspect you do too. But it was politically useful to you to kill my father, and you think it would be politically useful to put me in prison.”
“If he goes, I go,” Melissa said. “We were both involved.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Rosemary rose neatly unfolding herself. “You’re mesmerized by him. But we’ll protect you. You’ve been a foolish and willful girl, but we’ll take care of you, no matter what. You, however, are in real trouble.” She nodded at Blake.
“Judge, jury and executioner, the two of you.” Blake took a step forward, his hands clenched now to fists. “Nothing we gave the Inquirer was a lie. But we’ll shut up. We just want to live in peace together. We’ll go off to California or Ireland or Mexico or anyplace. You won’t have to see us. You won’t have to have anything to do with us. We’ll just vanish.”
“I wouldn’t let my daughter go off with scum like you,” Dick said. “She may be foolish, she may be stupid, but she’s still my daughter. Get out of here and leave her alone, now!”
“I love him.” Melissa wrung her hands. “He’s my husband and I love him.”
“Oh, shut up,” Rosemary said. “You’re an idiot. He was using you to get at us. I told you what he was up to, but you were too silly to pay attention—”
“Melissa is mine, not yours. You can’t just take her back like an umbrella you left in a restaurant. We’re legally married, the marriage has been consummated, and other people know we’re married. You can’t make it go away.”
“Oh, can’t we?” Rosemary smiled tightly. “We could offer to buy you off, of course, and I think you’d leap at the chance. But we can’t trust you. I’m afraid we can’t trust Melissa right now, either. She’s besotted. But she’ll be helped to grow out of it.”
Dick said, “She’ll come to her senses once we’ve got her away from you. We can still help her. I don’t think any help would rescue you from your doomed obsession with your father. A criminal found guilty by a jury, remember, who went through seven years of appeals refused by every court he pestered. He was guilty and he was properly sentenced and properly executed. I had no contact with him and no personal grudge.”
“You used him politically, to get elected and reelected.”
Dick shook his finger, taking two steps toward Blake. “You had little to complain of. You were adopted by rich lawyers and spoiled rotten. If you insist on destroying your life, you have only yourself to blame.” Dick was no taller than Blake, but he seemed much, much larger. “I’ll protect my daughter from you. You’ve tried to ruin her and you’ve tried to ruin my family, but I want you to know you’ve failed. You’ve ruined only yourself.”
Blake took another step forward. “If you think you could ever, ever buy me off so that I’d leave Melissa, you’re the crazy ones. You don’t understand her. You have no idea who I am. We belong together. We’re one. She is my wife and she’ll stay my wife, no matter what happens to me.”
“Anyone can talk a good game.” Rosemary shook her head gently. “Where you’re going is prison. Unless you flee, of course, you’ll be picked up before the week is out.” She crossed her legs and waited, head cocked, as if eager to hear what Blake would say next.
“Mother, Father, do you want this scandal?” Melissa moved to stand beside Blake. “Think how it’s going to look. It’s not as if you could keep our marriage a secret. Won’t it look as if you’re putting him in prison because he’s African-American and I married him? Listen to me. You’ve been making a place for yourself in Washington. This won’t help. I love Blake. If you let him go, I’ll agree to an annulment and you can keep me at home for a year or until you’re satisfied. I’ll do whatever you want, if you let him go.”
“That’s sweet, dear, but unnecessary. We will get you an annulment and we will keep you out of trouble. But this young man is dangerous. He has an obsession.” Rosemary wagged a long elegant purple-tipped finger. “He wants to get us. He’s obsessed by visions of revenge. We can’t afford to let him go. Frankly, he causes too much trouble.”
Blake was standing more loosely now, smiling slightly. “Meli
ssa, are you ready to walk out of here with me?” They had overridden him, they had almost vanquished him, but he wasn’t ready to give up, she thought.
“Of course.” She moved closer to him. She could almost feel herself on the bike behind him, holding on. “Let’s go!”
“You don’t care about her,” Blake said as Alison appeared in the doorway behind Rosemary. She stood there a moment and then drew back into Rosemary’s office. Good. She had decided not to get involved. Blake was saying, “You never loved her. You made her feel inferior. She wasn’t up to your perverted standards. But I love her the way she is, and she loves me, and that doesn’t mean a thing to you—that for the first time in her life she feels secure. She feels cared for.”
“You attached yourself to her as a way to get to us. Let’s be a trifle honest here,” Rosemary said.
“I was curious about her because she’s your daughter. But she’s a woman in her own right, and it’s her I love and it’s her I married—not you people. I don’t want her family. I have a better one of my own. One she likes being a part of.”
“Oh, so your adopted parents were in on this,” Dick said with a sense of aha.
“My sister let it slip we’re married, so we had a scene with them. But they accepted Melissa. They do that.”
“I’m sure they do,” Rosemary said.
“I’m taking Melissa out of here. Now! If you ever want to see her again, you’ll call off your dogs and let us be.” He took Melissa’s arm and started to turn toward the kitchen.
“You will not. Alison!” Rosemary spun around. “Time for a little help here.”
Alison came out of Rosemary’s office carrying their Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter semiautomatic, one of her favorites, held before her in both hands, properly fixed against her body. Her face was grim. “Stand perfectly still. Don’t move,” she said. “Step away from Melissa now or I will shoot.”
Dick picked up the phone. “Sixty seconds and you’re out of here, or I call the police. Alison…”