Hands of a stranger, p.4
Hands of a Stranger, page 4
By then, Mary stood in her kitchen preparing vegetables for a dinner party in Joe’s honor that night. At the counter, she sliced carrots, then mushrooms. She had changed to jeans and a sweater, and her hands were wet. Upstairs the new dress lay on the bed.
“You have to drive me to baseball practice,” said Billy, and she turned around and looked at him. He stood in the doorway in his team uniform. The bill of his cap was pulled low down over his eyes, and he was carrying a gear satchel with two bats sticking out of it. He’s going to be as tall as his father, Mary thought looking at him, and she dried her hands, picked up her pocketbook and car keys, and led him out to the driveway.
At the high-school field, Billy did not thank his mother for the ride. He said, “Come back and get me about five o’clock,” as he threw the door open and jumped out.
She snapped him a salute: “Yes, sir,” and watched him cross the field toward his teammates and his coach at home plate. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned the engine off. She sat in the car watching him swing two bats around his head like a big leaguer. Now the coach divided his squad into two teams. The coach was a tall, well-muscled young man with dark eyes and curly black hair. He was also an algebra teacher, Mary believed. She knew his name, Martin Loftus, but had never spoken to him, except hello and goodbye. The kids adored him. As did some of the mothers, or so she had heard. There had been rumors.
Loftus was standing at home plate, and when he noticed her in the car, he grinned and waved over at her.
Mary gave him a brief nod in return. But the interchange made her uncomfortable. She felt like an intruder. She did not belong here. After a moment, she started the engine, put the car in gear, and drove home.
She finished preparing the vegetables. She sautéed the mushrooms and made a sauce to go over them. She made an apple pie. She put all her casseroles on top of the cold burners, ready to go. The apple pie went into the oven on automatic timer.
By then, it was time to drive back to the school for Billy. But just as she reached for the car keys he came in the back door.
“Coach drove me,” he said, dropping his gear satchel. “I’m hungry. Coach thinks you’re beautiful, Mom.”
Mary frowned. “What were you saying about me?”
“He asked about you. What is there to eat?”
“What did he ask you?”
“I don’t know. Can I have a hunk of bread and jam?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
Mary decided to drop the subject. “Don’t say hunk of bread.”
“Well, can I, Mom?”
“If you clean up after yourself.”
She hated the idea of her children talking about her to strangers. She hated to imagine them revealing family matters to outsiders.
“Now go up to your room and start your homework,” she told Billy.
Finally, Mary laid her tablecloth and set the table. She put a bowl of spring flowers from her garden in the center, and took a last look around. There was nothing more to do until her guests came, so she went upstairs and ran a bath. She was lying in it when Joe came home. He stood over the tub in his uniform, the new gold eagles shining on his shoulders, a gift-wrapped box in his arms. He began apologizing.
“You’re the one I wanted to have lunch with, not Cirillo, but . . .”
At first, she wouldn’t look at him. But he was so contrite that her mood, began to thaw. She even felt sorry for him standing there pleading, dangling the box over the tub. She wanted to know about his meeting with the PC, and she wanted to know what was in the box.
“What assignment did you get?”
He told her.
She was still lying in the tub. Instead of congratulating him, she said, “What’s in the box?”
He would not say. She would have to get out of the tub and open it. “I’ll put it on your pillow,” he teased.
She stood up, water sluicing off her. She dried herself off, and she took her time about it. With her foot on the tub, she dried between her toes. As she went out into the bedroom, she was wrapped in the towel. The package was on the bed, as was Joe’s gun belt which he had tossed there. His tie was off, and his shirt half undone. She opened the package. Inside was a beige silk blouse. It was not her type of blouse, and from the look of it, wouldn’t fit either.
But Joe was feeling pleased with himself. “Put it on,” he said.
The towel dropped to the floor, and she put the blouse on. She buttoned it up the front. To her surprise, it fit quite well, and in the mirror it looked good well, too.
“I got it at Bloomingdale’s.”
She knew he hated to shop. He did not understand shops, making it an ordeal for him. He had probably spent an hour buying the blouse - for him an hour of misery. She was oddly touched.
“Do you like it?”
He stood behind her, smiling at her in the mirror. She did not smile back. “It’s very nice,” she said, and took it off.
Joe was ripping his shirt off and ogling her at the same time. “We have a few minutes,” he said.
But she evaded his clutching hands. “Try taking a cold shower,” she told him. “I have things to do before our guests come.” But when he looked at her as crestfallen as a little boy, she said, “Thanks for the blouse.”
Wearing a bathrobe, she shuffled downstairs to give supper to the children. She sat at the kitchen table with them and watched them eat it and waited until her husband, having changed to civilian clothes, would come downstairs. She was in no mood to go up there and be mussed or made sweaty by him. It was a nice enough blouse, but she would not be bought off that cheaply.
When Joe came into the kitchen, he was wearing a brown tweed sports coat and brown loafers. He did not look like a policeman at all. His hair was damp and freshly combed, and he looked very nice, but she did not tell him so, thinking: I can withhold compliments just as well as you.
She went upstairs and put her new dress back on, penciled on eyeliner, and was ready for her guests. There was still some time before they arrived, so she continued to sit in front of her mirror, looking at herself, wondering what her husband saw when he looked at her, what anyone saw. She realized she was already sick of the new dress, and was wearing it only to get her money’s worth. Nobody was going to notice it tonight either except maybe one of the wives. Policemen, when they were with each other, scarcely noticed that their wives existed. Earlier in the marriage, Joe had been different from the others. Now he was much the same.
There were ten to dinner, and all the men at the table, though in civilian clothes, were or had been connected with law enforcement, and all sat at her table armed, except perhaps Joe in his own house, though, of course, no guns showed. Her husband, Mary noted, was in a jubilant mood, cracking jokes, making people laugh, pouring out heavy drinks before dinner, and much champagne during dinner, so that everyone became at least tipsy, and the dinner Mary had so carefully prepared passed unnoticed. When she served the apple pie, however, Joe looked up and said, “Let’s hear it for Mary,” and they all applauded her. She managed a polite smile.
The party ran late. One couple, the Buchanans, seemed to be trying to outlast all the others, and finally did, whereupon Bill Buchanan kicked off his shoes, lounged back on the sofa, and asked for still another Scotch and soda. Mary, who wanted only to get to bed, wore a glass smile. But a moment later, as Bill offered her husband a job, her fatigue vanished, and she listened alertly, the smile on her face a genuine one.
Bill Buchanan had been a police officer for fifteen years, all the while studying law at night. A captain when at last admitted to the bar, he had resigned from the department and had gone to work for a small chain of department stores which by now had become a rather big chain of department stores. He had become the firm’s general counsel and a member of the board. Buchanan had been one of Joe’s closest friends in the department. Now, after he had gulped down half of the night’s final Scotch, he said suddenly, “Mary, I want you to listen to this too.” Turning to Joe, he said, “My board has authorized me to offer Inspector Hearn, here, the post of vice-president for security with authority over our three New York area stores.”
This dramatic announcement was followed by a dramatic silence. But then Joe gave what sounded to Mary like a scornful laugh.
“Your timing couldn’t be worse, Bill. Today, I’m an inspector. By this time next year, I’ll have stars on my shoulders.”
“Yeah,” snorted Buchanan, “and you’ll still be earning only about half what this job pays.”
“What’s money?” said Joe airily.
Joe had drunk a lot too, Mary realized, and she glanced at him with alarm, afraid he might irritate Buchanan. She did not want Bill’s offer withdrawn. She wanted her husband to accept it. With that much money, especially with Joe’s police pension on top of it, they would be rich. They could take an apartment in the city. They could keep this house too, live in both places. They could have the excitement of the city whenever they chose. The galleries, the shops, would be just around the corner.
“Well, are you tempted?” asked Buchanan confidently.
“And the year after that,” said Joe, “I’ll be chief of detectives.” He laughed. “Maybe even PC.”
“The year after that, if you take this job,” said Buchanan, “you’ll have stock options. You’ll be flying around in the company jet managing security for about thirty stores.”
“As police commissioner,” said Joe, “I’ll have my own helicopter.”
Buchanan’s confident grin faded. “The board met this morning. I threw your name on the table, and they went for it.”
“You want to know how every cop in the city ends up?” demanded Joe. “Shaking door handles in the middle of the night in one of these security jobs.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” protested Buchanan.
“Sure it is,” said Joe, nodding sagely. “A highly paid door handle shaker. Shall I freshen that for you? A door handle shaker.” He shook his head. “But not me.”
As Buchanan’s face darkened, Mary interjected hurriedly, “I think it’s a terrific idea. Why don’t we all sleep on it and talk again tomorrow?”
“Admit it, Bill,” said her husband to Buchanan. “You haven’t had a happy day since you quit the department.”
“Happy day? Of course I have.” He put his empty glass down on the coffee table. Glass slapped glass.
Joe shook his head decisively. “Then why do you still turn up at all the department Communion breakfasts? Why did you keep all your guns? I’ll tell you why,” Joe said triumphantly. “You walk the streets secretly hoping you’ll stumble on a stickup, don’t you? So you can intervene and make one final arrest. Save someone’s life. Feel like a cop again one last time.”
Buchanan, looking angry, stood up. “Think about it, Joe. This is a big job I’m talking about. You owe it to Mary and the kids.” Nodding half drunkenly, he moved toward the front door. His wife threw a silent glance at Mary, and followed.
“To be a cop is to be on the barricades,” said Joe to their backs. “The adrenaline rushes to your head. Your blood boils. And you’re helping people all the time. It’s a - it’s a holy calling. There’s no other job like it. I’m not like you. I couldn’t give it up.”
“Talk to Mary,” said Buchanan thickly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Mary stood at her front door in the night watching her guests depart. She was smiling brightly, or so she hoped, but tears started to her eyes as soon as the Buchanans’ Mercedes had backed out of her driveway. With rage in her heart, she turned on her thick-tongued, thick-headed husband, but he was grinning so happily that she said only, “Oh, what’s the use?” and stumbled past him.
Upstairs she put on a nightgown and got into bed. Having turned toward the wall, she began silently weeping. Her husband intended to throw away the new life she so ardently coveted, had already done so. He had not even discussed it with her. Presently the mattress sagged heavily. Joe had got into bed, but she ignored him. This, however, proved impossible to do. He was not wearing pajamas, and he was swarming all over her. “Time to celebrate,” he said happily.
She tried to shrug him off, then to fight him. He was laughing. The rage inside her meant nothing to him. He didn’t even know it was there. He seemed delighted by her resistance, and was playing a game which, since he was so much bigger, he could not lose. He had her wrists pinned to the pillow, her nightgown up around her waist. With all her strength, she tried to hold her legs together but he had got a knee between them and was forcing them apart. She might have screamed at him or coldly ordered him to leave her alone. He was always gentle with her. Most likely he would have subsided on his side of the bed. But she was so upset, so angry, that she was unwilling to speak to him at all. And so she fought him. Her body became slathered with sweat. As the act became inevitable, she found herself imagining that this man on top of her was not her husband at all but a stranger. Which stranger? The image that filled her mind was her son’s baseball coach, Loftus. Why him? she asked herself. But she saw his face and imagined his body. She became so fiercely aroused that her husband ceased to exist for her, only Loftus existed. She could feel the stranger’s coarse chest against her own, the stranger’s weight on her and in her, a man bigger, heavier than Joe. Everything felt different, unexpected, not allowed, an erotic masterpiece, and in her delirium she almost shouted Loftus’ name.
Her husband, of course, suspected nothing; to him it had been a splendid romp with his wife, to which she had responded with a passion that had been rare of late. At last, he rolled off her.
Why Loftus? Mary thought. Her heart had stopped pounding. I don’t even know him.
“I love you, Mary.”
This brought tears to her eyes. He probably does, she thought. He gives me all his money and he doesn’t chase after other women, and to him that’s love.
And she turned toward the wall and tried to sleep.
“This is the best day of my life so far,” said Joe happily.
“Is it?” said Mary Hearn.
The second part of this scene was played out the next morning. Mary was awakened when Joe brought her coffee in bed. Outside their bedroom windows, she saw as she sat up, it was still not full daylight, and elsewhere in the house the children still slept, but her husband was already up and dressed. Even his tie was knotted in place.
“My first full day in my new command,” he said almost apologetically. “I want to get there early.”
Mary, in her nightgown, took the proffered cup and saucer and said nothing.
“Everybody enjoyed dinner last night, didn’t they?” Joe said. “It was a delicious dinner. Everybody thought so.” He grinned and added, “And afterward was nice, too - in bed.”
“In bed,” said Mary. She thought, he has no notion ever of what I might be feeling.
But she was wrong. Joe most times was extremely sensitive to his wife’s moods, and he knew exactly what was bothering her now.
“I’m going to call Buchanan later,” Joe said. “I want you to tell me that it’s okay.”
“You do what you want.”
“Mary,” Joe said, “please look at me.” But she wouldn’t.
“I do want you to have more money,” he said. “I do want you to have an apartment in New York - if that’s what you’d like. All I ask is that you give me a bit more time. Another year or two.”
Since Mary still wouldn’t look at him, Joe removed the cup and saucer from her grasp, placing them on the bedside table. Then he took one of her hands. “I’m forty-one years old,” he told her. “I’m probably the youngest inspector in the job. Don’t you want to see how far I can go?”
When this question elicited no response, he said, “I meant to discuss this with you last night, but once we were in bed together all I wanted to do was make love to you.”
Mary remained silent.
“Nineteen years, and every time I touch you I want to make love to you.”
Again Mary made no reply.
“Admit it,” said Joe, and he tried another grin. “You were pretty eager to make love too.”
“Was I?”
Her resistance was beginning to put Joe off. “Well, you certainly seemed to be.”
Mary looked at him, but said nothing.
“Bill’s job will still be there next year,” said Joe.
“How do you know?”
“Or another job. And with each promotion from now on it will pay more.”
“Suppose you don’t get promoted?”
He began trying to explain to his wife how the Police Department functioned, though he was certain she already knew. The slots he was bucking for were wide open. The department was not like private business. The turnover was terrific. With one or two exceptions, not a single member of the police hierarchy was older than fifty-two. After thirty years’ service, their pensions were so generous that these men in their prime executive years simply could not afford to stay. Besides which, the police commissioner changed every time the mayor changed, sometimes more often, and each new PC tended to force his predecessor’s staff to resign so as to appoint men loyal only to him. Since the law prohibited bringing in outsiders, this meant promoting young men from below. His wife should see the logic of his decision. So many promotions would be made during the next year or two that he could not fail to land one or several.
“You’ll be married to a chief.”
But Mary was immune to logic at that moment. She perceived only that her husband’s career meant more to him than she did. Now that he was an inspector she would see even less of him than previously, and if he made it as high as deputy or assistant chief, much less chief of detectives, she might not see him at all. It was practically still dark out - she confirmed this by glancing out the window - and he was already dressed and on his way to work.
“It’s true my career is important to me,” said Joe earnestly. “But I’m doing it for you too. I want you to be proud of me.”
“I’ve always been proud of you.”
“Just let me have another year,” he said. “Two at the most. That’s all I ask.”
