"Ira isn't here, and Teddy isn't, either."
"Do you know where they are, Cissy? This is very important."
"No, I don't."
"This is so urgent, it's really life and death."
"I still don't know, Miss Whitman."
"Cissy, honey, how could you not know where they are? You know everything."
"I don't know everything, Miss Whitman."
"Of course, you do. You sit right there by the door and they always tell you what to say before they go out."
"Well, they didn't this time."
"Now, Cissy. Who's on your side, huh? Who buys you perfume in Paris? And I got you some more of that kind you like. I have it right here in my bag. And you know what else? I brought you a Pashmina scarf and a Prada bag."
"Miss Whitman, you shouldn't do that." Cissy's voice quavered. She was a pushover.
"Well, friends are friends. How about you don't tell me and I just suggest possibilities."
No answer.
"Did they go out to lunch?"
"Nope."
"Are they in the conference room?"
"Nope."
"Are they in a meeting somewhere?"
"Uh-uh."
"How about the hospital? Are they at the hospital?"
"Well, now that you mention that, Miss Whitman, I think maybe they did go to the hospital. Mr. Mandel was very upset."
"How is Mr. Sales doing?"
"I'm so sorry, Miss Whitman. I don't think he's so good."
"Thank you, honey. You're just the greatest. I'm going to get those little gifts to you right away."
"No, no, don't even think about it," Cissy said quickly. "I don't want to lose my job."
"Oh, you won't lose your job. And I won't forget you, okay? Friends are friends, right?"
Mona's blood thundered in her ears as she hung up. Now she could feel her breath rattle. Asthma, for sure, the one time Mitch wasn't there to calm her down and save her. Tears came and ruined her mascara. Mitch, the one true love of her life, really was in the hospital, and no one had told her. So cruel. So cold of the family to ignore her like this. Teddy was her friend. She couldn't bear it. Mitch must be so upset without her beside him. The hurt feeling, the terrible burden for her terrible young life that she carried like a heavy boulder, grew and grew. The betrayal was terrible. No one had told her. They were trying to keep things from her. Mona's mind began to race.
If large numbers of trees move, they are approaching. If there are many visible obstacles in the heavy grass, it is to make us suspicious. If the birds take flight, there is an ambush. If the animals are afraid, enemy forces are mounting an attack.
It was perfectly clear to her that Cassie, the enemy, must have fed her husband rat poison because she found out Mitch was leaving her. Mona clutched her chest. She and Mitch were getting married. They had a new house all ready. She'd stopped taking the pill. Any day she'd be pregnant. Only the date, only telling Cassie-that one last dreadful little detail-had been holding them up. Once he told Cassie, there would be no more pretending.
Now Mona knew that Mitch had not been so angry with her, after all. He must have gone home to tell Cassie the marriage was over, and the spoiled, selfish, infantile woman had put rat poison in his coffee. Another wheeze tickled her throat at the thought of Cassie murdering her husband. Tearful and sweaty in her jaunty red sports car, she dialed Mark Cohen's number.
"It is subtle, subtle! There are no areas in which one does not employ spies."
"Doctor's office."
"Marta, it's Mona. I just got back from Paris and heard about Mitch. This is terrible. I didn't know anything about it. When did it happen?" She could barely control her voice. This was no act. She was distraught.
"Friday."
"Friday! Friday!"
"Yes, sometime in the afternoon."
"Oh my God, where is he? I have to see him."
"He's at North Fork. But he's in intensive care. He can't have visitors."
"Oh my God!" Mona shook her head. Her burgundy curls bounced on her shoulders. "Intensive care. I had no idea. Is Mark there?"
"He's with a patient."
"What happened? Tell me everything."
"He had a stroke, Mona."
"Oh Jesus, a stroke." Mona was silent for a moment. Could a person get a stroke from rat poison?
"Mona, are you there?"
"I'm just so upset. Would you tell Mark to call me right away? On my cell." Mona hung up. She felt horrible, more than horrible. But she couldn't go back into the warehouse with the news. Everybody would panic, and she had to keep her mind on Mitch.
She decided to go see him and keep mum to everyone else. She dialed her assistant, Carol. "Honey, I'm taking off. I'll see you tomorrow. Anything comes up, call me on my cell." She tried to keep good cheer in her voice.
She turned and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her weeping had really messed her up. Mascara was all over the place, and little rivulets snaked through her foundation. She definitely couldn't go to the hospital looking like this. She had to be strong for Mitch. She had to look really good, like an angel from heaven, to bring him back to her. To look that good she had to go home. She grabbed her sunglasses and put them on, hit the ignition. The car growled to life. As she started to back out, she saw the black Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Oh shit. It was on the service road, heading this way. For a tiny second her heart spiked. Mitch had done it again: The whole thing was a big joke. He was fine, after all. No stroke. Then she saw that Mitch wasn't the driver, and she kept going.
She agonized all the way home. How could this be happening to her? It was like cancer, the atom bomb striking. The Nazis. Something out of a spy movie or a thriller. Her lifelong enemy had done something to him. He'd been fine, perfectly fine, on Friday. First the audit, now the stroke. It was too much. Now in the mirror, she saw the Mercedes behind her. It looked as if Cassie was following her home. Too fucking much.
The major configurations of terrain are accessible, suspended, stalemated, constricted, precipitous, and expansive.
Mona lived in a town house complex in Roslyn. She'd lived there for ten years with the profound belief that any minute she was going to marry. She'd been frugal to a fault. She had two completely inadequate floors. Downstairs, a tiny kitchen and small living room/dining area. Upstairs, a bedroom and den. Full bath and powder room. There were hardly any closets at all. The only way to make the place work for her was to give away her clothes after three or four wearings. She did not like her neighbors, who were either old, very young with children, or middle-aged, divorced, and desperate. The old people wanted to talk. The young couples had noisy children who left toys on the sidewalks for people to trip over. And the divorced women wanted to go on trips with her. Mitch didn't like them, either, and never came there. Not only that, the garage was not attached. It was cut into the hill behind the house. She didn't like to use it.