He insisted on driving home. Completing the fifteen-minute ride in ten, he slammed out of the car, ricocheted up the stairs, and fell across the bed like a beached whale. Methodically, Doris hung up her clothes, showered, creamed her face, and retired to the guest room. She could hear Elton’s resonant snores through the closed door.
The next morning he came down in his robe, his face puffed and unshaved, dropped into a kitchen chair, and stared out the window.
“Coffee?” Doris said coldly.
“Hm? Oh — yes.”
She poured him a cup, pushed it toward him, and watched him as he drank. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“The Hestons. You were awful last night! What got into you?”
He took several gulps of coffee and then focused on her with bleary eyes. “As of next month I’m being replaced by a computer.”
“What?”
“My job’s being phased out.”
Her tone changed to one of apprehension. “Well, surely they’ll give you another position after all the years you’ve put in.”
“Not at my age. Partial retirement and a severance check is all they’re offering.”
Sputtering, Doris said, “What ingrates! The least they could do is find a place for you!” But in her heart she knew there was little chance of that. Elton was no fireball and never had been. As with so many businesses these days, automation was taking over and older employees were being let go to avoid full pension payments.
She felt no sympathy. All she could think about was the drain on her own funds that was sure to come with Elton’s forced retirement. Just looking at him she knew he was finished. He would become an overweight albatross around her neck. Automatically, she began formulating excuses to make to her friends for his unemployment.
She explained it as a heart condition. Poor dear Elton had to take it easy, quit his job, and rest for a time. And that he did. He made no effort to seek out other employment. He retired to his recliner and became as demanding as a sheik with a corner on the oil market. Self-pity became his occupation, and his cocktail hour began earlier with each day of idleness.
Furiously, Doris dug up the bed for the asters. She loved the solid array of colors they offered each fall. She could see Elton through the patio door, a reclining blob constantly feeding and spilling, growing larger, sinking deeper into a world of self-gratification. She had already had to dig into her savings to meet their obligations, to save face.
She had picked at him all morning, made him shave and dress in case someone dropped by. In between her loving ministrations to the garden she tried to keep ahead of his littering. When he’d been working she’d had the whole day to tend her flowers, the house, herself. If nothing else, why couldn’t he be neat, considerate of her routine?
At last she had the bed ready for the asters. The earth had been worked until it was like velvet. Before Doris could devote her full attention to the careful placing of the seeds, she made another sweep of the living room, picking up newspapers and dirty dishes and running the vacuum to take up the new fall of crumbs, scolding Elton in a crescendo that reached a pitch well above the Hoover and the TV.
Back in the orderly, serene world of her garden she dropped to her knees and began the ritual of planting. In the quiet afternoon robins sang their twilight song, wrens chattered in the bushes. Then, abruptly, the patio door flew open and Elton, roaring like a maddened bull, charged out.
“What’s wrong?” She sat back on her heels.
“You never let up on me, you shrew! I’ll show you!” His voice was trembling with rage. His shadow, a giant behemoth, loomed over the peaceful garden. With both hands flailing he began to rip up flowers, pushed over the fragile archway, and began rooting out plants.
Doris’s primary reaction was to save her precious garden. She jumped up and tried to subdue him, but he brushed her off like a fly. She looked around helplessly. Seeing the shovel, she picked it up and circled behind him. The hatred she felt for him now gave strength to the blow she delivered to the back of his head.
He fell heavily face forward into the jonquils, and was still. For a moment Doris stood triumphantly, then she bent down to examine him.
He was dead. She regarded him for a long moment but it wasn’t until she looked at the surrounding ruination that a sob welled up in her throat.
Then panic set in. She had to hide what she had done. There was a tarpaulin in the garage that she used to cover the various sacks of fertilizer, lime, and seed. Quickly she ran over and stripped it off, dashed back to the garden, and covered Elton. She considered the ominous mound, fascinated and horrified, and then bolted into the house, where she poured herself a small glass of straight vodka, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the kitchen table to think.
“He went berserk. I had to defend myself.” “It was an accident. He fell and hit his head on a stepping-stone.” “There was an intruder, and they fought.” Nothing seemed valid.
If he’d fallen she would have called for help long ago. The same with the intruder. If Elton had gone mad, what would people think? Besides, she could have escaped easily by merely outrunning him. The least she could expect was a manslaughter charge. But no matter what the outcome, she couldn’t bear to face the humiliation and awful notoriety of a trial.
It was dusk before she formulated a plan. Recalling Elton’s behavior over the past few months gave her the idea. There was work to do, backbreaking work, and she was thankful for the stamina she possessed, the strength she had acquired from working in the garden.
The dirt in the aster bed was soft and easy to turn. Gingerly, she took the tarpaulin off Elton, spread it alongside the bed to accommodate the earth she would have to shovel out, and began digging. It took her two hours to make a hole deep enough to hold him. The next step would be the worst.
She took several long boards she had used for framing the beds and managed to shove the ends under Elton. Laboriously she rolled him over and over along the wooden track until with one final revolution he plopped neatly into his grave. Next came a generous dose of chemicals from her supply in the garage to hasten his return to dust.
It seemed to take forever — watering, tamping, shoveling — but at last the bed was level, its secret hidden beneath the fine, rich topsoil. Now she was back at the stage in her planting that Elton had interrupted. Carefully, she put down the aster seeds according to her design, gave the bed a light sprinkling, and returned to the house. It was time to make the call.
With a cloth over the mouthpiece she dialed the police.
“I’m at the phonebooth on this side of the river. I just saw a man jump off the bridge!”
“From what part of the bridge, ma’am?” asked the policeman, voice alert.
“In the middle, over the railing of the pedestrian walk. He was in my headlights for just a second. All I can tell you is that he was heavy-set. I have to go now. I left my baby alone in the car.” She hung up before he could ask her any more questions. Over the years people had reported seeing jumpers on that bridge and at least two bodies had never been found. With the strong current and the undertow, it was assumed that they were snagged someplace beneath the murky waters. Satisfied with her performance, she stretched her sore muscles and returned to the garden, where she worked until dawn setting it to rights.
The birds were well into their cheerful welcome to the morning when she collapsed on the chaise to survey her work. Everything was back in order and the archway again presided over the garden. She had been able to save most of the plants and flowers by rerooting them back into the ground. The aster bed looked neat and innocent, awaiting glorious blooms to spring from it.