She stood there, eyes shut, steeling herself against the wave of utter panic about to overwhelm her. It was the man. She knew it was he. It could be no one else. He had found their unlisted number. Somehow. She felt herself trembling. Control! Control! She must not let Ivy see her like this!
A small, static smile affixed to her face, Janice gracefully squatted down to resume the game.
Ivy pushed an E under the C.
“Who was it?” she asked offhandedly.
“Secret Service,” Janice replied with a light, controlled laugh.
Ivy giggled, knowing full well to what her mother alluded. Phone calls with no voice at the other end were a frequent occurrence in the lives of most city dwellers. Whether the calls were simply mistakes, the deviltry of children, or the pastime of seriously disturbed persons, there was no accounting for them and certainly no stopping them. One learned to live with the nuisance; it went with the territory. “Secret Service” became their euphemistic way of laughing off these unidentified calls.
As Janice moved an L under the E, the telephone rang again. Janice watched Ivy slide another L beneath hers. The telephone continued to ring. The word on the board had built itself to E-X-C-E-L-L-E-N before Ivy quietly asked, “Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Nah,” Janice replied, forcing a cheery note into her voice. “I’d rather play this game than that one.”
Ivy dropped the Y onto the end of E-X-C-E-L-L-E-N-C-Y with a cackle of merriment.
The telephone continued to ring.
“I really think we should answer it, Mom,” Ivy said with concern. “It may be Daddy.”
The same thought had occurred to Janice. She could visualize Bill sitting at his desk, worriedly listening to the phone ring and ring, wondering why no one answered it.
Janice rose quickly and started for the telephone when the ringing stopped.
“Aw!” said Ivy dejectedly. “Missed.”
“If it was Daddy, he’ll call again.”
Janice reached down and felt Ivy’s forehead. “How about some milk and cookies?”
“Sounds great.”
The ringing started again, and Janice dropped the half-filled milk bottle, spilling the milk on herself and the kitchen floor. But this time the rings came in short, staccato sounds telling Janice that the house phone, which was situated in the hallway, near the door, was summoning her. If it was the man, she would refuse the call since all incoming calls were announced by the desk man in the lobby, Dominick. Still, she let it ring four times before she picked it up.
“Miz Templeton?” Dominick’s rough, familiar accent was pleasantly reassuring. “It’s your husband.”
“Thank you, Dominick.”
“Hey, what gives?” were Bill’s first words. “I called you twice. The first time you were busy. The second time, no answer.”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “I didn’t hear the phone ring. Maybe you got the wrong number.”
Bill made a small, thoughtful sound. Then: “How’s my little princess?”
“Okay. She doesn’t have a fever. It’s probably just one of those one-day things.”
“Well, keep her in anyway. I mean, don’t go out—it was really freezing this morning.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Janice said with a light dramatic flourish.
“I may be home early.”
“Swell. Call me later and let me know,” Janice said, trying to end the conversation.
“How about calling Carole to see if they’re available tomorrow night for dinner?”
“All right.”
A pause. Then: “Anything else doing there?”
“No.” Why didn’t he hang up?
The telephone in the living room rang again. Its distant, strident sounds caused every nerve in Janice’s body to scream in protest.
“I’ve got to go, Bill,” she heard herself sputter in almost a gasp. “The other phone is ringing.”
“Answer it, I’ll wait,” Bill said.
Janice put down the phone, too brusquely, and hurried up the hallway to the living room.
By the time she got there Ivy had already answered it and was tailing off the conversation.
“Fine, thank you,” she said with a small smile. “Goodbye.” And softly returned the phone to its cradle.
Janice’s heart pounded as she took several steps into the living room. Her voice was surprisingly casual as she asked Ivy who had called.
“A man,” Ivy replied. “He wanted to know if I was all right.”
“Did he mention his name?”
“No.”
“Most likely a wrong number.”
“Unh-unh. He called me Ivy.”
Janice was amazed at her own control as she idly commented, “Maybe a teacher at school. They worry about you kids, you know.”
“Hey, I’ll bet it was Mr. Soames.” Ivy broke into laughter. “He’s always asking the girls how they are. He asked Bettina the other day, and she wasn’t even sick.”
Janice suddenly remembered Bill waiting on the other line.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down, dear? I’ve got your father hanging on the other phone.”
“What about my milk and cookies?”
“I’ll bring them up to you. Go now, run.”
Ivy moved toward the staircase with some reluctance.
“Who was it?” Bill asked.
“One of the teachers wanting to know how Ivy is feeling,” Janice replied without even pausing to think.
“Oh? Which one?”
“Mr. Soames.”
Later, while Ivy was napping and Janice had a moment to collect her thoughts and calmly review each step of the ghastly situation, she wondered why she hadn’t just simply told Bill the truth. She could think of no answer beyond a vague, foolish wish to preserve the peace and tranquillity of their coming weekend. Yes, that was it—she was seeking to protect their weekend, to permit them once more, perhaps for the last time, to savor the loving motions of togetherness before the ax descended, as she knew it inevitably must.
She was buying time.
The cab deposited Bill on the park side of Sixty-second Street, across from Gristede’s Market. After a quick, instinctive sweep of the terrain, he jogged across the wide boulevard and entered the store.
Bill walked down the narrow aisles, filling the shiny aluminum shopping cart with cans and boxes and packets of beans, soups, kraut, bacon, hot dogs, milk, various kinds of breads and rolls, peanuts, chips, spreads, packaged cakes, ice cream, a veritable storehouse of provisions.
At the greens counter he selected three heads of iceberg lettuce and six bright-red hothouse tomatoes which he was shocked to find selling for a dollar five a pound.
Rounding the aisle of the meat counter, Bill thought he saw the fleeting image of a man disappearing around the far end in a big hurry. His suspicions roused, he trundled the cart at a fast gallop up the aisle and, panting heavily, turned the corner, fully expecting to see Sideburns fleeing down the aisle toward the exit. But all he saw were two elderly ladies eyeing him covertly in alarm. Bill grinned at them sheepishly and quickly steered his cart to the meat counter, where he ordered three strip steaks, a six-pound sirloin roast, and a dozen wafer-thin pork chops.
At the cashier’s table, Bill wrote out a check for eighty-one dollars and fifty-six cents while the boxboy compactly packaged his order in three large paper bags. He had intended to walk home the five blocks, but the bags were too numerous and bulky to permit it. He suggested his borrowing the cart and returning it later and was politely refused. He would have to find a cab somehow.
Leaving the groceries behind in the store, which they graciously allowed him to do, Bill hurried to the Mayflower Hotel, a short distance up the street. He waited ten minutes before a cab arrived and discharged a passenger.