But the decision was made, and I returned to my apartment cheerful and happy.
And so we were married.
Married? Of course. Why not?
Because he will try to murder me? Well, of course, he will try to murder me. As a matter of fact, he has already tried, half a dozen times.
But Gerald is working at a terrible disadvantage. For he cannot murder me in any way that looks like murder. It must appear to be a natural death, or, at the very worst, an accident. Which means that he must be devious, and he must plot and plan, and never come at me openly to do me in.
And there is the source of his disadvantage. For I am forewarned, and forewarned is forearmed.
But what, really, do I have to lose? At seventy-three, how many days on this earth do I have left? And how rich life is these days! How rich compared to my life before Gerald came into it! Spiced with the thrill of danger, the excitement of cat and mouse, the intricate moves and countermoves of the most fascinating game of all.
And, of course, a pleasant and charming husband. Gerald has to be pleasant and charming. He can never disagree with me, at least not very forcefully, for he can’t afford the danger of my leaving him. Nor can he afford to believe that I suspect him. I have never spoken of the matter to him, and so far as he is concerned I know nothing. We go to concerts and museums and the theater together. Gerald is attentive and gentlemanly, quite the best sort of companion at all times.
Of course, I can’t allow him to feed me breakfast in bed, as he would so love to do. No, I told him, I was an old-fashioned woman, and believed that cooking was a woman’s job, and so I won’t let him near the kitchen. Poor Gerald!
And we don’t take trips, no matter how much he suggests them.
And we’ve closed off the second story of our home, since I pointed out that the first floor was certainly spacious enough for just the two of us, and I felt I was getting a little old for climbing stairs. He could do nothing, of course, but agree.
And, in the meantime, I have found another hobby, though of course Gerald knows nothing of it. Through discreet inquiries, and careful perusal of past issues of the various genealogical magazines, and the use of the family names in Gerald’s family tree, I am gradually compiling another sort of tree. Not a family tree, no. One might facetiously call it a hanging tree. It is a list of Gerald’s wives. It is in with my genealogical files, which I have willed to the Boston library. Should Gerald manage to catch me after all, what a surprise is in store for the librarian who sorts out those files of mine! Not as big a surprise as the one in store for Gerald, of course.
Ah, here comes Gerald now, in the automobile he bought last week. He’s going to ask me again to go for a ride with him.
But I shan’t go.
The Mother of Invention Is Worth a Pound of Cure
Margo rolled over on her side. “Let’s discuss morality,” she said.
How I mistrusted her! Feigning unconcern, I adjusted a pillow against the head board and said, “Morality? Such as.”
“Such as you, dear Roderick. Light me a cigarette.”
I lit two, gave her one, and put the ashtray on the sheet between us. Once, for fun, I’d put the cold glass ashtray on her bare stomach, and without batting an eye she’d mashed the burning end of her cigarette against my leg. That was before I’d known her so well, before I’d learned to be wary.
“Morality,” she said thoughtfully, blowing smoke and considering the sound of the word. “What do you think of morality, Roderick?”
She called me by my full name that way whenever she wanted to tease or provoke me, but I refused to rise to the bait. “Morality,” I said, trying for the light touch, “I think morality is good.”
“Do you? And do you think that you are moral, Roderick? Are you a moral man?”
“About average.”
“Is that so? Roderick, I am a married woman.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“What we are doing together with disgusting frequency, Roderick, is called adultery. You know the word?”
“I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“It’s immoral.”
“And illegal,” I said, still trying for the light touch, “but unless you get pregnant it’s hardly fattening.”
“If you commit adultery, Roderick, you are no longer moral.”
“Morality in moderation,” I said. “Everything in moderation. Except sex, of course.”
“Stop that, I’m talking.”
I shifted position. “Sorry.”
“There is no such thing,” she said, looking very serious, “as morality in moderation, that was a very stupid joke.”
“My apologies.”
“One is either moral, or one is immoral. Sinful, or pure. Once you sin, there is no longer any question; you are immoral. Commit one sin, and it’s the same as though you’ve committed them all.”
“Is this your own theology?”
“Theology has nothing to do with it, I’m discussing morals. Once you do something immoral, knowing it to be immoral, and do it anyway for whatever reason, there’s nothing more to be said for you.”
“And you,” I said. “It takes two to tangle.”
She raised her head and offered me a wintry smile. “I’m aware of that, Roderick,” she said. “I make no pretension to be moral.”
“Good.”
“Being capable of one immorality,” she went on, “I now know I am capable of any immorality. Whatever I want, whatever I need, whatever is necessary.” She smiled again, as before. “But what about you?”
“Me?”
“You have never struck me,” she said, “as the introspective type. I suspect you have never spent a quiet evening thinking about your relationship to common morality.”
“The lady wins a cigar.”
“The gentleman loses.”
“Loses what?”
She rolled over, sat up, flicked ashes into the tray. “That depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On how stupid you are.”
“Oh, very stupid.”
“I know. But too stupid?” She raised her head all at once, and looked full at me. Such a striking face, with its prominent cheekbones, its cold blue eyes, its hungry mouth; a barbaric beauty, more erotic than I can say. “Can you,” she said, “accept the real-life implications of the philosophical truth I have just described? Once you fall from grace, you must be prepared to perform any immoral action, as required. Do you know why?”
“I imagine you’re about to ten me.”
“Yes, I am.” So serious, so intent. “The only reason,” she said, “to refuse to perform an immoral act, other than self-interest, is the claim that you are moral and such an act is foreign to your nature. If, on the other hand, an immoral act is presented to you as being advantageous to you, and if you have performed other immoral acts in the past, then you can have no objection, no defense, no acceptable reason for saying no. Do you agree with me?”
I would have agreed with anything she said. “Yes,” I said.
“Good.” She put her cigarette out — in the ashtray, happily — and got up from the bed. “Get dressed,” she said. “Charles will be home in an hour.”
“Is that it?” I said. “Conversation finished?”
“What more is there to say? You agree that an immoral person cannot refuse to perform any immoral act, except from the argument of self-interest. That says it all.”
I said, “I thought you were leading up to something.”
She laughed. “You’re such a fool, Roderick. Get up from there now.”
“I want to take a shower.” I loved their walk-in shower, all blue tile.
But she said, “No, not tonight. Just get dressed and get out of here.”
Too bad. But with her mood so cruel and changeable, it was perhaps just as well to be leaving. I got out of bed and dressed myself.
Always she gave me a five-dollar bill for cabfare. Yes, and when we were out together she’d hand me a twenty-dollar bill to pay a twelve-doliar restaurant tab, and we would never speak of the change. Margo was hardly the first woman with whom I’d developed such a relationship, but she was by far the youngest and most attractive. At first I’d been amazed that she should require this son of arrangement, but later on I came to understand: her personality was too savage to put up with unless one softened it with cash.
Tonight, however, the five-dollar bill did not put in its usual appearance. Instead she said, “After four months of you, Roderick, I am sorry to have to tell you your services will no longer be required.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She smiled. “You’re being laid off,” she said.
“Margo...”
“Now, dear.” She put her hand on my arm. “Don’t say anything, it will only be stupid.”
“But—”
“Before you go,” she said, “I have something to show you. Come along.”
I followed her, baffled and more than a little worried, to her office, a small quaint room off the kitchen, containing a desk at which she sat while paying bills and a long sofa on which — because I am who I am — I had always craved to make love to Margo and on which — because she is who she is my craving had never been satisfied. Motioning at this sofa now, she said, “Sit down while I find it.”
I sat down. To my left was the view of the river and, beyond it, Long Island City and all the decaying borough of Queens. Far below us, out of sight because so close to the building, was FDR Drive, a race course for taxicabs. A gentle breeze came through the window, redolent of the smells of Queens and the sounds of Manhattan.
Margo was rummaging through her desk. “I wonder,” she said, as though distracted, hardly thinking what she was saying, “what will ever become of you, Roderick.”
I knew her by now. She was never distracted, never less than totally aware of what she was saying. It had been, in fact, a sad blow to what might be called my professional pride that I never could manage to offer her total distraction. Now, therefore, I understood that she was rummaging through the desk merely for effect, and that what she was saying was both calculated and important. I listened, searching for the hook, and said nothing.
“You’re getting older,” she went on. “In a few years your value on the open market will begin to dip. As it is, you’ll never again find anyone as” — she smiled at me — “interesting to work for as me.”
This was all true, bitterly true, and it was a mark of her cruelty that she would drag it into the open at the same time she was firing me. I kept my face blank and my mouth shut.
Now at last she came up with an envelope, legal-size, which she handed me with a flourish, saying, “Read that. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Within the envelope was a single sheet of paper, written on in Margo’s small, thin, economical hand, and addressed To Whom It May Concern. The body of the letter was as follows: