“Mac?”
He turned in surprise. “I didn’t hear the elevator.”
“I used the back steps.”
“Well, come in, Kate, if you don’t mind watching me eat. There’s extra coffee, would you like some?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured some coffee into a plastic cup. “Sit down. You look a bit under the weather, Kate. You’re not dieting, I hope.”
“Not by choice,” she said grimly. “The support check’s late again. Naturally. He’s trying to make me crawl. That I’m used to, that I can stand. It’s these — these awful other things, Mac.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“About half an hour ago, on my way here. He was driving that same old green car he drove yesterday when he was parked outside the house. When I saw it in the rear-view mirror, something terrible came over me, Mac. I... I just wanted to kill him.”
“Now, now, don’t talk like that.”
“I mean it. All I could think of was chasing him, ramming his car, running him down, getting rid of him some way, any way.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I tried.”
“You tried,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Tell me about it, Kate.”
She told him. He listened, with his head cocked to one side like a dog hearing a distant sound of danger.
“You might have been killed or seriously injured,” he said when she’d finished.
“I know that now. I may even have known it then, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t thinking of myself, or even, God help me, of Mary Martha. Just of him, Sheridan. I wanted to — I had to get even with him. This time he went too far.”
“This time?”
“The letter, the anonymous letter.”
“Have you got it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Show it to me.”
She took the letter out of her handbag and put it on his desk.
He studied the envelope for a minute, then removed the wad of paper and began unfolding it. He read aloud: “Your daughter takes too dangerous risks with her delicate body. Children must be guarded against the cruel hazards of life and fed good, nourishing food so their bones will be padded. Also clothing. You should put plenty of clothing on her, keep arms and legs covered, etc. In the name of God please take better care of your little girl.”
“Well?” Kate said.
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a curious document. The writer seems sincere and also very fond — if fond is the correct word — of children in general.”
“Why in general? Why not Mary Martha in particular? Sheridan’s never particularly liked children; he’s crazy about Mary Martha because she’s an extension of his ego, such as it is.”
“This doesn’t sound like Sheridan’s style to me, Kate.”
“Who else would accuse me of neglecting my daughter?”
“I don’t read this as an accusation, exactly. It seems more like a plea or a warning, as if the writer believes he has advance knowledge that something will happen to Mary Martha unless you take preventative steps.” Alarmed by her sudden pallor, he added quickly, “Notice I said he believes he has such knowledge. Beliefs often have little relationship to fact. My own feeling is that this is from some neighborhood nut. Have you or Mary Martha had any unpleasantness with any of your neighbors recently?”
“Of course not. We mind our own business and I expect other people to mind theirs.”
“Perhaps you expect too much,” Mac said with a shrug. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about the letter if I were you. It’s unlikely, though not impossible, that Sheridan wrote it. If he did, he’s flipped faster and further than I care to contemplate.”
“Will you find out the truth?”
“Naturally I’ll try to contact him. If he’s pulling these shenanigans he’s got to be stopped, for his own sake as well as yours and Mary Martha’s. Meanwhile I’ll keep the letter, with your permission. I have a friend who’s interested in such things. By the way, was it folded half a dozen times like this when it was delivered?”
“Yes.”
“Kid stuff, I’d say. Just one more question, Kate. Did you manage to get the license number of the green car?”
“Yes. It’s GVK 640.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I should be,” she said harshly. “I rammed his license plate.”
“Kate. Kate, listen to me for a minute.”
“No. I can’t. I can’t listen any more. I want to talk, I’ve got to talk to somebody. Don’t you understand, Mac? I spend all my time with a child. She’s a wonderful girl, very bright and sweet, but she’s only nine years old. I can’t discuss things with her, I can’t burden her with my problems or ask her for help or support. I’ve got to put up a front, pretend that everything’s all right, even when I can feel the very earth crumbling under my feet.”
“You’ve isolated yourself, Kate,” he said calmly. “You used to have friends you could talk to.”
“Friends are a luxury I can’t afford any more. Oh, people were very kind when Sheridan first moved out. They invited me over to cheer me up and hear all the gruesome details. One thing I learned, Mac, and learned welclass="underline" the only people who really enjoy a divorce are your best friends. All that vicarious excitement and raw emotion, all the blood and guts spilled — why, it was almost as good as television.”
“You’re being unfair to them.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I didn’t have the right kind of friends. Anyway, I stopped accepting invitations and issuing them. I didn’t want people coming over and feeling sorry for me because I was alone, and sorry for themselves because I couldn’t afford to offer them drinks. You want to lose friends, Mac? Stop buying liquor. No money down, results guaranteed.”
“What about Mary Martha?” Mac said.
“What about her?”
“She needs some kind of social environment.”
“She has friends. One friend in particular, Jessie Brant. I don’t especially care for the Brants — Ellen’s one of these pushy modern types — but Jessie’s an interesting child, free-wheeling and full of beans. I think she’s a good influence on Mary Martha, who’s inclined to be overcautious... That’s another thing about the letter, Mac. It was inaccurate. Mary Martha doesn’t take dangerous risks, and I certainly wouldn’t call her delicate. She’s the same age and height as Jessie but she outweighs her by eight or ten pounds.”
“Perhaps the ‘risks’ mentioned didn’t refer to a physical activity like tree-climbing, but to something else that Mary Martha did. Say, for instance, that she was a little reckless while riding her bike and one of the neighbors had to swerve his car to avoid hitting her—”
“Mary Martha is very careful on her bicycle.”
“Yes. Well, it was only a suggestion.”
She was silent for a minute. Then she said in a low bitter voice, “You see? It’s happened the way it always does. I was talking about myself, and now we’re suddenly talking about Mary Martha again. There is no me any more. There’s just the woman who lives in the big house who looks after the little girl. I’ve lost my personship. I might just as well have a number instead of a name.”
“Calm down now, Kate, and get hold of yourself.”
“I told you, myself doesn’t exist anymore. There is no me, there’s nothing to get hold of.”