Chapter 18
She left him that same evening, and he was not surprised. It was done without a scene, without the sobbing dramatics; he went out for a walk, and when he returned she was gone. It was as simple as that.
The note that sealed his fate she'd scrawled on a piece of blue linen stationery was resting on the top of his night stand. It read:
I guess this is something that was bound to happen. I can't take any more. Don't worry about Karen I'll take good care of her. We'll get our clothes later.
E.
He read the note over and over; his mind refused to accept the terrifying truth the fact that she was gone but when the finality of her act finally did reach him, he crumpled to the bed and sobbed.
He did not sleep. He spent an all-night vigil in the living room, jumping to his feet when the elevator doors opened, holding his breath and desperately hoping that it was her; then a moment later knowing it was not, sagging morbidly back to the couch.
He slept in little dozes the following day, paced the apartment, drank himself to a stupor, but nothing eased his growing spell of loneliness. The apartment was never so quiet; an hour never so long. He didn't shave or eat, he wore the same clothes for three days and three nights; by the fourth day he looked like a Third Avenue wino, and he couldn't care less.
There was much time in which to think, but recriminations wouldn't bring her back. The rape scene down by the beach was still firmly etched on his mind; he remembered the awkward silence in the long drive back to town, the desperate search for an explanation to his deeds, a humble apology when words would no longer suffice. And now she was gone. Probably at her mother's, up in Utica. So easy to phone, he thought But what, what in hell would he say? Would he say come home, I won't rape you again? Is that what he would say? Could words erase the shame of his deeds? No, there was nothing. Nothing would bring her back; he had to accept the bitter truth.
He drank heavily not that it helped but at least he found unconsciousness and sleep. When he awoke, he became ill; and this was the pattern of the days and nights without her.
During the second week had it really been that long? Nuzzo phoned.
"Thought I'd call and see how that cute Little wifey of yours is?"
He called Nuzzo every sonofabitch in the book, then slammed the phone down and had another drink. Later, Sinclair phoned. How was everything? Would he be back to work soon? The company missed him, Finally, how was the Missus?
He handled it as diplomatically as possible: Everything was fine, he wasn't feeling well, however; needed some more time off. And the Missus? Just great. And he hung up and cried.
He didn't leave the apartment not for a minute because if she was coming back for her clothes, he wanted to be there, wanted that one final plea, that one lasting sight of her. It wouldn't accomplish anything, he supposed, but if there was a chance, even a small one ... yes, if.
The following day, the phone rang several times, but each time he answered it the line went dead. That sonofabitch'n Nuzzo was going to lose teeth. A lot of them. And then more drinks. Drinks for the world, drinks for a marriage that died. But it was her fault too, he told himself. Her and her cheating. She hadn't fooled him. A lover feeling up her body in the darkness, slugging him when he came home unexpectedly early! He wasn't that naive. And then leaving him, leaving him because he wanted a few kicks of his own. No, it wasn't all his fault; it was fifty-fifty.
There was a knock at the door. His senses reeled. He stumbled out of the kitchen, tumbled through the darkness of the riving room and flung the door open. Two police officers framed the doorway.
"Mr. Trumball?"
Panic seized him. Something had happened. "Y-yes. What. . . what's wrong? Is it. . "
The taller of the officers smiled. "Nothing wrong, but we need your wife downtown. We've caught that prowler that was breaking into apartments here in the neighborhood. We'd like her to identify him."
"Prowler?" He gaped at the two officers.
"He's already been picked out of the line-up by two of the victims. We thought your wife ... well, the more we can pin on this bastard, the longer we can put him away. Is she here?"
Dumbly, he explained that she was out of town for a few days.
"Will you have her come down the minute she returns?"
He said that he would, then he quietly closed the door. The simple truth had been there all along, he thought. If he had been rational, if he had thought out the logic of his assumption, then he'd known that Edie could never have cheated. But it was something that he had seized upon to believe, something that would give him a wedge to use against her, an excuse to embroil himself in wild sex orgies, to be comfortably able to put the blame on her.
The phone rang. A dead line again. And again, an hour later. Also dead. And then it dawned on him what the phone calls might mean: Edie! Edie trying to learn whether he was at the apartment. She wanted to get the rest of her clothes, wanted to do it when he wasn't there. That was it; that had to be it.
He waited, and at ten o'clock it rang again. This time he let it ring. He counted 12 rings. Ten minutes later, the process was repeated. He let it ring. Finally, it stopped.
Twenty minutes later, he heard the key being inserted in the lock. The apartment was dark; he held his breath. Suddenly the door swung open, a shaft of light cut his eyes, she saw him and screamed.
He leaped at her and drew her inside. She clawed away from him.
"Leave me alone!"
"Honey...."
She ran to the bedroom, switched on a lamp, and began pulling out suitcases. He stood in the doorway and watched her.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here, and I'll get out as quickly as I can."
"I don't want you to leave, Edie. You can't."
"I can, and I am. There's nothing to talk about. You have your life and I have mine."
"Can't I at least have my say?"
She stuffed lingerie hurriedly into a red suitcase. "There's been too many words already, Bill. And they don't do any good, so what's the use?"
He came to her side, told her about the two police officers, the prowler. And finally, he told her of his suspicions, her supposed secret lover.
"Something else your sick mind dreamed up."
"Edie?"
"If you'd have asked me, I'd have told you. There was never anybody else but you. You should have known that."
"Now I do."
"And now is too late," she said coldly, and there was an appalling finality to the snap of her suitcase.
He followed her into the living room. "I suppose you didn't like those things we did," he said, suddenly belligerent.
She whirled and snapped at him. "I did them because you wanted me to. Because I loved you."
"But you enjoyed them. You know you did."
"What did you expect me to feel when you shoved me into another man's arms? Did you think I was incapable of feeling something for somebody else? Did you think I was a Sphinx?"
He tried to grab her. She dodged away and went to Karen's bedroom. She flung dresser drawers open.
"Edie...."
"I don't want to talk about it any more, Bill. I wouldn't come back to your kind of hell for all the money in the world."
"You don't love me?" It sounded wooden.
The word 'love' stopped her. She turned slowly, her eyes suddenly filled with compassion. "Yes, I love you. Even now. But that doesn't say I want to go on this way. I just can't."
"But...."
"You need help, Bill. Professional help."
Her words struck him like a bomb. He swallowed, gripped the door jamb. "You mean...."
"I mean you need a doctor to straighten you out. You're sick. Sick inside and out." She moved past him to the living room. Three suitcases were packed; there was only one more left.
"Suppose I went to a doctor," he said, taking her by the coat sleeve.
She pulled away from the touch of his hand. Coldly, she said, "That's up to you, Bill. I can't tell you what to do."
"But suppose I did. Would it make a difference?"
She was halfway down the hallway and she stopped. He stood quietly behind her. "Would it, Edie? Would you...." He placed his hands lightly on her arms. She was trembling. "...darling, I'll do anything. Anything!" He sensed her stiffening again. "Edie, I love you." He led her to the living room.
He found the phone book and sat beside her. "If I call a doctor, Edie...."
"Bill, how do we know it'll work? What if it doesn't?"
"Can I try?" he asked searchingly. "Can I?"
She lowered her eyes and hid the tears. She shook her head. "I don't know, Bill. I just don't know."
"But isn't it worth a try? Isn't it?"
"What am I supposed to say?"
"Don't say anything now. Just let me try." He thumbed through the phone book. Find a psychiatrist, he thought. Someone to help.
"Oh, Bill...." She sagged against him.
He held her, dialed the phone with one hand.
"And you look awful," she said. Her hand felt the stubble of his beard.
He gave her an anxious glance, listened for a response to his phone call. He tried two more numbers.
"You aren't going to find anyone in their office this time of night."
But he did. The fourth one he called. "Dr. Sutton? This is a Mr. Trumball ... yes with a T' ... I'd like to make an appointment...." He gazed at the warmth in her eyes and felt a sudden welling in his throat. He clasped her small white hand in his. "...tomorrow at two? ... yes ... tomorrow will be fine." He hung up and brought her into his arms. "Tomorrow will be fine, honey. Tomorrow and all the tomorrows from now on."
"I hope so, Bill. I certainly hope so."
And it would, he thought. It really would...