2
John Hayden knew as he walked into the living room of the ranch-style home they had bought six months earlier that something was definitely wrong; he knew it even before he saw his wife and the empty Old-Fashioned glass on the end table beside the wing chair.
He had parked the sedan next to the station wagon that Marion used to run around in and had come through the small breezeway to the kitchen. The door to the dining room area at the end of the living room was open and the lights were on but there was no sound and this in itself was disturbing. Always before, she was waiting for him in the kitchen by the time he had parked the car and always, even when she did not feel well, there was a smile and a kiss for him, a moment when she stood close when his arms tightened about her.
Before that, in the rented house where they had spent their first eight months of married life, there was not even a garage and she somehow always managed to hear him arrive and meet him at the door. Now he saw the ice bucket and the bottle of whisky and the steak which had been put out to defrost; the potatoes, which had been scrubbed for baking, were still on the counter and the oven had not yet been turned on.
“Marion?”
There was no answer as he crossed to the open door and he called again, his voice carrying an edge that worry and anxiety had put there. He was in the other room then, hurrying a little until he saw her in the chair, the light from the floor lamp burnishing her soft dark hair. Even then there was no reaction until he stopped in front of her.
“Oh, hello,” she said, not looking at him.
“Hi, darling.”
He bent down to kiss her and she turned her head slightly, so that his lips found a cheek that was soft, fragrant, and discouragingly cold. He straightened slowly, greatly disturbed now and a little scared. It took an effort to contain himself and he did not know whether to sit down and ask for some explanation or pretend that he was not yet aware that anything was wrong. Because he wanted to give her a chance to make the first move, he kept his tone unconcerned.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “You’ve already had a drink.”
“You always stop for one at the tavern, don’t you?”
“Sure, sure.”
“So what’s wrong with me having one too if I want it?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just making an observation. I’ll fix a fresh one.”
“Do that,” she said. “I think you’re going to need it. And make another one for me, a strong one, please.”
“Right.” He leaned down to take her glass. “Shall I turn the oven on?”
“Oven?” she said, as though she had never heard the word before.
“For the potatoes. Do you want me to put them in now?”
“If you want to.”
By the time he had reached the kitchen he was thoroughly upset and he stood a moment by the sink and let his breath out slowly. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought of a stranger named Sam Adler, but he could not yet accept the intuitive prodding that told him this man might be the key to his wife’s strange conduct. Instead his glance moved idly about the modern room and he recalled how delighted Marion had been when they first inspected the house. The owner, who had built it two years earlier, had been transferred by his company to the Pittsburgh office, and they had been lucky to get something that suited them so well at a fair price.
Now, seeing again the scrubbed potatoes and the built-in oven, he decided to ignore them. When he went to the refrigerator to get a lemon he noticed the row of gleaming copper pans on the pegboard at one side of the stove. They came in graduated sizes and Marion treated them as though they were heirlooms made of some precious metal. The knife that he usually used to cut lemon peel was not in the rack but he had no wish to look for it and he used the next size, cutting generous slices and bruising them against the bottoms of the Old-Fashioned glasses with the end of a mixing spoon before adding water and bitters and sugar, a pinch for him, a more generous portion for her. He cracked ice, added whisky, stirred, and still he stood there until he was sure he could face her with his thoughts and emotions under control.
She had not moved while he was in the kitchen, and when he had put her drink on the end table, he took the chair which faced hers from the other side of the fireplace. He took a cigarette from the silver box beside him, not offering her one because she had stopped smoking when her pregnancy was confirmed. When he had a light he said: “Cheers, dear,” and pretended not to notice when there was no reply.
He took a big swallow and the whisky put a welcome warmth in his throat and the top of his stomach. He let the silence build as he studied her, and though she still would not look at him he saw that her cheekbones, which to him had always added some extra beauty to her face, were pale now, the smooth skin taut-looking, the full, sweetly shaped mouth compressed and severe. The hazel eyes were fastened on her glass, but he could see the long black lashes, unblinking now and fixed by some inner struggle that was tormenting her. She was wearing a flannel skirt and cashmere sweater set, and it came to him now that she did not look four months pregnant.
She denied this when he had mentioned the subject before. She said her clothes were beginning to feel too tight but he could only be sure at night when, under the gentleness of his hand, he could feel the rounded firmness beneath the satiny skin of her belly that grew so gradually from week to week. He had told her that she must tell him when the first signs of life came, so he could feel it for himself, and she had promised him that she would....
He pulled his thoughts back to the moment and a sickness began to grow inside him as he tried to make his voice hearty.
“Have a tough day, baby?”
“You could call it that.”
“Any morning sickness after I left?”
“Some.”
“Has Junior been behaving?”
“Junior’s been fine,” she said in the same dull tones. “Unfortunately—” She stopped here; then, as though becoming aware of the glass in her hand for the first time, she lifted it and he could see her throat move as she took two quick swallows. She put the glass down on the end table and the sound of it was loud in the otherwise quiet room. But she was looking at him now, her chin up, the stiffness still in her face, her eyes enormous. He saw her lips quiver once and then she said harshly: “Unfortunately for Junior, he’s going to be a bastard.”
He heard the phrase distinctly but he did not believe his ears, and for that first shocking instant he was more distressed by the word itself than by the inference it conveyed. The effect was more punishing than a physical blow because it struck deep inside him and he had as yet no time to consider her meaning or speculate about the reasons for her outburst. For one of the first things that had attracted him to her was a look of breeding that he had found authentic, and in their fourteen months of married life the closest Marion had ever come to profanity was three or four determined damns, and then only under extreme provocation.
True, in the past couple of months there had been small emotional upheavals, but he understood that these were due to her condition and he made the proper allowances. He knew that she felt queasy at times, that morning sickness bothered her now and then. There were occasional tears that seemed to have no logical explanation, but if she was sometimes a bit difficult she could also be contrite; when the outbursts were over, the proof of her feeling of guilt was often demonstrated by a passion that surprised him. All these thoughts came to him as he stared at her, and before he could demonstrate or reply she attacked him again.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.”
“Well, say something. Or do you want me to repeat it?”
It came to him then that she was trying to tell him something that he was in no condition mentally or emotionally to accept. This was no outburst brought about by some instability of the mind. He knew somehow that she was close to hysteria and such knowledge chilled him and put a further strain on nerves already ragged. He wanted to come out of the chair and shake her, to shout at her to stop this nonsense, but some inner warning signal made him sit still and demand an explanation as soberly as he could.
“Not now or any other time,” he said, an edge in his tone. “Just give a simple explanation of what you’re talking about—if you can.”
The cold, no-nonsense quality of the words had their effect, and he saw her labored breath as she fought for some self-control. He watched it, the slow gathering of that control, and her voice, when it came, was as distant as his own.
“A child whose parents are not married is illegitimate. If you prefer that word, let’s use it. All I’m trying to say is that our baby will be illegitimate.”
“What?” He felt the back of his neck prickle as he sat up, and suddenly his scalp was tight. “What the devil are you talking about? You must be—”
“But I’m not,” she said, interrupting. “I found out today that we’re not married, at least not legally.”
“Marion!”
“No.” She gestured impatiently with one hand. “Let me finish, please. It’s really very simple. Ted is still alive.”
He knew what she meant then but he could not accept the statement. His mind and senses rebelled and he fought against belief, even though he knew that for her there could be but one Ted. He himself had never seen the man—Marion had been widowed for six months when he first met her—but he knew that for a period of three years she had been Mrs. Ted Corbin.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, aware of the inadequacy of his words but unable to find others.
“I didn’t want to believe it either but it’s true. I saw his picture—”
A sob that was a convulsive choking sound cut through the sentence and he saw her face crumble. Tears spilled from her eyes. When she could no longer face him she bowed her head and covered her mouth and eyes with her hands. The sight of all this torment and helplessness chewed his insides and he came to his feet with a muffled curse. Two long strides took him to her chair and he went to one knee and leaned close.
In his effort to comfort her he took her hands and pulled them gently down and she did not resist. He started to slide an arm around her shoulders and draw her close, and suddenly he could feel her stiffen. When he tried to persist she drew back. Her head came up, and though her eyes were still wet, they were wide open now and there was a look in them he had never seen before. Then, as the astonishment grew in him, she put her hands against his chest and pushed.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Marion!”
“I mean it.”
The cold and brittle sound of the words told him that she was deadly serious, and although he did not understand what prompted the outburst, he wisely withdrew his arm and came to his feet.
He went back to his chair, glaring now as he saw his drink. He snatched it up and finished it in one gulp, but this time the whisky did him no good. For the anger was rising in him now, an impotent helpless anger that had no direction. It took a considerable effort for him to sit down and face her again, to see that the tears had stopped and that she was frightened by what she had done.
“Who told you?” he demanded.
“A man.”
It seemed then, as he recalled the information he had picked up at Cramer’s filling station and Jerry’s Tavern, that he already had the answer.
“Was his name Adler?”
The question seemed to startle her. “How—how did you know?”
“When was the first time you saw him, yesterday afternoon?”
He had her attention now. Her lips were parted and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. She sat up a little straighter, the hazel eyes puzzled and all traces of hysteria gone.
“But—how did you know, John?”
He told her. He spoke of Lee Cramer and Doris Lamar and George Freeman. He kept his voice level in an effort to mask his own doubt and anxiety.
“Yes,” she said when he repeated his question. “I guess it was around four.”
“Did you let him in?”
“No. I hadn’t finished dressing. I had the chain lock on the front door like I always do when you’re not here. He said he was a book salesman. I told him I didn’t want any and he asked me if I had any children. I said no.”
“Then what?”
“He said he was selling some sort of encyclopedia for children. He seemed pleasant enough and I didn’t want to be rude so”—she hesitated and sounded a bit embarrassed as she continued—“I don’t know why I told him this but—”
“Never mind why. Just tell me what you said.”
“I told him there might be a child in another five months and if he wanted to come around again after that I might consider his proposition.” She hesitated again, a frown working on the smoothness of her brow and worry once more clouding her glance. “I started to close the door and he put his weight against it. He gave me a funny smile and suddenly I was afraid of him. I told him if he didn’t leave I would call the police and he said that would be all right with him. He said he wasn’t really selling books; he just wanted to get a look at me. He said he had a message from my husband.”
Again she stopped and once more Hayden prompted her. “What did you say?”
“I told him he was being ridiculous, that if I wanted to talk to my husband all I had to do was pick up the telephone. He said he didn’t mean my present husband; he meant Ted Corbin.”
She took a small breath and said: “I don’t know what all I said then. I know I told him I didn’t believe him, that Ted had been killed along with fifty-eight other people in a plane crash more than two years ago. I guess I said some other things and he waited until I finished, that sly look still in his eyes and that half-smile on his mouth. Then he told me I was mistaken. He said he had seen Ted two weeks ago, that he was in perfect health.
“‘I can prove it to you Mrs. Corbin,’ he said. ‘Or Mrs. Hayden, if you like it better that way. Suppose we keep it a secret, just the two of us, until tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon and I’ll bring that proof with me. If you’re smart you’ll listen to the proposition I have in mind.’”
Again she ran out of breath and this time she stopped. She continued to look right at him but it seemed to him that she did not really see him and after another moment he stood up, the glass still in his hand.
“I take it he came back this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“With proof?”
“He showed me a snapshot of Ted.”
“It could have been taken a long time ago.”
“That’s what I told him but I knew it wasn’t so. Ted’s alive.”
There were a lot of things he wanted to say then but he knew they could wait. He saw that his wife’s drink had scarcely been touched, and now, as he stopped beside her chair, he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and passed it to her.
“Blow your nose.” He waited until she took the handkerchief. “And work on that drink a little, will you?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Pretend it’s medicine. We’ve got some talking to do,” he said. “I want to hear more about this proof Adler has. I want to know just what happened this afternoon.”
He moved through the dining room area to the kitchen door and stopped to glance back at her. He said he was going to make another drink and while he was doing it she could try to remember exactly what had been said.