The hab theory, p.18
The HAB Theory, page 18
Despite his weariness, John had stayed up later than she in order to do some writing about the day’s events. When, this morning, he’d gone downstairs, she’d stepped briefly into the den and noted with a sort of aching satisfaction that the current year’s diary was back in its usual place on the far right of the collection of diaries. Yes, now he was gone and her only real quandary was how to proceed from here. She greatly feared that suspicions would somehow be aroused and that John would suddenly remove the books and put them elsewhere and thus she would be unable to finish deciphering the codes of this final volume, the ones she intuitively knew were to be so important. Logic dictated that she should, as swiftly as possible, merely copy every entry in its present form without at first attempting any deciphering, which would take more time. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to laboriously go through the diary if she was decoding as she went. On the other hand there was the burning desire of such unrelenting magnitude to know what was written there that the very thought of not being able to read every word as quickly as possible was unbearable.
Marie made her decision as she removed the book from the shelf and brought it to the desk. She would decipher as she went along. With her stomach a knot of apprehension within her, she began to work. Individual words became disjointed, almost meaningless, so at intervals she paused, unable to keep from going back over what she had deciphered in order to grasp its meaning better in its flowing context. It was another day of copious tears, of incredible hurt, intermingled with an anger of an intensity she had never known before — all of it overlaid with an aura of unbelievability. This could not be happening. This was not her John. It couldn’t be. It simply wasn’t possible. Yet, here it was, the horrible, damnable, unspeakably painful self-incrimination in his own strong hand. The first coded entry was early in the book — January 2 — and it was short, enigmatic and devastating.
…Lunched together. Delightful. She is positively stunning. We’ve made a dinner date for Thursday evening and she seems very pleased about it. Certainly I am. In fact, I feel strangely giddy about the whole thing. This will be my first honest-to-goodness date with any woman other than Marie for the past seventeen years.
Who was she? Who? Marie went back over the entry swiftly to see if she had missed a line, a phrase, a reference anywhere, but she hadn’t. It was just as she’d deciphered it — abruptly, disturbingly full in the information imparted, disappointingly empty in what had been omitted. The Thursday entry was the next appearance of the code and she bent to it quickly.
…Incomparably delightful evening which seemed over before hardly begun. We talked endlessly and without pause, even while dining, as if we knew there would not be time enough to express everything we wanted to say. Lunch again tomorrow; dinner — perhaps the middle of next week or the following weekend. I think there can be no doubt that this is the knocking of opportunity I’ve been waiting for, the beginning of a thoroughly delightful relationship, but I can’t be entirely sure yet. I want to plunge ahead rapidly, but I’m just a little bit fearful. I will continue to move carefully.
Still neither name nor place mentioned in that entry, nor in the two which followed — a luncheon and a dinner — which differed little from the others except in the progression of John’s interest in this other woman and his growing physical desire for her. The next entry after that — for January 20 — was much longer and, with a sense of fatalism, Marie knew even before beginning that this was the one she had been dreading, the one she no longer had any doubt would eventually come. But her pulse quickened as she began because this time there was a degree of identification of the woman at the beginning of the entry. Not much; just a single initial, A, but at least now she had something tangible. Did it signify a first name or last? Probably the first and, if so, what might it be? Alice? Arlene? Anita? The speculation wasn’t getting her anywhere and she continued the work, praying that somewhere in the entry the full name would appear.
I picked up A at her apartment and we went to dinner. She wore a delightful, fuzzy, pale blue angora outfit which looked molded to her and which had every man in the place mentally slavering (I don’t exclude myself!) and every woman emerald with envy. We returned to her apartment by taxi and, as before, I was prepared merely to say goodnight at the door, but she invited me in for coffee and talk. Abruptly a new element has been added to what had begun as a stimulating and beautiful relationship. I had kissed her before, but those were platonic compared to this evening’s. Before long we were making love — deeply, movingly, beautifully, in a manner more exquisitely breathtaking and consummately fulfilling than I had ever known love-making could be. Throughout the night it went on, with quiet, enjoyable talking in between and no real cessation of loveplay at any time to speak of. Once she drowsed off for fifteen minutes, but I stayed awake and continued to touch and kiss her even while she slept. A happy, satisfying experience which continued until seven in the morning. It was unhurried, accompanied by beautiful music softly playing from another room. It was ideal sex, uncomplicated and thoroughly enjoyable, unsullied by coyness, cuteness, or phony acts or words. No promises were made. No plans were made. Neither of us said “I love you” or other words that were not true or later to be regretted. We were merely two people quite happily enjoying one another to the utmost, with no strings of any kind attached. She is extremely attractive in all respects and highly intelligent. She is sensitive, amusing, gentle, loving. It was a happy time indeed, and the selection of partner wisely made. Probably no more ideal or less complicated selection could have been made. No other sexual experience in my life has been so entirely gratifying. I felt wholly and completely satisfied and more relaxed than I have felt for many years. And, wonder of wonders, the black, smothering mood of depression has vanished. I feel good. No, that is not strong enough. I feel great! I am elated, delighted, happy, at peace within myself, relaxed, fulfilled, gratified, and intensely, incredibly amazed at the power of this encounter.
For a long while after that, Marie could do no more. The more she reread what she had deciphered, the more difficult it was to believe. And one line in particular returned over and again, etching itself deeply in her mind and heart: No other sexual experience in my life has been so entirely gratifying. What about the seventeen years of what she had always felt — and thought he had, too — was entirely gratifying sex? They enjoyed it always, didn’t they? There’d never been problems of any kind in their sex life together, had there? What could possibly be so different about this than what they had known together so beautifully and for so long? Never before had Marie experienced the strong sense of inadequacy which filled her now. She had no idea how it could be possible, but she was convinced that somehow she had failed; that John had strayed because he had been inspired to do so through some lack on her part, some fundamental failing she could not see and of which she had never been aware.
Marie Grant had a terrifying mental image of her whole world collapsing about her feet; of standing there watching this happen and being powerless to stop it; of being swept along with a tide of events she herself had loosed and could no longer control. Why, she thought, why should I be the one to feel guilty? The guilt is his, not mine! But she could not put aside the self-condemnation.
Unable to write more for the moment and equally unable to sit still in the den with those dreadful words before her, she prowled about the house restlessly, automatically picking up, wiping away a film of dust here, straightening a picture there, hardly realizing what she was doing anywhere. At length her legs carried her back to the den and once again she became grimly immersed in the work, on an entry which combined the activities of a couple of days.
…There was, of course, a good bit of sex, but even more important was the closeness and conversation, which was always most interesting and never shallow. She’s a remarkably intelligent and deeply sensitive woman of twenty-eight: a consummate lover, fastidious in her dress, habits, and personal hygiene, and compellingly desirable. She possesses a keen sense of humor, though not coupled with flippancy, and she is never coarse in thought, speech or act. She has well-developed cultural tastes and harbors deep feelings toward opera, drama, poetry, art, symphonic music, and literature. It would be impossible here to discuss at length all the numerous things about which we conversed, but conversation never lagged — except when it was just exactly right to merely enjoy and not speak — and it was a thoroughly satisfying, stimulating, relaxing and happy time. We slept very little, probably no more than a total of two or three hours, and that in bits and snatches. We listened to music, drank coffee, conversed, and made love — all to complete satisfaction. Since A is well aware of my marital status, there is no desire on her part for more than that which I, too, desire: a comfortable, long-lasting relationship to be continued wherever and whenever convenience, opportunity and good judgment permit. We have found great delight in one another, both physically and mentally. I have many thoughts in regard to what effect this may have on me in respect to Marie and will comment upon that at length in a future entry, but at this moment I don’t have the time to write more. A is truly a delight to the soul.
Entry followed entry along these lines, and though mostly she was inflicted with a swirling torrent of emotional responses, there was a small, steady portion of Marie’s consciousness which followed the development of John Grant’s peregrination with fascination and analytical calm. The cornerstone of her past life and future with John was progressively being chipped away, but there was no longer any consideration within her of stopping. The recurring blows to her self-esteem and confidence were legion, and instead of diminishing or even reaching a plateau, they increased. Time and again she felt the matter could grow no worse and repeatedly she was proven wrong. The final two entries she was able to decode this day seemed almost deliberately geared to strip away whatever remained within her of hope. That John himself was becoming ever more hopelessly enmeshed was reflected in the redundancies he committed in writing about the affair. Yet, in addition to these repetitions, each entry contained new logs being fed to the flames which were consuming the foundations of their marriage.
…Something new, has developed for us both — a much stronger attraction on a plane far surpassing merely the physical. I think she’s fallen in love with me, and I believe I’m equally in love with her. It’s crazy, I know, for there’s no reasonable future in store for us. What I feel is a peculiarly quiet and deep need for her, manifested in a heavy ache whenever we are apart. I feel that I love her as deeply as I love Marie. Both of them are dear to me beyond expression.
The second of the two was one of the lengthiest she had yet encountered …and by far the most devastating.
…Though I love both A and Marie, the sexual satisfaction derived from them differs tremendously. For the first time, sex is not only a beautiful experience, as it always has been with Marie, it is now just plain damned good fun, too. My physical relationship with Marie remains unaffected, but what rather frightens me is that there was and is quite a different mental outlook, for things do not seem the same. For one thing, I realize with great impact the great difference between these two women in mentality and imagination. Comparisons are odious, yet they are also unavoidable. But how do I state it? Perhaps the best way is to say that Marie plods along in heavy shoes through a dark forest, while A lightly dances through beautiful trees with shimmering leaves. Marie looks, but A sees. Marie listens, but A hears and feels. Marie glows, but A glistens! And so, what all this amounts to is that abruptly I am involved in a very dangerous situation which I realize might tragically change a number of lives. I don’t want to hurt Marie, despite what I feel for A. I love A in one way and Marie in quite another. Both are very real and very deep loves, yet each has its own specific plateau, its own distinct place in my heart. It is a strange and confusing situation and where I go from here I have no idea. There can be neither joy nor contentment if they be derived through creating unhappiness for others, but no matter what course I follow now, it is bound to result in such unhappiness. Awareness of the potential of such hurt is the first matter, and I am deeply and constantly aware of it. I think I can continue to handle it safely and with enough aplomb and covertness that there never need be any reason why Marie should suspect.
The return of Carol Ann and Billy from school in the midst of a heated squabble over something entirely pointless snapped Marie from the trancelike state that had enveloped her since deciphering the long passage.
Drawing on a reserve of strength she hadn’t realized she possessed, she swiftly put everything away, resolved the argument between her two children with calm reasoning and efficiency, questioned them with her usual interest about their day’s activities, busied herself with delayed household chores, and finally fixed dinner for the three of them, since John had been unsure of when he would return and suspected that it would quite probably not be until rather late. And all the while, an anguished inner Voice was crying, “No! … No! … No!…”
5
There is a phenomenon in the world of the press with which every newsman is familiar: the runaway story. A child may be lost in the woods and a search instituted, the story of this carried locally. Suddenly that story sweeps a nation, a continent, a world. An intense concern is felt for the little lost child all out of proportion to the importance of the incident. A thousand children may similarly be lost over a period of time and, except locally, no one pays attention. Why, then, does the one instance leap into worldwide prominence? No one knows for sure, but it happens.
A miner trapped deep in the bowels of the earth shares a similar recognition, as does an insipid guitar-plucking moron from the Alabama hills, the old woman who paints passable watercolors with her feet while using her hands to crochet automatically, the murderer whose fourth appeal for a stay of execution has just been rejected. A hundred or a thousand virtually identical people and incidents attract no notice whatever, yet that single case becomes an extravagant exception.
It happened in the murder trial of Dr. Sam Sheppard in Cleveland. It happened in the death of Floyd Collins in Sand Cave near Cave City, Kentucky. It happened in the streets of New York when scores of apartment dwellers looked down to see a man deliberately killing a young woman named Kitty Genovese, and no one did a thing to stop it. Sometimes they are insignificant events which snowball and become famous almost because of the insignificance, as when Douglas Corrigan won everlasting fame by the simple expedient of flying his plane from Brooklyn to Dublin and landing without permit or passport, and then laughingly saying he flew the wrong way, thereby forever becoming Wrong-Way Corrigan. Whatever the cause or importance, a news story suddenly and wholly inexplicably captures the attention of the entire world.
Such a ball had begun rolling now and swiftly was gathering an unparalleled momentum. The elements of the attempted assassination of the United States President sparked the interest of the world press — and its readership — as perhaps nothing before had ever done. The incident was replete with all the elements required for such a splash: intrigue, mystery, prominence, speculation. The headlines around the world reflected the upsurge of interest.
WHY DID BOARDMAN DO IT?
— London Evening News
ATTEMPTED ASSASSIN IS 94!
— Athens Akropolis
WHEN WILL BOARDMAN BE ARRAIGNED?
— Chicago Tribune
ASSASSIN’S BULLETS COULD NOT KILL!
— Warsaw Kurier Polska
NOTED WRITER ASKED TO HELP
— Copenhagen Børsen
RECOVERED PRESIDENT REFUSES COMMENT
— Washington Post
ISRAELI PLOT STILL POSSIBLE
— Beirut Al mal
HOW COULD ASSASSIN GET SO CLOSE?
— Bangkok Post
MILITARY CONSPIRACY IN U.S.?
— Buenos Aires Herald
STILL NO CONDITION REPORT ON BOARDMAN
— Toledo Blade
IS BOARDMAN A PATSY?
— Dallas News
Perhaps no headline, however, summed feelings up as well as that which appeared in the New York Times: QUESTIONS ON ATTEMPTED ASSASINATION REMAIN UNANSWERED — WHY?
Television and radio broadcasts were no less embroiled in the mystery. Commentators editorialized and asked questions. Reporters held man-on-the-street interviews. Pollsters conducted their polls. Panel discussions were commonplace. But in all there was little more than speculation — intriguing, mysterious, delicious speculation.
The world was waiting for answers. Impatiently.
6
John Grant had been listening to Herbert Allen Boardman and asking questions of him for the past eight hours. He was himself growing weary and he wondered how the old man could go on like this hour after hour, showing no visible signs of fatigue. Grant longed for the opportunity to sit in solitude in some dim, quiet bar booth with a tall, cool drink in front of him and nothing to do but consider the things Boardman had told him.
Although Grant was not yet convinced — not completely — by Boardman’s claims, the instantaneous and total disbelief at the old man’s initial outrageous remarks had gone through an evolution. Outright disbelief had become strong skepticism, then that had given way to considerable doubt. The doubt began to ease and admit of a remote possibility, and then of a possibility perhaps not so remote at that. And now the possibility was being strengthened by a strongly interwoven thread of probability.
