By the time Bill stepped into the elevator of the regal old building, along with Mario, the doorman, who carried two of the heavier bags of groceries, the time was four fifteen.
The weekend had begun.
4
From the moment Bill entered the apartment, the atmosphere seemed charged with a kind of hidden electricity. Each was overly aware of the other, each move, look, and gesture intensified and heightened beyond its worth. Janice’s laughter was too full, overstated; Bill’s humor, his display of ardor, too overdrawn. Each sensed the false note in the other but was unwilling to diffuse it. Each was determined that nothing was going to spoil their weekend.
Bill dashed upstairs to say hello to Ivy while Janice unpacked the food.
Ivy had spent the afternoon composing a poem for Bill. They sat together on the bed while Ivy recited it, wringing every drop of pathos from each cherished word:
Bill’s eyes were moist as he leaned over and kissed Ivy’s proud and smiling face.
“That’s terrific, Princess.” Bill’s voice was husky with emotion. “I’ll try to live up to it.”
As Bill changed into his red velvet smoking jacket—last year’s Christmas present from Janice—it occurred to him that he should have brought something home for Ivy: a small present or flowers. He was angry at himself for being so thoughtless. He’d make up for it tomorrow. Somehow.
Bill descended the last step into the living room and headed for the liquor cart, where he knew the ice would be waiting, when Janice suddenly appeared at the dining-room doorway, wearing a small, wondrous smile.
“Hey, come here.” Her voice was soft, sensuous.
Bill went to her, and they kissed warmly. Then Bill felt the tears on her face.
“What gives, honey?” he asked her gently.
“I dig you, that’s what gives,” Janice replied, her face radiant with love.
Until this moment, Bill hadn’t noticed the box in Janice’s hand. It was a gift box, beautifully wrapped and ribboned, with a small card peeking out of the flap.
“Where did that come from?” Bill asked, puzzled.
Janice’s free arm still clung to his shoulder. Her smile deepened as her eyes probed the tender, patient, mysterious face of the man she loved.
“Where you put it, darling.” Janice smiled, continuing the game. “On top of the pork chops.”
Bill was about to protest when Janice interrupted.
“Please sign the card, Bill. She’ll be so happy.”
The card was delicately designed, featuring an array of tiny flowers surrounding the etched legend: “Hope you’re feeling better.”
“What’s in it?” Janice asked, fingering the box.
“What?”
“What did you buy her?”
“It’s a surprise,” Bill said.
Ivy and Janice’s eagerness to undo the ribbon and find out what the box contained was matched by Bill’s; however, with Bill, eagerness was tempered by doubt, worry and deep-seated fear. Someone had put the present in one of the food bags when he’d left the market to find a cab. Of that he was certain. Who that someone was also presented no great challenge to his deductive powers. It had to be Sideburns. But why?
“Oh, Daddy!” Ivy cried, producing a beautiful hand-painted purse from a nest of tissue. “Oh, Daddy, I love you, love you!”
She flung her arms around Bill’s neck and squeezed him until he shouted with laughter, “Okay, okay, help, please, somebody!”
“But really, Daddy, it’s perfect.”
Ivy kissed Bill once again, then turned to study her gift. Similar in style to the Fragonards inset in their living room ceiling, the illustration on the pale-blue satin purse featured a lovely French courtesan sitting on a flower-garlanded swing being pushed by a dashing swain. It was lush, excessive, and utterly romantic. Ivy hugged it to her breast.
“How did you know I always wanted it, Daddy?”
“I guessed,” Bill said, the smile slowly fading from his face.
Now it was the demon’s head—blunt snout, sunken eyes, stubby horns, lascivious serpent’s tongue, a disgusting baroque horror leering down at Bill from the complex plasterwork of the ceiling plaque in the center of their bedroom. Small, circular, ancient, the plaque had once served as center base for a light fixture. A small chandelier, perhaps. Probably gas, from the age of the building, Bill thought, lying in bed, watching the constantly changing patterns appear, then recede, then alter into new forms all at the whim of his imagination. Forcing his eyes to shift focus slightly, Bill made the demon dissolve into shapeless fragments and, with a bit of concentration, brought back the soft, flowing, graceful lines of the woman running. She, too, was an old friend like the demon, and the man playing cards, and the ship’s prow slicing through a sea of turmoil. All old friends, companions of the nights when Bill couldn’t sleep.
It was after three, according to the luminous dial on the clock-radio. Janice’s soft, rhythmic breathing beside him and the gentle whir of something electrical downstairs were the only sounds to be heard at this early hour.
At least she can sleep, Bill thought, feeling the warmth of her leg against his. The sleep of innocence. Of trust and faith and belief in the perfect order and certainty of their lives. He had not told Janice about Sideburns because he didn’t want to shatter that belief. As long as Bill thought himself the target, the focal point of Sideburns’ interest, why on earth drag Janice into it, especially since he hadn’t the foggiest idea what the whole thing was about?
But now—with the coming of the gift—Bill knew that all his wishful thinking, his carefully organized conjectures and rationalizations would have to be drastically revised since it was obvious now that he was not Sideburns’ exclusive target. The gift had thrust its way beyond Bill’s life into the very center of his family’s lives. Into the very heart of his home.
Sideburns knew a great deal about them. Knew of Ivy’s illness. Knew just the thing that would please her. Knew more than Bill did, in fact.
“What the hell’s going on here anyway?” he uttered aloud.
Janice stirred in her sleep, then turned over and snuggled into his side. Bill shut his eyes. Remained perfectly still.
What was it? Ivy had asked. “How did you know I always wanted it, Daddy?” The question now on Bill’s mind was: “How did he know?”
Bill drifted into sleep gradually, fearfully, pausing on the edge of a deep jungle, reluctantly being drawn into its cloying fastness, its myriad color grades, its menacing refuge for fang and claw. Great coco palms reared toward the sky, blotting out the sun, surrounded by cascading liana vines, choking the trees and pathways. It was a sinister cathedral with the mold of a hundred years scattered along the ground, musky with decay. Bill looked around, not sure where he was or what direction he should take to get out. He finally selected an opening between two great trees and stepped through it carefully. One pace, two paces, three.… Suddenly, the bottom dropped out from beneath his world, and he began to fall. And fall. And fall.…
“Finish your breakfast before it gets cold.”
Ivy smiled at Bill and nodded, glad to please him in every way she could this morning.