I crossed the office now, and opened the door, and went down the hall to the shower. I put the suit on a hanger, in hope that the steam would take out some of the wrinkles. There was nothing to be done about the shirt, I would have to wear it again as it was. The socks really bothered me, though, the prospect of putting on socks I’d worn the day before. But there was no way to wash them and have them dry in time to start the day. I wondered how to start the day. The water was hot, the steam rose around me, enveloping me. I would have to call Aggie. Gerald and the children would be gone by — but what difference did it make? Gerald knew. Was it now possible to call the house and say, “Hi, this is Matthew Hope, may I please speak to Aggie?”
I tried to tell myself that none of last night had happened.
The steam rose obligingly, misting the shower stall and the world beyond. I thought of my daughter. Thought of her rushing into Susan’s arms. Did all of them rush into their mothers’ arms after a divorce or a separation? Karin Purchase not wanting to call her father. Called her mother from New York the minute she got Michael’s letter, and tried her again the following night, but wouldn’t call her father even though she was here in Calusa now, local call, pick up the phone, Hello, Dad, this is Karin. No. Would Joanna ever call me?
Under the shower, I began weeping.
It was ten minutes to nine by the time I finished shaving. I did not feel much better. The wrinkles had come out of my suit, but the shirt felt stale with yesterday. I had not yet put on the socks. I did not want to put on the socks. I dialed Aggie’s number. The phone began ringing on the other end. Once, twice, again, again. My hand was sweating on the receiver. I did not want to talk to Gerald Hemmings. The phone kept ringing. I was about to hang up when her voice said, “Hello?” Barely a whisper. I thought at once that he was still in the house. I thought she was answering in some secret corner, whispering.
“Aggie?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“It just seemed... I’m sorry, Matthew, forgive me,” she said, and began crying.
I waited.
“Aggie,” I said.
“Yes, darling.”
She was sobbing into the phone. I saw Susan’s fingers marching across the desk again, saw Aggie in the arms of her husband as he walked her back into life.
“Tell me what happened.”
“I thought...” She gasped for breath, I was suddenly impatient with her. And angry. At her? At myself?
“Thought what?”
“That you’d... never tell her, I—”
“Aggie, I promised you!”
“I know, but...” She caught her breath on a sob. There was a silence, long and deep. I waited. She blew her nose. The sound trumpeted into the telephone, I suddenly saw her red-eyed and weepy. “Alone last night,” she said, and began crying again. I looked at the clock. It was five minutes to nine, I wanted her to get off the phone. I wanted her to tell me what the hell had happened, and get off the phone. I did not want her to be on the phone when my partner Frank walked into the office. What would I tell him? What would my cynical New Yorker friend say when I told him Susan had come at me with a pair of scissors last night? What would he say when I told him I’d been having an affair with Agatha Hemmings since May of last year?
“Aggie, why’d you tell him?”
“Because I knew it was over.”
“What was over? How could you think that? I promised you yesterday afternoon—”
“But you wouldn’t tell her.”
“I said I’d tell her!”
“But you didn’t!”
“Shit, Aggie—”
“Don’t you care that I tried to kill myself?”
“You know I do, for God’s sake—”
“I was listening to the radio.”
“What?”
“When I did it. They were playing a Stravinsky piano quartet, I don’t know which one. They have chamber music on Monday nights. He was downstairs watching television, I was reading and listening to the music when suddenly I knew you’d never do it, I just knew you’d never tell her. I went... I got out of bed and went into the bathroom — I was wearing the peignoir you gave me last Christmas, the one I said my mother sent from Cambridge, the blue one with the lace trim. There were pills I had from when Julia was sick with the whooping cough and I couldn’t sleep nights. I took them back to bed with me, I swallowed them without water, just kept throwing them way back into my mouth until...” She was sobbing again. “You see, Matthew, it all seemed so useless. My life without you. Useless.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know, Matthew. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will you know?”
“I need time to—”
“I don’t have time,” she said, and hung up.
There was a hollow click, and then silence. I pressed one of the cradle-rest buttons, got a dial tone, and called her back. The phone kept ringing. I let it ring. I was suddenly afraid that the rest of those pills—
“Hello?”
“Aggie, don’t hang up again.”
“What do you want, Matthew?”
“When can I see you?”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“We have a lot to talk about.”
“Do we?”
“You know we do.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Aggie, for the love of God—”
“Make up your mind,” she said. “Call me when you make up your mind.”
“Don’t hang up, Aggie.”
“Yes, I’m going to,” she said.
“Aggie—”
The line went dead.
I put the receiver back on the cradle, and sat there with my hand on the phone, staring at the phone, wondering how many minutes, how many hours Aggie and I had stolen on the telephone together over the past year. Secret calls from the office, calls from phone booths all over town, how would it be without those calls — Call me when you make up your mind. I lifted the receiver again, I put it down again, I rose from the desk and began pacing my office.
There were things to do this morning, things I had to do. Michael, I had to see Michael. I wanted to talk to him about that letter he’d written to his sister, yes, and the phone call he’d made to his mother. Told her he wouldn’t intercede on her behalf. In effect, go to hell, Mom, I won’t go talk to Pop about the goddamn alimony — called his father Pop. Joanna called me Dad or Daddy, what did Karin call her father? Dad, right. Fact number one, Dad has another woman. Didn’t phone him, though, oh no, saved all the loving phone calls for Mom, never mind Dad who had another woman. Called Mom Saturday morning, planned to call her again first thing this morning because the plane — I tried to reach her last night, from New York, but she was out.
Karin had been talking about Sunday night. Sunday night — when Maureen and the two little girls were stabbed to death. Sunday night — when Betty Purchase was supposed to have been home watching television.
I tried to reach her last night, from New York, but she was out.
I was suddenly wide awake.
She was wearing a robe over her nightgown when finally she answered the door. I’d been ringing the bell for five minutes, pounding on the door for another five after that, and now she opened the door and peered out at me, blinking her eyes against the sunshine. She wore no makeup; her face was still puffed with sleep. “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but there are some questions I have to ask.”