Ed McBain - Goldilocks

“It’s true, Matthew. You get distracted, and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Susan, you make me sound like someone who can’t tie his own shoelaces!”

“I don’t want another argument.”

“Then cut it out, would you please? I can’t hold a conversation and drive at the same time, I can’t drink two martinis before dinner, I can’t ...”

“You do drink too much.”

“When is the last time... would you please tell me the last time... can you tell me anytime you’ve seen me falling-down drunk or even...”

“You get fuzzy,” Susan said.

“Susan, I drink less than almost any man I know. Old Reggie next door—”

“Mr. Soames is a drunk.”

“That’s exactly my point. I am not a drunk, I am not even a heavy drinker. What is this, would you please tell me? Is this Gaslight or something? Are you trying to convince me I’m a drunk because I have two martinis before dinner? Are you trying to drive me to drink, Susan, is that it? Susan, you had two drinks before dinner, do you know that? You had two drinks, Susan, I counted them. You had two Manhattans, Susan. You fell asleep during the concert—”

“I did not fall asleep,” she said. “And please don’t change the subject.”

“Susan, say it, okay? Do you think I’m a drunk? Say it.”

“I do not think you’re a drunk.”

“Fine, then...”

“But I do think you drink too much.”

“ What , exactly, is too much, Susan?”

“Two Beefeater martinis is too much.”

“Jesus Christ!” I said.

“Lower your voice,” she said. “All the windows are open.”

“Then close the windows and turn on the air conditioner,” I said.

“The air conditioner is broken,” she said. “Or did you forget that , too?”

“That’s right, I have a very poor memory,” I said. “That’s why I’m such a lousy lawyer. I can’t remember what a witness is saying from one minute to the next.”

“No one said you’re a lousy lawyer.”

“No, but I have a lousy memory.”

“You forgot about the air conditioner, didn’t you?”

“I thought you called about the air conditioner.”

“I called, but they wouldn’t come on a Sunday. If you paid more attention to what was going on around here, you’d have known nobody came to fix it.”

“I thought they came while I was out getting the Times .”

“Then why would we have all the windows open instead of the air conditioner on? If the air conditioner had been fixed...”

“How do I know? Maybe you want Old Reggie to hear us fighting. Maybe you want him to suffer a coronary occlusion.”

“I hate the way you talk about Mr. Soames. He’s a nice man.”

“He’s a fart,” I said, and got out of bed and stalked into the living room.

I debated putting on the Modern Jazz Quartet. I sometimes played the Modern Jazz Quartet at full volume just to annoy Old Reggie next door. Reggie had a cavalry mustache. He carried a walking stick, which he poked at lizards. He also poked it at our cat, Sebastian. Sebastian was a much finer individual than Reginald Soames. Whenever I played the Modern Jazz Quartet at full volume, Sebastian the cat stretched out on the terrazzo floor in the living room, exactly midway between the two speakers.He closed his eyes. His ears twitched in time to the beat. He was a most appreciative and big pussycat. Old Reggie was a fart. When I played the Modern Jazz Quartet — I didn’t even like the Modern Jazz Quartet, I only played it to annoy Old Reggie — he came out with his walking stick and said in his whiskey-seared voice, “A bit loud, eh, Junior?” and then he said, “What is that crap, anyway?” I always told him it was Mozart. “Mozart?” he said. “Mozart, eh?”

I realized all at once that Reginald Soames was a sad and harmless old man who simply had the ill fortune of living next door to someone whose marriage was in trouble. I thought about that. I thought about the only two things in this marriage that meant anything to me — my daughter Joanna and Sebastian the cat. I was on my way back to the bedroom to tell Susan everything, to tell her at last, to tell her I wanted a divorce, to tell her she could have the house and both cars and the boat and the savings account and the record collection and the piano nobody played if only she would let me take Joanna and the cat with me when I left.

That was when the telephone rang.

It was Jamie Purchase calling to say his wife and two children had been brutally murdered.

Now, at a little past three in the morning, as I pulled back the sheet on my side of the bed and got in beside Susan, my only wish was that she would not wake up. I was exhausted, I was numb, I didn’t know what I was feeling or thinking. Before the argument, before the call from Jamie, I had set the alarm for seven A.M. At eight every Monday I played tennis with Mark Goldman, who was a dozen years older than I and a dozen light-years better. Seven A.M. was only four hours away. I tried to figure out a plan of action. Should I call Mark at three in the morning to tell him I couldn’t play tennis with him tomorrow? Should I leave the alarm set for seven and call him when I woke up? Or should I simply turn off the alarm and sleep till Mark called me from the club to ask where the hell I was? I was too tired to think. I left the alarm set for seven. Cautiously, I eased my legs under the sheet. I had the dread premonition that if Susan woke up, the first thing she’d say would be, “And another thing...”

She stirred beside me. She rolled into my arms. We were both naked, we had slept naked from the beginning, thirteen years ago. The end had almost come two hours ago, when I’d been about to tell her everything. Her body was warm with sleep. She put her hand on my right shoulder. I had known this woman since she was seventeen. I had married her when she was nineteen. I was now ready to divorce her. I had not yet told her, but I was ready.

I was awake at six-thirty, listening to a cardinal chirping out back. I got out of bed without waking Susan, put on a robe, and went into the kitchen. Joanna was sitting at the table, spooning cornflakes into her mouth, reading the newspaper.

I knew better than to talk to her while she was reading. Or for that matter, while she was eating breakfast. Joanna is not a morning person. The only time I could get away with talking to her before nine A.M. was when she was still an infant. Susan and I used to take turns getting up for the early-morning feeding. I’d hold Joanna in my arms and whisper sweet nonsense into her round little face while she gulped down formula that was surely inedible. Her eating habits hadn’t changed much. She liked her cornflakes soggy, she shoveled dripping spoonfuls of them into her mouth blindly, her eyes on the latest adventures of Hägar the Horrible . “Good morning,” I said, and she said, “Uhh.” I went to the refrigerator and took out the plastic container of orange juice.

I had picked and squeezed the oranges myself the day before. Old Reggie saw me picking them and asked whether I intended to squeeze the whole batch. I told him that’s what I was intending, yes. He said it was best to squeeze only what I’d be using immediately. That was the way to get the most benefit from them, and besides juice tasted better when it was squoze fresh. That was the word he used: squoze. I told him I didn’t have time to squeeze fresh juice every morning. I told him I tried to pick and squeeze enough oranges on Saturday or Sunday to last me through the week. Old Reggie shook his head and poked his cane at a lizard. The next time I saw him, I would have to apologize to him. Not for squeezing more oranges than I could immediately use, and not for the Modern Jazz Quartet either. Only for taking out on him all the things that were troubling me.