THE LADY KILLER: intense, suspenseful, gripping literary fiction (19 page)

“And do you know why there’d been peace so far?” I said to Hammond. “Guess why?” He once again shook his head.

The mother knew all this. She recognized the night (in old Vienna). And though she hadn’t been expecting her son to come over there and stay after, she knew it was he who’d come in and who she heard downstairs, and that he was with a woman. She, of course, hadn’t come down to meet her or been able to recognize her voice sufficiently well to tell the difference because she was half asleep and in her nightclothes. So she happily assumed it was Gloria. Things had gone according to plan. But how many times do we go on our assumptions as to what’s true, especially if we believe they’re backed by good faith. This, of course, would’ve been the good faith of her son. A thing mothers are not only supposed to have but are entitled to have in their sons. Hammond, for once was silent. It was almost as if he too could predict what was to come. And it did too, like a hurricane had just broken onto shore.

Once having entered the room with the four-poster bed, the same old mahogany furniture that was suffused throughout the antique house, and a thick Persian carpet with a Kerman design on the floor, Sandy went directly to the clothes locker to hang her coat and, it seems, she’d found more than she bargained for.

“What … what do you mean?” said Hammond. “A coiled snake?”

“No,” I said, “but something nearly as bad to her. Almost a complete wardrobe of women’s clothes, including nightgown, robe, slippers, the very items she, of course, didn’t have on that impromptu visit.

“Whose … whose’re these?” She said as she stood gaping at the sufficiently stocked rack before her; then finding makeup in the dressing bureau along with a woman’s brush tangled with golden red hairs.

“Whose do you think they are?” Said Hartwig gruffly and he hung his things up as he stripped, changed and got into his own nightclothes. “They’re Gloria’s. She’s about your size. Put them on and let’s go to bed.”

He treated her roughly as if to minimize the situation by appearing annoyed enough that she’d back down, and also as if to indicate ‘what’s one more woman’, or maybe he was hinting that Gloria meant nothing to him. That she hoped, of course, and still hoped. Yet Sandy knew Gloria’d been there. Hartwig’d told her, only not to the extent she’d moved in an entire wardrobe, which made her feel like Hartwig was using her.

And with a timid, “Yes,” believe me Sandy felt this power and she was immediately perplexed as to how to deal with it. Without another thought as to the obligations those items implied … she still had no idea the tickets had been meant for Gloria but had assumed Hartwig’d gotten them with her in mind … she stripped on the oriental rug before the full length mirror and put on the strange garments stoically as though going to her own funeral. As to whether they fit her or not, I imagine they did. About that Hartwig hadn’t been lying, both women were nearly the same size.

In the old red flannel nightgown (a Gloria antique), Sandy rolled over to one side of the bed, pulled the down coverlet over her, turned away from Hartwig like a rejected and angry child (which she’d actually been) and awaited his attack. I say attack because sex implies that at least in the primitive sense for females are traditionally supposed to be overwhelmed by the male, a trait, which puts us closer to animals than we’d actually like to admit.

“And,” I said to Hammond, “with all that racket going on above her for an hour or so, Sylvia actually felt comforted, already like a mother-in-law or perhaps a grandmother. Yes, why not a grandmother. It actually reminded her of the better days with her deceased husband and eventually put her into a gentle, appreciative sleep.”

“You mean she still…?”

“Yes,” I said. “She still didn’t know, any more than she could tell whose voice it was downstairs. She’d just been too drowsy and the sounds too muffled to be identified. She certainly didn’t mind that the two were having sex before marriage for nowadays in our culture that’s common. You sample the goods before you buy them and no one minds that. She thought those
love
noises were Gloria’s even though according to Hartwig the two were substantially different.”

“You mean nothing like June’s?” Hammond made a pun.

“No,” I agreed, “nothing like June’s. Nothing could be like June’s.” He laughed out loud.

And so the night or what was left of it went peacefully with the old grandfather clock chiming punctually on the hour much like our sun rises every morning according to its progression, sending its gentle gong-like vibrations through the silent house. And even when Sylvia rose at six a.m. it promised to be a rewarding day, business as usual for the attorney.

She had slept well, showered, did her toilet and squirmed into one of her tight fitting grey suits with blouse and jacket. In the kitchen she brewed some coffee, boiled several eggs and along with her toast washed them down with her juice. Then she set a little bouquet of garden flowers on the breakfast table for her visitors. Her briefcase was filled with the documents she’d sorted through the night before on the dining room table. They were filed as to how she’d need them according to the order of the day, which she well had in mind for she’d seen many of them in court. Occasionally there was a surprise but not many as law is cut and dry whether one wins or loses.

“Oh, and the note.” She said aloud as she was ready to leave the house for in her anticipation of the legal detail she’d soon need, she’d almost forgotten the
two
upstairs. She’d intended to leave her son a note on the kitchen table next to the roses, a nice one, stipulating she hoped he’d enjoyed the evening. That he and Gloria’d come next week for dinner. She was such a nice girl. And she signed it with a smiley face, the older logos, which was still being used, a rarity for her face since it was said to scowl more than smile and I think that was true.

“It was,” said Hammond. “I’ve seen old Sylvia myself in court. That was her demean and she’s still practicing and scowling though her hair now is somewhat gray.”

Reflective suns had illuminated the windows across the street. In her haste to leave the house she hadn’t looked down into the driveway but as she descended her front steps, the strange car became apparent and she recoiled. At first in distant confusion.

Blocking the garage where her car was parked stood a small black convertible. She … her first reaction was that a neighbor’d taken the privilege to… And along with this association she was already calling a tow truck to get that monstrosity (as she saw it) out of there and she wouldn’t have time to wait for it and then drive to work. It might be an hour or so before… She’d have to take a cab.

Now … and why just now … she thought of her son up there sleeping away, the good for nothing, while she had to go to work and had been so unjustifiably delayed.

“Could … could he have anything to do with this car?” She mused but reasoned negatively for he’d’ve brought his old wreck as he always did when he came over with Gloria. And then he’d always had the civility to find a space on the street so as not to block her for he knew her schedule. On weekdays at least. She, matter of fact, walked to the street; looked up and down to see whether she could spot his old red Bug. She didn’t, of course, so she went inside to phone.

Yet when once again in the large silent house she heard no stirrings she decided just to cover any possible alternative (the way her mind actually worked) to knock on her son’s door quietly so as to just ask him one simple question before going through all the trouble of alerting the tow company, which he’d have to direct. Perhaps the door to the car was open, her son could get into it and roll it onto the street out of the way. Let the owner then have it towed. Why should the burden rest on her? It was her driveway.

So she did. She climbed the two flights of stairs to the third floor and knocked gently on his door. The light as it sometimes does when it enters a rectangular window made a trapezoidal patch in the hallway.

“And did he answer?” Said Hammond. “Did the lazybones even have the gall or decency to do that?”

“He did eventually,” I said though he was reluctant to open the door.

“Louis dear. There’s a car in my driveway,” said the timid but persistent voice. “Do you know anything about it? I’m about to call a tow.” She didn’t say tow truck.

“What?” Answered the sleepy and perturbed son for he never liked to be wakened and he felt it was his right to sleep. Then came from him casually. “Yes, mother, it’s
ours
. Go downstairs will you please? I’ll be right down to move it.”

The stunned mother obeyed like a mechanical robot. The problem’d been solved but … ours
…
her son had said. What’d he mean by that? She, of course, stood in the front hallway waiting for him. He at that point, naturally, hastened to the rescue. He in his drunken revelry had completely forgotten his mother had to go to work in the morning. That someone in the world had to work to at least support his lifestyle and those of others like him. He certainly remembered it now.

“And he definitely should have,” said Hammond. “The distress call should’ve told him something. Did it?”

“How can you reach a man who doesn’t want to work but feels that the world owes him a living? How many inherited wealth freaks are enjoying that luxury in our country? Too many I’d say. Especially if he can exact that tithe from the world whether he works at that or not. He came rushing down the stairs in his robe and slippers like he certainly was concerned all right.”

“Yes mother, I’m sorry. I totally forgot. I’ll move the car in a jiffy.”

But he wouldn’t look into her eyes as he passed her with the keys in his hand. He got into the Mercedes, and started it up. By then, of course, she was seriously curious. Fully dressed, with her briefcase in hand, the front door of the house still wide open, she went up to his car window, which Hartwig then let down with its automatic button.

“You said
ours
just a little while ago,” now said the feisty attorney in her angry barrister tone ready to battle this time out of court. “Just whose car is this you’re driving? And who’s the passenger?” She blinked doubtfully. For the duplicity of her mistaken identity the night prior was beginning to sink in. She hadn’t had enough coffee.

“What do you care, mother?” Hartwig sassed her back.

“You’re in my house. I have a right to know. And who’s upstairs?”

Well, believe me, Hartwig told her. That was the one thing about him, if pressed enough he was thoroughly honest. When she heard the name, of course, she placed it immediately for everyone in those circles knew Sandy Hightower or at least about her. And though Gloria’d told Sylvia about some older wealthy woman in her son’s life she hadn’t mentioned the woman by name and it hadn’t seemed important then. You can imagine when Sylvia heard it; it hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Sandy Hightower!” She exclaimed. “You mean that dissolute bitch’s in my house. You get her out right now before I come back or I’ll call the police and have her thrown out.”

“Yes mother, of course.” Hartwig was still unperturbed. He felt he’d committed an amusing caper when his mother felt completely betrayed. Believe me she was down. Her everyday faith in people hit rock bottom then and all because of her son.

Hartwig backed the car onto the street to let his mother by and as she passed, of course, she rolled her own window down to give her son a little medicine of his own.

“I … I’d never take someone like you abroad even if you are my son. Quite frankly I’m ashamed of you. I never should have had you,” she said to her own son, and to tell the truth she had no idea what she’d accomplished by her censor. She hadn’t known a thing about her son’s relationship with the socialite, and knew less about it now though it seemed overwhelming to her and could very well set her apart from her son forever. This because she, of strong will, would never give into such a relationship, shocking or not. As she drove herself to work she found herself shaking all over.

“What about Sandy?” Hammond asked me.

“Oh her?” I was a little numb myself. “She poor thing had heard every word, for right after Hartwig’d left his old room she’d come after him in her own robe and slippers (Gloria’s actually) and stood behind the front door listening to the ruckus in the driveway. Imagine how she felt. Imagine if Sylvia’d seen her wearing Gloria’s things? And she hadn’t wanted to come over there in the first place but had thought it a bad idea.”

No, as soon as the mother pulled away, Sandy high tailed it right back upstairs, jumped into bed and went on a crying jag. The mother, apparently, hadn’t been the only female trembling that morning. At any rate that’s how Hartwig found her, under the covers and sobbing up a storm. An unusual feat to say the least for a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve but never seemed to let anything affect her very deeply. Hartwig had, of course. She was deeply in love with him. The ostracism by the mother (who she’d naturally wanted acceptance by) had been a crushing blow even though she might’ve known it to be inevitable. People in those situations just hope the clash never comes about, that it’s perpetually postponed and the tension diffuses entropically on its own. When it doesn’t they don’t know which way to turn.

The ebullient Hartwig, now, yanked the covers off her, jumped into bed and was all for arousal until he suddenly realized this was one defeated woman and that sex was the last thing on her mind. Such things can happen in real life you know. He turned her over and shook her gently. Her grey pupils were ringed by red corneas. She resembled a pop-eyed monster one sometimes sees in the comics.