Years ago I had bought an old farmhouse on an isolated lake in the southeastern part of the state. We always spent our vacations there and many weekends, and I had tinkered it into passably modern condition. When I thought about the time when I would finally leave the company, it was always with the farmhouse in mind. There would be time to read — I had always promised myself that I would one day make up for my lack of a college education by reading all the world’s great literature. The fishing was good, and my wife could grow a vegetable garden.
When I got home I didn’t bother to make an excuse for my lateness. My wife didn’t demand any.
“Would you like to go to the farm this weekend?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe next week.”
On Saturday I took a walk. There didn’t seem to be anyone at home in the green house. No doubt she was with her sister at the hospital.
On Sunday I took the car. I drove past the house twice in the early afternoon. On my third circuit of the block I saw her coming down the drive with her hands full of gardening tools. She wore faded green slacks and a green smock. Her gardening gloves were green and her head was covered with a green scarf. I couldn’t see her shoes.
I parked the car around the corner and walked back. The street was deserted except for the two of us.
“What a lovely garden,” I called out, hovering on the sidewalk and hoping that my face was safely keeping to its usual unremarkable lines.
“Oh,” she said. “Why, thank you. It’s a lot of hard work.”
“Must be. I never have much luck with flowers. I guess I must be lazy.”
“Oh, now,” she tittered. “It’s not that difficult. But people do say I have a green thumb.”
“Now, tell me,” I said, taking the liberty of crossing the lawn to where she stood. “How do you get such good results with carnations? Mine are always so spindly and have hardly any blooms at all.”
I listened to a long harangue on fertilizers, bone meal, and the efficacy of good drainage, nodding wisely all the while, my eyes fixed on her green sneakers. At the conclusion she giggled girlishly and said, “Well, I’ve talked your car off and myself into a fine thirst. Would you care for a glass of iced tea?”
“That’s very kind of you. It’s pretty hot out here in the sun.”
“Well, come on inside. It’s always nice to meet a fellow gardener. Someone who understands.”
I understood. I’d seen her sharp glance at the third finger of my left hand. I’ve never worn a wedding band.
We went round to the back door. Across half of the back steps lay a sturdily braced wooden ramp.
“My sister,” she explained. “She’s confined to a wheel chair. She’d be much happier in a nursing home, but after my husband died she insisted on living with me. To keep me company, she says. To keep an eye on me, I say. But don’t worry. She’s not here today.”
We entered the kitchen. It was yellow. Yellow wallpaper, yellow cabinets, yellow cloth on the table. Even a yellow refrigerator. She poured tea into tall yellow glasses.
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“Not far. I have to confess, I saw your flowers a few days ago and came back in the hope of meeting the person responsible.”
“You must be married.” She certainly believed in coming to the point.
“I have been.” Sometimes a little lie is unavoidable.
“Come into the living room. We can be comfortable there.”
The house was small. I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked into the green living room, the magenta dining room, a rose-colored bedroom. On the open door of a closet in the bedroom hung a blue dress. On the floor a pair of blue shoes stood ready. Tomorrow was Monday.
“May I trouble you for another napkin? I’ve slopped my tea a little.”
She obligingly went across the kitchen to a cupboard. I picked up her green gardening gloves. She had large hands. I picked up the knife with which she had sliced a lemon for the tea...
Afterward I was really thirsty. I drank the tea. It was slightly warm. My clothes were damp. I left the green gardening gloves on the yellow counter. I went out by the back door and drove home.
On Monday morning the office was agog. One of the telephone operators had been brutally murdered in her home. The police came and interviewed everyone who had known her. They ignored my division. The rumor that went the rounds had it that she had been stabbed twenty-seven times. It seemed a bit exaggerated to me. My division ran smoothly that day.
In the evening I went to the bus stop. I looked for her in her blue dress, but she didn’t come. Maybe she had taken an earlier bus. Or perhaps she was working late. She could even be on vacation.
I settled down on the bus and opened my newspaper. The woman sitting in front of me had the most irritating way of shaking her head as she talked to her seat companion. She wore long dangling earrings and they distracted me from my newspaper, from the view out the bus window.
Perhaps I’ll take the early retirement option.
Robert Twohy
Installment Past Due
The phone rang. Moorman was lying on his back, on the couch. He was a large man, pushing forty, tousled and unshaved this morning in October. He wore a T-shirt, old slacks, no shoes. A glass of white wine was balanced on his stomach; a bottle of it stood on the floor. It was about eleven o’clock.
Moorman set the glass carefully on the floor, reached back over his head, and groped until his hand connected with the phone on the end table. He put it to his head and said in deep gentle tones, “I’m terribly sorry, but your application is rejected.”
A moment of silence. Then, “What?”
“You heard me, Kleistershtroven.”
“Klei... what is this?”
“You are Kleistershtroven, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t say you were. Who’d want a name like that? Is it a Welsh name?”
“Listen, is this Mr. Moorman?”
“That doesn’t matter. The fact is that no more entries for the quadrennial bobsled steeplechase are being accepted. That’s on orders from my psychoanalyst. Would you care for his address?”
“This is Mr. Dooney.” The voice was suddenly sepulchral.
Moorman said eagerly, “Dooney? Mr. Dooney? The Mr. Dooney? Calling me? At this hour?”
“Is this Mr. Moorman?”
“It certainly is. Are you really Mr. Dooney? Well, how in the world are you? How’s the wife and all the brood? How’s Miss LaTorche?”
“Miss LaTorche?”
Moorman emitted rich laughter. “Come on, Dooley, you old lecher, who do you think you’re talking to? Everybody knows about you and Fifi LaTorche!”
“Who is this? Is this Jack Moorman?”
“Wait a minute, I’ll find out.”
Moorman put his hand lightly over the mouthpiece, and made loud braying noises. Then he said into the phone, “Yeah, Dr. Kleistershtroven says there’s no question about it — I’ve been Moorman for years. Days, even.”
“This is Mr. Dooney of Affiliated Finance. I talked to Mrs. Moorman on Friday — is she there?”
“Is she where?”
“Is she home?”
“Hold on.” He took the mouthpiece from his mouth, turned his head, and called, “Lisa, some character named Dooley wonders if you’re home... Where? I don’t know where. I’ll ask him.”
He said into the phone, “She wants to know where you want to go, and if she should wear anything.”
There was deep breathing. Moorman said admiringly, “You’re a terrific deep breather!”
The voice was low and deadly: “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Mr. Moorman. You’ve made a loan through us, and I talked to Mrs. Moorman on Friday and she said the payment would be in the mail. And this is Monday, and—”