“Oh!” she said. He had forgotten. “I was hoping—”
The disappointment must have seeped into her voice because he interrupted her. “I didn’t forget our anniversary,” he said. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow night. All right?”
“All right,” she said, but this time, she made no real attempt to sound cheerful.
Peter cradled the phone. She would begin to drink, he supposed. Why did he always get saddled with women destined to become alcoholics?
His first wife had been that way. She had started to drink — or at least he had become aware of her drinking — in the third year of their marriage.
Elaine had been a beautiful woman. She was tall, brown-haired, beautifully proportioned. She had been intelligent, too. They married right out of college, and in the early years, she was both a comfort and a joy. Peter had put her up on a pedestal, had never let her work, not even in his own office. He didn’t believe in working wives.
He supposed he would never understand it. Elaine had led the ideal life. He provided her with everything — washer, dryer, dishwasher, color television — and asked almost nothing of her in return. Because he had never really enjoyed entertaining or being entertained, there was very little required of her. Their house had been large but, since they had no children, she had little trouble keeping it.
All he wanted was a clean house to come home to and a hot meal when he wasn’t too busy to eat it. Why, then, had she begun to drink?
Peter never drank, himself. It bothered his ulcer, and he had never developed a taste for it, anyway. He gathered up his papers and left the office, trying to remember when he first became aware that Elaine had an alcohol problem.
He remembered arriving home fairly early a few times and finding Marilyn Cramer there, having cocktails with Elaine. He had never liked Marilyn, but he said nothing, was polite and civil and then got back to his den to work while he waited patiently for his dinner,
It was later, he remembered, that Elaine had begun drinking alone and, toward the end, she was drunk almost every night when he got home from work.
Once, and only once, he said something about it, and she shrugged her lovely shoulders.
“You like to work,” she said, “I like to drink.”
What was that supposed to mean?
He hadn’t really consciously planned to kill her. In fact, now that it was four years since it had happened, he wasn’t even certain that he had. She had been drinking heavily, had stepped too close to the basement stairs. He remembered bumping into her — but, he told himself, he was certain it hadn’t been on purpose...
Marlo didn’t use a jigger. She hardly ever did any more. She knew by instinct how much bourbon to pour into the bottom of the glass, how much ice and water to add. The color was perfect, the taste, divine.
She unpacked the groceries, put the steaks in the freezer. She looked for a hard boiled egg, then decided she wasn’t hungry. She strolled into the living room and sat down.
The view out over the Gulf was lovely. A sailboat glided by. She could make out two figures on it — a boy and a girl. The sun was setting behind them.
She thought about the gun in Peter’s desk. Two months ago, he had brought it home and shown her how to use it.
“But why?” she had said, “I hate guns.”
“Just a precaution,” he told her. “You’re here alone a lot, and there’ve been so many robberies out here at the beach.”
Reluctantly, she listened to his instructions, said, “Okay, now. Unload it.”
“But why? It won’t do you any good if it isn’t loaded.”
“I couldn’t shoot anyone anyway.”
“Of course you could, if your own life were in danger.”
“I don’t like it, Peter. I’d probably end up killing myself.”
“Nonsense! I’ve just shown you exactly how to use it.”
“But accidents do happen, you know.”
In the end, Peter had unloaded the gun. But first he insisted that she learn how to put the bullets in, herself.
Two months, Peter thought as he sat down to his cafeteria dinner. That should be long enough for any lush to decide to kill herself.
He had considered divorcing her, but he knew that she would never let him go. Why should she? She had everything going for her — a lovely apartment, a good looking and successful husband, plenty of time and money to spend any way she wanted. From her point of view, divorce would be absolutely stupid. From his — why should he pay alimony to a lush?
She was depressed. He could tell that. She was drinking more and talking less. When he bought the gun and showed her how to use it, he’d had a vague idea that she would probably use it on herself.
He decided, as he paid the cashier and left the restaurant, to go and meet his clients, if Marlo hadn’t killed herself by the time he got home, he could always clean the gun, and the gun could go off. After all, as Marlo herself had said, accidents do happen. And, as the police had said the other time, alcoholics are accident prone.
It had been dark for a long time, but Marlo hadn’t turned on any lights in the apartment. She sat on the couch, looking out at the stars and the Gulf.
Peter had not forgotten their anniversary. She told herself that should make her happy.
But it didn’t.
It would have been better if he had forgotten. By remembering and making an appointment with a client anyway, he had only underlined the fact that he cared far less for her than he did for his business.
She was depressed. She knew it. She drew in a deep breath and for the first time allowed herself to wonder, whether Peter’s first wife had really fallen down those stairs.
Marlo held her glass up to the window, and looked through it into the starry sky. It was her original drink, and it was still half full. She got up and went into the kitchen and, slowly and methodically, poured it down the drain.
She went into the den and got out Peter’s gun. Carefully, she loaded it and went back to the living room and sat down on the couch, this time turned so that she was facing the door. When he opened it, he would be silhouetted against the light in the corridor.
After all, there had been many recent robberies here. And accidents do happen.
Sixty Seconds Delay
by Mike Mahoney
When Eddie tightens his finger on the trigger, he had no idea he was exactly one minute out of synch.
O’Hagan snapped the small automatic pistol from his belt and laid it on the counter beside a jar of mustard. He rolled the flip top off of a can of beer with a sharp click, took a long swallow, then proceeded to pile slices of ham on a thick slab of rye bread. He carried the plate of beans, sandwich, pickles and potato chips over to the kitchen table. It was a hot night. He went back for his beer, switched on the radio and sat down to eat. His wife, Joyce, had gone to Boston for her niece’s wedding. O’Hagan enjoyed the solitude.
“...continued warm and humid tonight and tomorrow. Daytime highs around ninety; lows in the high seventies. And we’ve got a ten-percent chance of precipitation through Thursday,” the radio was saying. “Repeating the top stories of the hour...”
O’Hagan went back to the refrigerator to get some of the corn relish he liked.
“...and the Dow-Jones industrials took another plunge today, closing at...”
Joyce kept the kitchen spotless. O’Hagan liked it that way. He looked at his reflection in the black picture window.
“...stay tuned now for Listeners’ Line, the program that allows you, the listener, to talk back to your radio. But first a word...”