Chapter 6

Hannah did not have to waken Tom this time. He awoke quite suddenly and had trouble establishing his whereabouts. Or the time of day. The house was quiet. He fumbled for his cigarette lighter, flipped it into flame, and squinted at his watch. It was 3:20 a.m. He had spent the better part of the night in his chair in front of the TV set, a set that now only hummed as it glared into the room with its chalk-white eye. He went to the window and looked out. He was surprised to see a light-colored car parked at the curb in front of his house.

He could see the outline of two occupants in the car and muffled voices seeped through the slightly open window. Carefully, he stepped closer to the opening so he could hear better. The sharp, unmistakable voice of Shelly stabbed into him through the early morning darkness.

"Drive carefully, darling," he heard her say. "Tomorrow? Fine. Don't make any noise when you drive away. Tom's asleep, and I wouldn't want him to wake up and see you. Night."

The car eased silently along, then purred into the night as Shelly made her way up the walk.

Tom was waiting for her at the door and when she opened it, he rammed at the light switch, throwing the entryway into blinding light.

"Just who the hell was that?" he yelled into her startled face.

"Th-that was Mr. Coleman," she lied, fighting nervousness.

"Do you realize it's after three in the morning? What kind of clubs meet at this hour?"

"Three o'clock? I didn't think it was that late. I guess we must have talked longer than we thought."

"Who's 'we'?"

"All the members of the club. Meeting lasted until after one and after that we just lost track of time, I guess."

"Where's your car? How come this, ah, Mr. What's-his-name has to bring you home?"

"My car wouldn't start so he offered to drop me off," she said. "And his name is Coleman."

"Who the hell cares?"

"Why, Tom, darling, you're jealous," she said, laughing nervously. She had never seen him so angry before.

"I suppose I am but who wouldn't be? I just want to know why some strange man has to bring my wife home at three in the morning, that's all. Furthermore, if his name is Coleman, then how is it you have to call him 'darling'? Kinda chummy, I'd say."

"It's just an expression, dear. It doesn't mean a thing."

Tom wanted to continue his probe of Shelly's nocturnal prowlings, but she didn't give him a chance. She turned abruptly and went to her bedroom.

The Wymore home, if it had ever had any happy moments, now had none. Tom found almost nightly solace in his liquor cabinet, and his bed, more often than not, was the leather chair in the living room. His life had turned into one of waiting. Waiting for the sound of Shelly's car, waiting for her to phone, waiting, during the long, lonesome nights, for the feel of her body crawling into bed with him. But Shelly had now almost completely denied him the pleasure of her body.

Shelly, in the meantime, her memory recalling the night with Bill Weldon, began to rekindle the fires of passion she had for men. But, for the time being, her thoughts were centered mainly on her strange-acting husband. She tried on numerous occasions to smooth over the rift she had caused in their troubled marital relationship. After all, Tom was a good provider and she hated to think of losing the security he provided. But Tom refused to carry on a conversation with her for any length of time. It was obvious, he had taken about all he could take.

It was maddening for Shelly. She would have preferred talking about their troubles, getting everything out in the open, but she was afraid to bring the matter up, for there were too many things she could not explain. She tried to question him about what was bothering him. She wanted Tom. She wanted him around to provide for her. Shelly was untrained for any kind of work; the thought of making a living on her own frightened her.

Then, as though turning a page in a book, a sudden change came over Tom. He went to bed, where he remained for two days and nights. He did not seek nor ask for liquor. On the morning of the third day, he arose early, cleaned up for the first time in days and came down the hall looking almost as good as the day he did when he married Shelly.

"I think I'll go to work today, Shelly," he said simply. Then, without another word, he left the house. Shelly was too surprised to say anything and merely stood in one spot and watched him as he drove away.

That evening, Tom ate his meal in silence. Shelly tried to talk to him, but he only looked at her and said nothing. When he was through eating, he went directly to his big chair and sat in the dark. He did not turn on the TV nor did he drink.

He seemed to be in a trance.

Tom did not alter his routine. If Shelly came home early, she was sure to find him sitting in his big chair. She made it a point to come in to see if he was all right. He never spoke to her and, in fact, did not as much as acknowledge her presence.

The high-backed chair hid him from view so it was always necessary for Shelly to come all the way into the room and around to the front of the chair to see if Tom was actually in it. She would look at him for a moment, hoping he might say something, then turn and leave .when' he remained silent.

One afternoon, some three weeks later, Shelly came home and, as was her custom, went directly to the living room. As she went past Tom's chair, her foot struck a hard object, sending it skittering across the floor and against a table leg.

"Are you all right, dear?" she asked, ignoring the object she had kicked. Then, as she looked down at Tom, she knew she would get no answer-today or ever.

She took hold of his shoulder and shook lightly. A cold chill ran up her back. She reached for the light, snapped it on, and examined her hand. She had felt her fingers come away from his shoulder, wet and sticky. She bent over to look more closely.

Blood!

One glance at Tom and Shelly knew ... knew there would be no more Tom Wymore. Tom Wymore was dead!

A bullet hole in his right temple told her what he had done, and she realized now what it was that she had kicked across the floor. It was a small revolver, grim in appearance, lying against the table leg.

Shelly screamed, then screamed again. Like a heavy overcoat, her body crumpled to the floor in a faint.