It had to be the answer, because I never wrote even a business letter if I could get out of it and I sure wouldn't have written Elizabeth after we were all washed up. It was a standing joke around the house, my not writing to anyone. At least it had been a joke back in the beginning, back during the first year that Elizabeth and I were married.
We were awfully cramped for dough that year. We had good prospects and I knew we'd pull out in the long run, but I was trying to do too many things at once and we ran short. It got so bad that I even considered closing down for a while and going back to driving film truck. But right at the time when things looked darkest this old uncle of Elizabeth's died back East, and everything was jake. He left her twenty-five hundred dollars, enough to clear up the mortgage on the Barclay home with a thousand left over.
Well, I took her down to the train when she started back to collect, and while we were waiting on the platform she asked me to send her a dollar.
"Send you a dollar?" I laughed. "What's the idea? Here, I'll give you-"
"No, I want you to send it to me, Joe. I know that's the only way I'll hear from you."
"Oh, now," I said. "I don't think I'm that bad. I'll drop you a card."
"Oh, but you are that bad," she said. "Send me the dollar or you'll be sorry when I come back."
She was kidding, you know, like newly married people will. But I thought if it meant that much to her I'd play along. And that was the cause of two of the worst weeks I've ever spent in my life.
I am careful about money; a businessman has got to be. I'd double-checked the hotel address where Elizabeth was supposed to be staying, and I put a five-day return on the envelope when I mailed it. And then, through some kind of mix-up, it came back to me, and the envelope was stamped Not known here.
Scared? Worried? Brother!
I didn't know where else to write. I knew she was supposed to be at the address I had. And, of course, she thought I'd broken my promise so she didn't write me, either. She finally broke down and sent me a wire, and I sent her one, and-and that was the end of it.
But until I heard from her I was imagining all sorts of things. I'd about halfway decided that she must be dead…
30
I used to know a drunk years ago, a booker at one of the film exchanges in the city. He was one of those God-awful, noisy, messy drunks; the worst of the worst kind. And do you know something? That guy couldn't stand the sight of another drunk. It wasn't any pretense. He actually hated 'em. He'd walk six blocks to keep from passing one on the street.
I was thinking about him, and wondering why I was thinking about him, as I turned into the lane toward home. Then, as I drove into the yard, another funny thing popped into my mind-the tag line on an old joke. It's not the original cost but the upkeep.
There it is. Make anything you want to out of it.
After I'd shut off the motor I sat in the car for a moment, pulling myself together; thinking-trying to think-what a hell of a mess Carol had got me into by going to work for us. Then, I rubbed the gun in my pocket, wiped the sweat off my hand, and got out.
I went up the steps.
I crossed the porch and opened the door.
As far as I could see, there from the hall, everything was just like I had left it. The shades were drawn. The furnace was still ticking away, throwing out warm waves of heat. The lights were…
"Carol," I called. "Carol!"
And every light in the place went out.
I stood where I was, paralyzed; too shocked to move. And the air from the furnace didn't seem warm any more. It got colder and colder. It brushed against my face like the draft from an icebox. Somehow I got my foot behind me and kicked the door shut. As an afterthought, I turned the key in the lock and put it in my pocket.
I called her one more time. "Carol!"
There wasn't any answer.
It wasn't the storm, then. She'd pulled the switch. She'd done it without even waiting to see what Web had wanted, or what I was going to do about it. And she'd been nagging me about not trusting her!
I was sore and relieved at the same time. It made things easier.
I started to strike a match, but caught myself. She'd see me first; and she hadn't turned out those lights for the fun of it. She was sure I'd put her on the spot. Or, maybe, she'd guessed that I could never feel safe as long as she was alive. Anyway, she was playing for keeps.
I don't know whether I've described the layout of our house or not. There's a hall extending from the front door to the kitchen. On the left, as you go in, is the living-room. The dining-room is across from it, on the right.
I went down the hall on tiptoe to the living-room, and eased the drapes apart. My eyes were getting used to the dark, and I could see a little. Not much, but a little. The outlines of the furniture; shadowy blotches on the wall where pictures hung.
The living-room looked empty, and I decided it must be. The master light switch was in the kitchen. She hadn't had time to move far from it.
I tried to figure out which way she'd go. Up the hall toward me, or through the door into the dining-room? Or would she still be there in the kitchen?
I started down the hall. And stopped.
A door had creaked. The door connecting the dining-room and kitchen. She was coming around that way. Getting behind me.
I pivoted and crept back to the dining-room. I slid through the portiers, holding my breath.
The door creaked again as it was opened wider. Now I could see a black oblong as it was opened all the way.
I could see a shadow, a crouched blur upon the black.
I touched the trigger of the automatic.
The explosion was almost deafening, but I heard her scamper back into the kitchen. I heard one of the chairs go over. I eased forward again, not seeing too well because of the flash of light from the shot. At the door into the kitchen I dropped down on my hands and knees and started to crawl across the threshold.
It was a minute or two before I saw her, her shadow against the far wall. I waited until I was sure, until I saw it edging toward the spot where the hall door would be. Then, slowly, I began rising to my feet.
I was too slow for her. In a split second the door banged open. Crashed shut.
I stood up, panting, sweat pouring from my face. I felt my way along the wall to the switch box.
The cover was open, as I'd known it would be, and the switch was pulled. I pushed it back into place, blinking my eyes as the lights went on. I locked the back door and put the key in my pocket. I waited, looking upward.
Listening.
At last I heard it. The squeak of a bedspring. I started to tiptoe out of the kitchen, then stopped again. She'd have to come out of her room. It wouldn't look right to break the door down.
I began to whistle to myself, as I thought it over. And then I started to whistle louder, loud enough for her to hear me and just as if I didn't have a care in the world.
I tramped up the stairs, and knocked on the door of her bedroom.
"Carol!" I called. "Are you asleep?"
There was no answer, but the bed creaked again. In my mind I could see her sitting there, huddled as far back as she could get. Staring at the door.
I let out an embarrassed laugh. "Did you hear all that racket I was making? The light switch dropped down and shut off the current. I thought there was a prowler in the house." I laughed again. "Guess I'd be shooting yet if my gun hadn't jammed."
I could own a gun. She couldn't be sure that I didn't. I heard-I thought I heard-a faint sigh of relief. A scared, doubtful sigh.
"Get dressed, Carol. We've got to get out of here. Right away, tonight."
There wasn't any kind of sound this time; nothing I could identify. But she seemed to be asking a question.