"Well that sounds like sensible advice," he said. "To me, anyway. How does it sound to you?"
She looked at the coat, holding it by the lining at its collar, and let it drop over the handbag and the chair. Her hands were cold; she rubbed them palm against palm, looking at them.
She looked at Walter. He was watching her attentively, his head cocked.
Stubble sanded his cheeks and darkened his chin-cleft. His face was fuller than she had thoughthe was gaining weight-and below his wonderfully blue eyes pouches of flesh had begun to form. How old was he now? Forty on his next birthday, March third.
"To me," she said, "it sounds like a mistake, a very big mistake." She lowered her hands and palmed her skirted sides. "I'm taking Pete and Kim into the city," she said. "To Shep and-"
"What for?"
"-Sylvia's or to a hotel. I'll call you in a day or two. Or have someone call you. Another lawyer."
He stared at her, and said, "What are you talking about?"
"I know," she said. "I've been reading old Chronicles. I know what Dale Coba used to do, and I know what he's doing now, he and those other-CompuTech Instatron geniuses."
He stared at her, and blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"Oh cut it out." She turned away and went down the hallway and into the kitchen, switching on the lights. The port to the family room showed darkness. She turned; Walter stood in the doorway. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," he said.
She strode past him. "Stop lying," she said. "You've been lying to me ever since I took my first picture." She swung around and started up the stairs. "Pete!" she called. "Kim!"
"They're not here."
She looked at him over the banister as he came from the hallway. "When you didn't show up," he said, "I thought it would be a good idea to get them out for the night. In case anything was wrong."
She turned, looking down at him. "Where are they?" she asked.
"With friends," he said. "They're fine."
"Which friends?"
He came around to the foot of the stairs. "They're fine," he said.
She turned to face him, found the banister, held it. "Our weekend alone?" she said.
"I think you ought to lie down awhile," he said. He put a hand to the wall, his other hand to the banister. "You're not making sense, Joanna," he said.
"Diz, of all people; where does he come into things? And what you just said about my lying to you."
"What did you do?" she said. "Put a rush on the order? Is that why everyone was so busy this week? Christmas toys; that's a hoot. What were you doing, trying it for size?"
"I honestly don't know what you're-"
"The dummy!" she said. She leaned toward him, holding the banister. "The robot! Oh very good; attorney surprised by a new allegation. You're wasting yourself in trusts and estates; you belong in a courtroom. What does it cost? Would you tell me? I'm dying to know. What's the going price for a stay-in-the-kitchen wife with big boobs and no demands? A fortune, I'll bet. Or do they do it dirtcheap, out of that good old Men's Association spirit? And what happens to the real ones? The incinerator?
Stepford Pond?"
He looked at her, standing with his hands to the wall and the banister.
"Go upstairs and lie down," he said.
"I'm going out," she said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "Not when you're talking like this. Go upstairs and rest."
She came down a step. "I'm not going to stay here to be-'
"You're not going out," he said. "Now go up and rest. When you've calmed down we'll-try to talk sensibly."
She looked at him standing there with his hands to the wall and the banister, looked at her coat on the chair-and turned and went quickly up the stairs. She went into the bedroom and closed the door; turned the key, switched on the lights.
She went to the dresser, pulled a drawer open, and got out a bulky white sweater; shook it unfolded and thrust her arms in and sleeved them. She pulled the turtleneck down over her head and gathered her hair and drew it free. The door was tried, tapped on.
"Joanna?"
"Scram," she said, pulling the sweater down around her. "I'm resting. You told me to rest."
"Let me in for a minute."
She stood watching the door, said nothing.
"Joanna, unlock the door."
"Later," she said. "I want to be alone for a while."
She stood without moving, watching the door.
"All right. Later."
She stood and listened-to silence-and turned to the dresser and eased the top drawer open. She searched in it and found a pair of white gloves. She wriggled a hand into one and the other, and pulled out a long striped scarf and looped it around her neck.
She went to the door and listened, and switched the lights off.
She went to the window and raised the shade. The walk light shone. The Claybrooks' living room was lighted but empty; their upstairs windows were dark.
She raised the window sash quietly. The storm window stood behind it.
She'd forgot about the damn storm window.
She pushed at its bottom. It was tight, wouldn't budge. She hit at it with the side of her gloved fist, and pushed again with both hands.
It gave, swinging outward a few inches-and would swing no farther. Small metal arms at its sides reached open to their fullest. She would have to unclamp them from the window frame.
Light fanned out on the snow below.
He was in the den.
She stood straight and listened; a tiny-toothed chittering came from behind her, from the phone on the night table; came again and again, long, short, long.
He was dialing the den phone.
Calling Dale Coba to tell him she was there. Proceed with plans. All systems go.
She tiptoed slowly to the door, listened, and turned the key back and eased the door open, a hand held against it. Pete's Star Trek gun lay by the threshold of his room. Walter's voice burred faintly.
She tiptoed to the stairs and started slowly, quietly down, pressing close to the wall, looking down through the banister supports at the comer of the den doorway.
"'… not sure I can handle her myself…"
You're goddamn right you can't, counselor.
But the chair by the front door was empty, her coat and handbag (car keys, wallet) gone.
Still, this was better than going through the window.
She made it down to the hall. He talked, and was quiet. Look for the handbag?
He moved in the den and she ducked into the living room, stood at the wall, her back pressing tight.
His footsteps came into the hall, came near the doorway, stopped.
She held her breath.
A string of short hisses-his usual let's-see-now sound before tackling major projects; putting up storm windows, assembling a tricycle. (Killing a wife? Or did Coba the hunter perform that service?) She closed her eyes and tried not to think, afraid her thoughts would somehow beckon him.
His footsteps went up the stairs, slowly.
She opened her eyes and freed her breath bit by bit, waiting as he went higher.
She hurried quietly across the living room, around chairs, the lamp table; unlocked the door to the patio and opened it, unlocked the storm door and pushed it against a base of drifted snow.
She squeezed herself out and ran over snow, ran and ran with her heart pounding; ran toward dark tree trunks over snow that was sled-tracked, Pete-and-Kim-bootmarked; ran, ran, and clutched a trunk and swung around it and rushed-stumbled-groped through tree trunks, tree trunks. She rushed, stumbled, groped, keeping to the center of the long belt of trees that separated the houses on Fairview from the houses on Harvest.
SHE HAD TO GET TO RUTHanne's. Ruthanne would lend her money and a coat, let her call an Eastbridge taxi or someone in the city-Shep, Doris, Andreas-someone with a car who would come pick her up.
Pete and Kim would be all right; she had to believe that. They'd be all right till she got to the city and spoke to people, spoke to a lawyer, got them back from Walter. They were probably being cared for beautifully by Bobbie or Carol or Mary Ann Stavros-by the things that were called by those names, that is.