It all began happily, if unexpectedly, one flawless Saturday morning just after Thanksgiving. The air held that special crispness that demands one last deep breath of late autumn purity. The sun did its best to shine despite seasonal weakness. Leaves had finally abandoned the trees. Streets were filled with the season’s early shoppers. Store windows, lampposts, overhead wires were draped in tinselly, sparkling things. Candy canes, ornaments, miniature St. Nicks with herds of reindeer abounded, both in blow-up variety and hard, molded plastic. In sum, all things festoonable had been festooned and, overnight, Brooklyn Heights transformed into a perfectly noxious holiday carnival.
I had just returned to my apartment after a brisk early saunter. As the bolt of the upper lock released, I spotted the corner of an envelope sticking out from under the door. Initially, I mistook it for a menu from one of the nearby Chinese or Moroccan restaurants. They’re often left strewn about in the hallway. It wasn’t a menu. The quality of the paper told me that. A formal note, how quaint I thought. A few simple words in Waterman ink, an invitation to a weekend, alone I assumed, with Sheila. A phone call would have been more efficient and added a few extra tenths to her billable hours.
The invite said ‘fourish’, two weeks hence, her place in the country. What did I know of Sheila? A rising associate in a white shoe firm that handles employment work for the Company. Smart, obviously. A dry sense of humor. Good figure, long, slender legs. Not a head turner but a face to be studied, then appreciated. Unmarried. Whenever we spoke on the phone, I thought first of the face, flush cheeked and cheerful, then of those long, slender legs. I responded first thing on Monday, told Sheila I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
The weekend arrived with the threat of snow. The local weatherman predicted it would begin around eleven that morning and turn heavy sometime after one. If the forecast was right, I might find myself trapped in the country with Sheila for the weekend. Canaan, if all things went well, if Sheila was thinking what I was thinking. On the other hand, if the snow got serious during the ride upstate, the Jag might make trouble. British built cars often do. The wiring is temperamental in rough weather. The car doesn’t handle a wet road well. There was really no debate. If I stayed in the city, I might never find out about Sheila’s intentions and forecasts are seldom reliable.
The dog sitter didn’t turn up until two, a complicated story. It’s always complicated with young people. I hated leaving the dog, an Italian Spinone as gentle and loving as a dog can be, but what choice did I have. Sheila might be allergic or worse, not a dog lover.
When I left Brooklyn, the sky was as blue as the veins of an old man’s nose. I allowed plenty of time for the drive. If traffic was light, I could always stop for coffee. Make a fashionably late arrival. Give Sheila plenty of time to get ready. Try not to seem like a hound in rut.
The weatherman called it right though his timing was off by a few hours. Midway into the drive, snow began to fall. Large powdery flakes at first, a postcard scene, then sheet after sheet of wet, wicked snow. The Jag insisted on caution. I obliged, kept my eyes on the red lights in front of me and the speedometer at just under thirty. The Thruway was bad, the back roads were worse, narrow and winding and dark. I needn’t have worried about a premature arrival.
By the time I reached Sheila’s house, an accumulation of nearly half a foot prevented the Jag from attempting the driveway, a narrow, heavily wooded traverse. I abandoned the car on the road and force marched one hundred or so yards to the front door. Snow was still falling heavily and little but the front porch light was visible of the house until I was almost upon it. Shoes and socks filled with the cold, white stuff. My trousers were soaked from the knee down.
I looked for a bell without success then knocked. After a pause of about a minute, the door swung open to a dimly lit room and Sheila. Behind her was a small but unexpected group of people, familiar people, to themselves and me. They stood in a tight circle around the fireplace and an over logged fire. The heat was fierce but welcome. Between this group and Sheila was a long plank table holding a copper bin filled with ice and several bottles of chilling champagne. On the floor was a plastic bag of melting ice and two cardboard boxes, one filled with empties, the other with unopened bottles. A small party had apparently been planned and was well underway.
I had never been to Sheila’s house before. She rented it for the summer, enjoyed the experience immensely and decided to renew the lease through the following year. She told me this in September, when the sun is warm and the leaves are still green. I should have warned her of late March, of mud season and winter fatigue.
The house was of modern design, sharp angles, jutting corners, lots of pale wood. Floor to ceiling windows in the rear overlooked a small lake and a forest of pine. With snow falling and the lake an icy white mirror, the view was magnificent. A perfect snow globe of deep country winter.
Inside the house, the furniture was heavy and comfortable, all leather, glass and chrome. In the late spring and summer months, the interior would be filled with light. Now, the hour was late, the sky dark and heavy. The only light in the room came from the fireplace. A warm, orange glow highlighted a relaxed, animated crowd.
“I was worried.” Sheila stood in the doorway, a half-filled glass of bubbly in her hand, a smear of bright lipstick on the rim. She radiated sex and genial hospitality. There was not an ounce of worry in her face. She wore a tight-fitting velvet pantsuit, belted at the waist, a deep crimson color that matched her lips. “You didn’t call. With the weather–” She smiled impishly, shrugged her shoulders and leaned her head in my direction. A scented cheek brushed mine, leaving in its wake a trace of honey and jasmine. “Not everyone is so intrepid.” Her hand swept across the room. “Come in” she cooed. “You look like Frosty the Snowman. You know everyone, of course.” Nods, smiles, raised glasses responded.
I knew them all, liked them all well enough, some more so than others. Sheila took my arm, led me to the group. Her hand slipped under my coat. Her fingers massaged the soft flesh of my hip. Her touch sent an electric tingle through my nervous system. I felt it distinctly. I’m sure she must have felt it too. Hope that had faded with the discovery of other guests began to rekindle.
Sheila parked me between Antonia and Chap, short for Chapman, Antonia’s current fast-fish and interim soulmate. She took my coat and scarf, nodded to the table and ice bucket. “We’re way ahead of you” she said and glided away with my coat. My eyes followed hungrily. Antonia watched with amusement or scorn. Probably both. I didn’t particularly care.
Antonia and I met in college, sophomore year, across a card table in the Student Union. I can’t say it was love at first sight, unless the love in question is contract bridge. We were natural partners, anticipating, understanding each other’s approach to the game. We should have left it at that, two supremely compatible bridge players. Sadly, we couldn’t and didn’t. When her roommate dropped out of school to join the VISTA program, we moved in together, became young, clumsy lovers.
She was Antonia Frank back then, an intense but untested young dumpling with dark tangled curls and a critical eye. Her eyes were magnified by cat eye framed glasses the size of pie plates. She was a major in art history, a minor in poli sci. A justice warrior, protest marcher, fighter for causes, great and small. Naturally, she went to law school. She was irresistible, to me at least, if not others. That was enough for us both for a while.
It’s never different this time. Tomorrow, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the young will grow older, the dead remain dead. Antonia and I married, were miserable and divorced. Fortunately for the children, there were none. That was all many years ago. We have remained friends. She is still my preferred bridge partner.
The two other guests were lawyers who worked with Sheila. One a junior partner, Homer Donald. A Yalie, about forty, on the small side with thinning hair, the start of a paunch. Confident, opinionated. The other guest was an associate, Jean Ferenc, her smile too broad, too frequent, too forced. Also, on the small side. Dark hair, dark glasses, not into fashion. Clearly non-partner track. Neither played bridge.
As I have introduced my host and her guests, I will now introduce myself. By all outward appearance, I am a quiet, unremarkable civil servant of orthodox view and modest ambition. A minor cog in a vast, impersonal machine. Ah, but outward appearance is often a poor indicator and the way of Tweedle-Dum is not the way of Tweedle-Dee. Such is the case with your narrator. Such also is life within the Company. I may explain further in these pages. Then again, I may not.
I take my name from my grandfathers. Harold, my mother’s father, Adrian, my father’s. The surname is Russell. Harold Adrian Russell. Because of my father’s passion for anything written by Dickens, he called me, at birth, his ‘Little Pip’ and ‘Pip’ is what I have been called all my life.
My father was a diplomat, not by profession but disposition. He was soft spoken, even tempered, judicious. Very set in his ways. Mother was a chain smoking intellectual. Passionate, assertive, stubborn as a country mule when she was right. More so when she was wrong. They were not evenly matched. Opposites rarely are.
My parents were bridge players. They were both clever, educated, observant. Competitive, each in their own way. Bridge is the perfect game for people of that temperament. I believe the game also gave them cover for their perpetual bickering and hid an unhappy marriage from their circle of friends, of which they had many. Saturday nights were bridge nights. There were often two games going at once. There were a few non-players who followed the action and, of course, plenty of alcohol, gossip and not so light hearted flirtation. They weren’t really bad parties. No brawls, no black eyes or lost teeth. Just a few hurt feelings and an occasional woman passed out in the bathroom. On balance, it wasn’t really as congenial a crowd as it seemed.
I became a bridge player too. Chess may hold more purity as a game but what’s life without a little luck and why exist without a challenge. Bridge came naturally to me. A game of strategy, deception, concealment and tactics. The unknown decisive, the known artfully disguised.
“Hello, Chap.” I stuck out my hand in his direction. Antonia watched warily. Chap responded with a nod and light pressure, the barest of smiles. Okay, some of Sheila’s guests I didn’t like at all. I craned my neck in Antonia’s direction. She did the same. We made solid contact. Her lips, my cheek.
“How’s it going, Pip.” Antonia’s critical eyes were on me. She had long since ditched the pie plates for soft contact lenses. “Sheila said you’d be here.” Her eyes shifted from me to Chap then back to me. I would swear that her face softened when it returned to me.
“Couldn’t be better” I answered with unusual enthusiasm. “I like your hair short.”
Antonia’s curls were clipped at the ear. She wore expressive native jewelry. Long, dangling, feathery things for earrings, around her neck a heavy silver chain with enameled medallion. “A butterfly” she advised me, “Aztec. Symbol of Transformation.”
We discussed Sheila briefly. Antonia knew her from the League of Women Voters. Tried to get her to join the Resistance Committee. Occasionally, they played bridge together when a fourth could be found. If not, they played three handed.
“What’s new with you, Chap?” I didn’t really care and wished I hadn’t asked. He smiled again weakly and shrugged. Chap was in public radio and a weekend sailor. He wore a double vented jacket to cover his fat ass. His face was as flabby as the rest of him.
“Oh, not much really” he replied distractedly and left us to refill his glass.
“And, how have you been Antonia?” I gave her my sincerest smile. “It’s been quite a while.” For some hidden reason, I found myself hoping there was friction between Antonia and Chap.
She looked deeply into her glass. “I’m okay” she said unconvincingly. She fingered the medallion then looked up quickly. Her mouth quivered, as if she were about to say more. Her eyes moved in Chap’s direction. “I suppose” she added mysteriously.
There was no opportunity for further words between us before the call to dinner. Sheila had planned a simple meal of spare ribs and barbecued chicken from a local roadside stand, with the usual side dishes involving starch, mayonnaise and cabbage. Inelegant perhaps but a damned tasty feed. A large bowl filled with weeds and grasses was provided for the less hearty eaters. All washed down with plenty of the sparkling stuff. The clean-up was more elaborate. An evening of bridge was to follow and no one wants sticky fingers dealing the cards.
As we set up a table for cards, the lights flickered briefly, then gave up the ghost entirely. A moment’s nervous laughter. Indecision and silence reigned. Candles were eventually found and lit. A dim yellow glow captured contentment, satisfaction, the onset of inebriety. The atmosphere was almost romantic. This was Sheila’s first winter storm in the country. All of life’s conveniences involve electricity. No power means no water, no phone. Sheila had not yet discovered this.
“Pip, be my partner” said Sheila. ‘It’s time we broke up the Antonia-Pip duet.”
Sheila took my hand with a firm, moist squeeze. Her smile was irresistible. So were the long, slender legs and tight velvet fabric that stretched across her hips. I smiled weakly at Antonia. She scowled at Sheila.
The game went on until past midnight. One game and two non-players, Homer and Ms. Ferenc, who wandered from fireplace to ice bucket and occasionally stood behind us and watched the play.
I have never played a defensive game. Like Giorgio Belladonna, I rely on an aggressive, decisive approach. Only one way forward. Pick a cliché. Life favors the prudent, the sagacious, the prepared. Nonsense, it favors the reckless. Until they triumph or flame out gloriously. Fear and adrenaline, the racing heart. If I appear cautious in my game, suspect a trap.
With Antonia to my side instead of in her usual place across the table, the match was evenly made. So familiar is she with my game and I with hers that there was no real advantage to either. Throughout the evening, we talked fondly of old friends and past adventures, of splendid meals and long vacations in faraway places.
“Please, God”, I begged, “no politics.”
At one point in the evening, Antonia’s leg brushed mine. It might have been an accident but, when it happened again, well, I know an attitude signal when I feel one. This time, she let her calf rest against mine. I offered a little friction and the leg moved away but I detected a faint smile on her lips. The game continued without another appendage overture.
The last hand delivered both the thrill and the agony. I had followed Antonia’s Queen of Diamonds lead with a low trump play, forcing Chap into a simple squeeze. He overtrumped, a careless and lazy mistake, and I shot a guarded glance at Antonia. A serious frown was on her face as she glared at Chap. My eyes shifted back to Sheila. My satisfaction was short lived. Homer Donald stood behind her. His hand rested on her shoulder. Sheila crooked her neck to trap it. A soft, throaty murmur escaped from her lips. Homer’s confident smile reeked of possession. At one point during dinner, Sheila described Homer as her mentor. Apparently, she meant in more ways than law.
My enthusiasm for the game suddenly faded. Yawning noisily, I stretched in my chair. “Maybe time for a break” I suggested. Agreement followed from all and we took seats around the fire. The ice bucket was empty. The last bottle of bubbly was consumed. Our thirst was not.
“I’ll make hot toddies” announced Ms. Ferenc, the non-bridge playing associate. “A perfect way to finish the evening.” That’s when we discovered there was no water, no stove. The well ran on electricity as did the igniter on the gas range. We mixed bourbon with cold water from the champagne bucket and grew increasingly plastered in front of the fire.
The snow was still falling just as heavily as it had since afternoon. Wind pelted the windows with a steady, soothing patter. Homer removed his arm from Sheila’s shoulder, rose from the sofa and added too much wood to the fire. Chap’s eyes were closing, his head beginning to sag to his chest. Ms. Ferenc favored me with an overbroad smile. Antonia’s critical eyes narrowed to razor-sharp slits.
“Well, I’ll bet we’ve gotten at least eighteen inches” said Antonia.
“No” I said. “More like a foot…but deep enough.”
“I haven’t heard a snow plow yet” said Ms. Ferenc helpfully, “and they make a lot of noise.”
“They don’t give you much for the tax money up here” said Sheila, “but I’m told they’re pretty good about plowing the roads.”
We speculated about many things. Whether the driveway would be plowed by morning, when the power would return and whether someone should venture outside to gather snow for tomorrow’s water, how long the bourbon would last.
“Well, gang” said Sheila, “I’m off to bed. I’ll mention Central Hudson in my prayers. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have electricity again.”
“Yep. Me too” said Homer with too much enthusiasm.
Jean Ferenc offered me an enormous, slightly loopy smile. Her room was on the first floor in the rear. She wobbled quietly to it, looking back hopefully in my direction once or twice. By now, Chap was sound asleep in a chair by the fire. His snores would have drowned out a snow plow. Antonia looked from Chap to me with disgust and shrugged. “I can’t tell you the last time…” She offered a bitter, resigned smile. “Nothing doing down here.”
She walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom with me right behind her. As we passed Sheila’s bedroom, we heard rude noises that told us Sheila was not alone. Antonia looked back at me and giggled in a way I remembered from college when the RA was on the floor and we were trying not to make too much noise. At her door, Antonia turned her head to me and smiled. I followed into her room.
“What about Chap?” I asked. It was not an unreasonable question.
“Don’t worry about him” she replied. “I’m being punished for Sheila’s invitation of you.”
“Was that your idea?” I asked hopefully. While there’s not a chance in hell Antonia and I will ever get back together, a weekend boxed in by foul weather shouldn’t go to waste and my first choice, Sheila, proved a bitter disappointment.
“No, not my idea. But Chap is the jealous type.” Antonia screwed up her face. “He’s also the controlling type, the vindictive type and the mean, sloppy drunk type. I knew he’d probably find some other bed for the night. I’m surprised he wasn’t all over that mouse Sheila invited for cover.”
“So many reasons to love the boy” I mused.
By now, Antonia was shedding soft, crocodile tears. I knew the routine. Any misfortune in her life, not always earth-shattering, and water flowed from Antonia’s eyes like a spillway at the Kensico Dam. For some reason, disappointment aroused her. The only acceptable response was gallant, male comfort. No matter, I was game.
We were soon rolling around the bed, ripping at each other’s clothing, searching and finding long forgotten spots of carnal catalyst. Bodies throbbing, grinding, generating that sublime friction, our mouths as slick as fresh rain on melting ice. Antonia’s earrings jangled loosely in rhythm. The Aztec pendant snagged bits of hair from my chest, the sting adding intensity to the fire. We tumbled from the bed with a thud and continued uninterrupted on the floor. In the heat of the act, my eyes always close. Antonia’s, as I remembered, stay open. Her critical eyes survive even the height of her passion.
When the business was done and I lay beside her, I could feel the cold of bare pine floorboards cooling the overheated flesh of my bottom. I exhaled deeply and laughed the laugh of the fulfilled but spent. I looked to Antonia, expecting a similar, satisfied release. Her head was tilted back against the mattress. The critical gaze was gone, replaced by an unfocused stare. Her eyeballs bulged oddly, exposing a great deal of white. Her jaw was slack. Her tongue was visible and pushed her lower lip outward. The chain was twisted around her throat. Somehow, in our union, my arm must have worked its way through the chain, providing lethal torque. I wondered later if this had increased the intensity of her orgasm. A final, if unexpected, pleasure.
“Tone?” I whispered in that affectionate diminutive but answer she did not. I got to my knees and knelt over her, shook her shoulders, lightly at first, then violently. Her jaw dropped lower, her head snapped loosely forward and back. There was no point repeating her name. She had either forgotten it or couldn’t hear me. Sadly, it was the latter. Dear Antonia had made the ultimate sacrifice, expiring in the saddle as it were. This, I had assumed, only happened to men.
I would have cried if capable or if it would have made a difference. The business of our coupling was delicate, hard to explain though innocent enough to the sufficiently broad-minded. However, the end result, a rapidly cooling and lifeless body, raised other more complicated legal issues, not all of them so pure. Or blameless. An ex-husband penem intrantem, his successor drunk and asleep in the wings, the object of our mutual ministration leaking seed, my seed, on the uncarpeted floor. It didn’t look good.
‘One was damned and one was saved.’ Easy call. Time to muddy the well of inquiry with the stick of precaution. Musboot, Lord of Lies and Panic would guide me. I found a silk scarf in a dresser drawer, a lovely thing of deep reds and bright orange, and wrapped it around Antonia’s neck. I arranged her body comfortably in front of a closet and looped the scarf around the door knob extending her neck just enough to show adequate tension. A little work on the eyes, the jaw and mouth and Antonia looked almost serene. It might just appear, to a cursory inspection, to have been suicide. Despondency strikes I would wail and cry ‘Chap you fiend, what have you’ve done?’ though not so colorfully as to draw too much attention.
I dressed hurriedly and returned to my room for a moment of reflection. Could I get away with the suicide ploy? Had my skills of imposition been sufficiently effective? Would anyone buy it? Probably not I concluded. An alternative plan was needed.
Years at the Company, practicing the Dark Arts on a grand, global scale is not without price. Deception invites paranoia. No, demands it. A couple holding hands, a woman walking a dog, a young man raking leaves. Innocent people, everyday scenes. But are they what they appear to be? I have been those people and I certainly wasn’t what I appeared to be. Innocent strangers? Not a chance. Coincidence? Quite the opposite. There’s always a reason. A purpose. Or perhaps not. It’s been my job to know, to distinguish.
Ah, the lies we live, the lies we dream of living. Eventually, all things appear jaundiced to jaundiced eyes. Trust the couple holding hands? The young man raking leaves? The woman walking her dog?
“Four be the things I am wiser to know, idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.” It was a woman’s voice, a familiar voice. It was Mother’s voice.
“As always, Mother, thank you.” I replied. “But I have no use for idleness or sorrow and a friend is unlikely in my occupation. And unwise. That leaves only the foe and him, or her, I must know to survive. Trust no one but the dog.”
“The dog?” Mother disagreed and was gone.
My mind raced unconstrained. Memories of childhood resurfaced. The warmth of the rug in front of the television. Sunday morning cartoons. The taste of jam and butter spread thick on toast. The hope that springs eternal with Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a huggin’ third. Other memories were not so happily recalled. A Saturday night bridge get together. Me banished to my room in the attic. The view from my window overlooking a moonlit backyard. Father and the school librarian. Mother’s bitter indictment, unproved, undenied.
My eyes closed. I tried to concentrate. Had I really killed Antonia in the act? Was she dead on the floor of a room not meters from this one? An insane dream? A fantasy gone wrong? I was tempted to go back to her room to be sure. I opened my eyes. The setting seemed real enough, an unfamiliar room in the country, my crotch still convincingly damp. Might as well play along. There was much to think of, much to do.
My ears filled with Mother’s voice reciting more lines of the poem. “Four be the things I’d been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.” Love, for me, has been a strange affair. I’ve been married. We remained friends, until moments ago, although I can’t say that love had much to do with it. I suppose you could say that I love a way of life, of intrigue and charade and, of course, a well-played hand. Nothing, and no one, more…or less. I have a curious nature and doubt comes occasionally but brings little with it. I don’t have freckles.
I sat on the edge of the bed, tried to rid my mind of extraneous thought when I heard a noise coming from downstairs. I crept out of my room, tiptoed to the landing and strained, in the darkness, to see what could be seen. In the door of an open refrigerator, Chap stood, leisurely searching for something to eat. A piece or fruit, a leaf of lettuce, something without substance or flavor. The sound of spirited coition coming from two separate upstairs rooms must have roused him from sleep. Made him hungry. But not inquisitive.
“Look at the moron” said Mother quite incensed. “He’s standing there with the refrigerator door open while the power is off. Go give him a piece of your mind.”
I crept downstairs to engage him, as well as give myself a moment to think. Once fed, he might decide to climb the stairs and reward Antonia with his presence. I was about to point out his selfishness in letting the cold air escape from the refrigerator when he turned in my direction, a celery stick slathered with creamed cheese in hand, and belched in my face. Before I knew it, I found myself banging happily on his head like a drum with a cast iron skillet. The refrigerator door slammed shut. Chap’s inert form slid to the floor, his face an ashen mask of surprise.
Now, I didn’t hate Chap. Hate required more effort than he was worth. Nonetheless, while I was not displeased to see blood trickling from newly exposed capillaries at the top of his head down the front of his face, I knew I had gone too far. Sheila would never invite me back.
“You’ve certainly given him a piece of your mind” observed Mother. “And, now what? Is there a plan to extract yourself from this mess?”
“Well, I haven’t gotten around to thinking of one just yet” I responded as I examined Chap, without success, for signs of life. “It’s all been a little too sudden.”
That must not have been the answer Mother wanted for she vanished as quickly as she appeared. Now, I am generally prepared for life’s unexpected. Blizzards, power outages, running out of champagne. I am even prepared for death. I have that luxury. And when I am reduced to powder and my dust graces soft, vernal winds, I won’t have a worry but, at this particular moment, I was not prepared for jail.
I heard the slow creak of a door opening. Ms. Ferenc poked her head cautiously into the hallway. Outside, there was still no evidence of a snow plow. No strain of motors in low-gear. No jangle of tires wrapped in chains. No scrape of steel plow against ice crusted asphalt. Only the sound of the wind blowing vicious gusts of wet snow, rattling windows and ice falling in chunks from the roof. The kitchen island stood between Ms. Ferenc and the refrigerator. She could only see me from the waist up, not the skillet in my hand or Chap’s soulless body oozing blood on the floor. Still, what little she’d seen could not be unseen and, in the morning, she’d remember and worse understand.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
Certainly not, I thought. “Just getting a bite to eat” I replied. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You know what must be done” whispered Mother, close by my ear.
Until this moment, I had never seriously considered the course of action I was about to undertake. Oh, in an odd moment, I might have mused on the idea in an academic, detached sort of way. An idle fantasy, a script for a movie that would never be made. Antonia’s death had been an accident. Chap’s a moment of uncontrollable, if forgivable, madness. I was traveling in unmapped terrain. Then, I remembered my first impression of Homer Donald. The smug, satisfied face. The weak, clammy handshake. His hand on Sheila’s shoulder. Idle fantasy suddenly seemed a real possibility. A comedy, a tragedy? Both depending on the role to be played and I the author.
My father liked to say, if you must choose sides, bear in mind that you may be wrong and that you are certainly not as right as you think you are. Good advice, perhaps, but I reject it totally. Make a choice and damned the consequences.
“You can do this, Pip” urged mother. “You may be leaving the game but there’s always some unfinished business.”
Jean Ferenc had withdrawn her head and closed the bedroom door. I left Chap where he plopped and headed down the hall to her room. On the way, I threw more wood on the fire. No reason to be uncomfortable. I tapped lightly on the hollow, veneered door, an economy I found surprising in such a substantial and elaborately designed house.
“Ms. Ferenc, are you awake?” I whispered.
She must have been standing just inside the door. It swung open a crack exposing her nose and eyeglasses. Her eyes were wide and bulged beneath the glasses. How like my last view of Antonia sans glasses. Ms. Ferenc was wheezing audibly, her breath redolent of an evening of heavy drinking. For once, there was no bootlicking smile. She nodded nervously in response to my question. Her eyes seemed to grow even wider. Did I detect fear in those distended eyes? Had she seen more than I thought? What did she suspect? What did she know?
“I was about to make myself a drink” I offered the sincerest of smiles, the one that disguises the knife. “The wind woke me. You look like you might need one too.”
Her eyelids fluttered nervously. The door opening narrowed. Her nose receded a fraction of an inch. Ms. Ferenc considered my offer for a moment with furrowed brow. A trace of the overused smile reformed on her lips and then her head nodded affirmatively, with slightly more vigor this time.
“Be right back” I said. She closed the door without a word. I heard the sound of the latch being fastened.
I trotted down the hall to my room and a supply of Carisoprodol which I take to relax. The drug can be obtained without prescription if you work for the Company. And know where to get it. Common side effects include drowsiness, dizziness and headache. It should not be taken with alcohol. I didn’t plan to but I thought Ms. Ferenc might need to relax. In fact, I knew she did. With a few tablets in my hand, I returned to the kitchen, to Chap, his uneaten celery stalk and the remainder of the bottle of bourbon.
“Make sure to use two different style glasses” said Mother. “That shouldn’t be hard in a rented house and you don’t want to mix up the two.” The female of the species being more deadly than the male and certainly the more clever, I did as instructed and reappeared at Ms. Ferenc’s door.
“Let’s sit in the loft” I suggested. “It’s just above the fireplace. Nice and warm. Watch the snow fall on the lake.” Ms. Ferenc agreed reluctantly though I suspected she would have preferred to stay in her room, with me possibly in her bed.
There was no need to talk and we didn’t. Just sat on the floor, drinks in hand, shoulder touching shoulder and looked out at the night. A wind-blown canvas of bitter white cotton, snow-garnished trees, deep, penetrating darkness. In the loft, we were comfortable, warm and miles beyond wasted.
The tablets worked their magic. Ms. Ferenc was soon deep in dreams. She was a wisp of a woman, small framed and slender. No hips to speak of. Easy to lift and transport to a more appropriate location. The stairs were a chore in my condition and it’s not easy to open a door with an unconscious woman in your arms. I managed without disturbance and gently deposited dear Jean in a snowdrift, face down, mere feet from the front door. Drifting snow would cover her body and my footsteps by morning. Drunk and disoriented, a plausible accident? Remember, I hadn’t had much time to think, some of the cards were still in the deck and there were no other bids on the table. I was also three sheets to the wind but I doubt that would have made much of a difference. It was very late in the game. Except for yours truly, the house was asleep. Three permanently. The plan, as it appeared to be developing, seemed to allow for no happy ending. Death or jail? Was there no alternative? Time to consult Mother.
“Better a live dog than a dead lion.” Mother had always been quick with an adage. “In the words of the grand master, Alfred Sheinwold” she continued in an aphoristic vein, “the test of a real bridge player isn’t in avoiding trouble, but in escaping trouble once one is in it.”
Mother was, in her day, a fair hand at the game. That day ended, unfortunately, some years ago in a sprawling medical complex in the Bronx. No matter. She and the master offered hope, leaving me to fill in the details. Three deaths would be hard to explain. Would five be that much more difficult? That was the question I had to answer. As it stood now, only three Kings of Cologne remained, me included, to bear witness, not gifts. Two against one? Very likely. Divide and conquer? An option, but could Sheila be trusted?
“Can Sheila be trusted?” laughed Mother. “This from a man who trusts only his dog?”
Mother’s point was well taken. “Well then” I shrugged, “I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“Tennis” said Mother who was rarely out of ideas.
“Tennis?” I seldom question Mother.
“Tennis” she repeated with conviction. “Think Vitas Gerulaitis”
“Tennis.” I rolled the word around in my brain. Mother was right, of course. The better choice, eliminate both. It all made sense. It shouldn’t have.
Stealth was needed and stealth I could manage. The only tools required were a shower cap and a towel. Like a serpent, I crawled into Sheila’s room. The windows were closed. She and her partner slept blissfully in each other’s arms. On the floor beside the bed, a space heater glowed with propane-fueled brilliance. Each bedroom was equipped with one, mine included. All that was required was minor tampering with the air intake valve, a trick out of Chapter One in the Company playbook, and voila, the heater produces an odorless, colorless gas. Lethal to sleeping humans in a tightly sealed room. I covered the ceiling detector with the shower cap and plugged the door at the bottom with a towel. Time and fumes would do the rest.
“Let the punishment fit the crime” crooned mother in the cold sing-song way of a bird late in winter.”
“And, what is the crime, Mother?” I asked.
“A faithless invitation. Fornication. Public betrayal” she replied. “And besides” she added, “the wench is dead.”
“Yes” I admitted. “Or soon will be.”
I slithered from Sheila’s room and returned to the viper’s nest. Now, I had only to leave the window open in my room, sabotage the controls on my own space heater and wait. In a few hours, I would return to the locus mortuorum and dispose of the towel and shower cap. A call would be made to 911. No one at this end would be on the line. The phone would be left off the hook. When the police finally made their way through the snow to investigate, I would appear to be in a state approaching quietus. Nothing more for me to do but take a nice nap. I deserve it. It’s been a busy evening.
“My window was open all night” I would manage to groan. “A little fresh air helps me sleep.” My eyes would then widen in wonder at life’s unpredictable fortune. “That’s probably what saved me.”
“A foolproof plan” crowed Mother. “Neat. Nearly perfect but how does the unfortunate business with Chap fit into your narrative?”
“Shit!” I’d forgotten about Chap’s untimely, unscripted demise. A more prudent man, or one who was reasonably sober, would have thought of this.
“I suppose” mused Mother, “when questioned, you’ll have no ready explanation. In your gas muddled mind, you’ll be left with only conjecture. Again, let the punishment fit the crime. Chap must have discovered your indiscretion with Antonia. Confronted her, perhaps forcefully. What’s a woman to do but defend herself? Distraught and remorseful, she returned to her room and, overcome with guilt, she…” Mother looked disinterestedly to the heavens and shrugged. “A reasonable explanation and it eliminates the need for that ridiculous speech you planned to give blaming Chap as the cause of Antonia’s suicide. All things in their proper place and not a witness to dispute you. A perfect grand slam if the cards fall just right.”
“That’s it exactly. Thank you, Mother.”
The author has had stories published in Tinge Magazine, Junto Magazine, Free Spirit and The Dark Sire Magazine.