She went back into the livingroom, sat down at the table, and stared into space. Her entire world — her being, her very reason for existance — seemed to have evaporated, leaving her with a great emptiness she had never before experienced.
Then, slowly, her mind began seeking a way out, an excuse, anything that would bring her back from the void. Perhaps the red sedan was not Fred’s. After all, she had not seen the license plate, and there could easily be a dozen such cars in the metropolitan area. Or someone could have stolen Fred’s car...
She had a sudden impulse to call the Businessmen’s Club. But she dismissed the idea almost instantly. Fred had told her never to call the club and ask for him because it would be a waste of time. The barman always answered the phone, and if a wife asked to speak with her husband, the barman gave her a stock answer — “Well, I don’t see him around just at present.” — and hung up. If the wife called again, she got the same answer. The Businessmen’s Club was a male sanctum sanctorum, a citidel, the walls of which no mere wife could ever hope to breach.
Betty closed her eyes tightly and clinched her small fists on the table. What if, after all these year, Fred had been going out every week with some — some woman! Had Sara known about it all along? Or were her poison darts merely random shots in the dark?
She pounded the table. Oh, the shame of it all! Sara and Gloria — maybe even Helen — pitying her, feeling sorry...
She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly midnight. Fred would be home soon. He always arrived home some time before one o’clock.
She stood beside the table, torn with indecision. Should she confront him? Accuse him? No. If he had been out with someone, he would simply deny it. Anyway, she was too emotionally upset to face him at present. She would probably crack up, become hysterical, make a scene, get nowhere.
Minutes later, she was upstairs in bed, curled into a tiny ball, the covers up to her ears.
She heard him come into the drive, put the car into the garage, come into the kitchen, open and close the refrigerator door. Finally, she heard his slow steps upon the stairs, heard him go to the bathroom. Then, without turning on the lights, he came into the bedroom and slid into bed beside her.
“Well, I hope you had fun tonight!”
She could have bit herself. She hadn’t intended to say anything. The words had just come tumbling out on their own accord.
“If losing twelve bucks is having fun,” he grunted, “then I’ve had it!” As usual, after a night out and a snack from the refrigerator, he fell promptly into a deep sleep.
Betty prepared coffee for herself Sunday morning, poured a cup, and sat down at the kitchen table. After a fitful, sleepless night, she felt haggard and drawn, a floating entity without a goal. Sometime during the night, she had reached a definite decision: she couldn’t continue life with Fred, wondering, never knowing. She had to discover the truth, one way or another! But, how!
It being Sunday, Fred would sleep till noon then spend most of the rest of the day glued to the TV, watching baseball games, sipping a few beers, munching sandwiches she would put on the tray beside him, taking a few cat naps, paying little attention to her, resting up for the week ahead. She could get through the day all right without her mood being noticed. She would have the house to herself Monday. Perhaps by then she could think straight...
Pleading a sick headache, Betty didn’t get out of bed Monday morning until after she heard Fred leave for work. Then she got dressed, went downstairs, fixed coffee, and sat down at the table to think.
She had hardly seated herself before a light tapping came from the kitchen door, and then the door itself was pushed open. Sara stuck her head around the edge of the door, then came the rest of the way in. “I ran over with some nice sweet rolls,” she said, placing a covered dish on the table. She got a cup and poured herself some coffee.
“I’m— I’m not very hungry just now,” said Betty.
“You poor dear,” pitied Sara. “But you’ve got to eat something, you know.” Her dark eyes searched Betty’s face in search of signs of distress.
“I had some toast earlier,” Betty lied. Why was it that some people actually groveled in the misfortune of others!
Fred ate most of the sweet rolls that night.
Tuesday morning, Sara was back again, bringing pan rolls along as an excuse to shower down her cloying pity.
Damn her! thought Betty. Isn’t she ever going to give up!
Betty called a garage that afternoon and made an appointment to have her compact car checked over the following morning.
Fred passed favorable judgement on the pan rolls that night by eating at least half of them.
Betty came downstairs Wednesday morning just before Fred left for work. “I made an appointment at Simms’ Garage to have the compact checked over this morning,” she said. “But this head...” She passed a hand over her brow. “Would you mind taking the car there this morning — on your way to work?”
Fred nodded. “Sure, I will.” At the door, he turned. “And you’d better see Doc Markham about that headache of yours. You’ve had it several days now.”
Doc Markham also belonged to the Businessmen’s Club, and the boys at the club never missed a chance to toss whatever business they could to each other.
As soon as she heard Fred drive off, Betty hurried to the kitchen, picked up a newspaper and flashlight, and went out to the garage. She switched on the lights, crossed over to the red sedan, opened a rear door, and with the aid of the dome light and flashlight began to search for tell-tale clues. The seat revealed nothing. She turned the beam of her light to the floor. She picked up a gum wrapper, placed the newspaper on the floor, the gum wrapper on the paper, then emptied the contents of an ash receptacle onto the paper. She went around to the other side of the car, opened the door, and continued her search. A green button made of polished plastic. She placed it on the paper and reached for the ash receptacle on that side of the car. She was in the process of emptying the ashes and cigarette butts when a slight shadow fell across the paper. She glanced up. Sara was standing there looking at her through the opposite door.
“I saw the light and thought you’d be here,” said Sara. She handed a package through the door. “And I brought you a jelly roll.”
Betty took the package and felt a hot flush of anger begin to burn her cheeks.
“Looking for something?”
“Just cleaning out the car,” said Betty.
“Well, I guess it pays to keep busy,” said Sara, her eyes roving gloatingly over the gum wrapper, the green button, and the cigarette butts, some of which were smeared heavily with lip stick. “Keeps one from thinking about — about things.”
“Look, Sara.” Betty could not keep the anger out of her voice. “I won’t have time to sit and chat today. I have many things to do.”
Sara looked up quickly, her face suddenly creased with hard lines. She turned and, without a word, stalked out of the garage.
“And I hope she stays mad for a month!” breathed Betty.
Back in the kitchen with the newspaper spread out on the table before her, Betty realized how foolish her search of the car had been. Fred was in the real estate business and whenever a company car was not available he generally used the sedan to show apartments and various proper-ties to prospective customers. The wife of any of those prospects could have dropped a gum wrapper, lost a green button from her dress, and smoked the smeared cigarettes. She folded the paper and its contents and tossed them into the trash can.