Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

“I slept on the couch.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you why. Because I’m leaving him.”

The beautiful Pamela Forrest was sitting up in the middle of my bed. She too wore pajamas and her hair was mussed. She didn’t need a shave.

“Why’re you leaving him?”

“Why? We patched things up last night and I told him I loved him and was glad he’d come back to get me. And then I told him about this art class I was taking and it started all over again.”

“What started all over again?”

She gave him a disgusted look and said, “You tell him, Stu. And then just listen to yourself.”

Stu seemed embarrassed. “Well.”

“Well, he got jealous. As usual. That’s why I left him. When I said our marriage wasn’t what I’d imagined it would be? Well, that’s the real reason. All those other reasons I gave you all boil down to this, McCain. He’s so jealous he wants to keep me locked up all the time.”

“What’s wrong with art classes, Stu?”

“You don’t know her, McCain. The way she flirts. She takes an art class—especially one at night—I’ll lose her for sure. I mean, back here, I didn’t have any competition. No offense, McCain. I mean, nothing personal. But I was the only guy she was interested in. But in Chicago—”

“That’s why I’m leaving him, McCain. ‘The way she flirts.’ God, I never flirt.”

“The party at Judge Armstrong’s house? That Peruvian bastard.”

“He was an Argentinean bastard.”

“Well, whatever he was, he had his eyes down your blouse.”

“There isn’t all that much to see down my blouse, Stu. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, of all people.”

“How many times did you slow dance with him?”

“Twice.”

“Oh, bullshit, Pamela. Don’t make it worse by lying about it.”

I just let them go. I doubted they even noticed. I grabbed fresh clothes and repaired to the shower. When I came out, I was ready to go.

Stu wasn’t on the couch.

Then I heard a moaning sound.

I turned. They were on the bed. They were under the covers and I do believe he was inside her, the noises she was making.

But she was still able to look around his arm at me and say, “We made up, McCain. He told me he’d never be jealous again.”

“Good for you, Stu.”

I’m not sure Stu was hearing much at the moment. He just sort of continued to work away down there.

“So tonight Stu’ll make you a steak,” she said around his arm again. And then: “Oh, by the way, Judge Whitney called for you last night. You better call her.”

“God, honey, can’t you pay a little attention to me ?”

“Oh, Stu,” she said, eradicating my existence. “Oh, Stu Stu Stu.” And giggled giggled giggled.

At the office, I called Judge Whitney in her chambers. “My God, Pamela had nerve enough to come back to town?”

“Surprised me, too.”

“And Stu?”

“Yep.”

“Well, at least when my family had to endure a scandal, we went as far away as we could. All the way out here. And we never went back to our little town, either. But people these days—well, they’re staying at your apartment and probably having a great old time.”

“Sure sounded like it when I left this morning.”

“Spare me the details, McCain. I have tender ears.” Then: “Tish Hardin called me late last night from the hospital.”

“Is she sick?”

“She isn’t. But her husband Mike is. He sat in a steaming hot bath last night and slashed his wrists. She got him to the hospital and took him in the back way. She’s afraid that this’ll make people think he killed that Hastings woman.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d have to say that that would cross my mind, too.”

“He’s at St. Mallory’s. Go see him, talk to him.”

“I doubt he’ll talk to me.”

“It’s important that you at least try.”

“Let me check my mail and my calls. I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

“I’m due in court in ten minutes, McCain. Call me later on this morning. After eleven.”

“All right.”

“And McCain?”

“Yes?”

“I think you should marry Mary Travers.”

I laughed. “What brought that on?”

“Well, everybody in town knows what’s happened to her. And everybody also knows that she’s still in love with you. She’s a very sweet girl.”

“I didn’t know you gave advice on romance.”

“You should know by now, McCain, that I give advice on anything I feel like.” She hung up.

THIRTEEN

HE WAS ON THE top floor in a cul-de-sac, the nearest room half a hallway distant. A nurse had just stuck a thermometer in his mouth as I walked in. The white room gleamed with sunlight. A wall-mounted TV was muted. The image was that of Garry Moore, a comforting image.

He gave me a little nod. The nurse gave me a nod, too. She was old and tough and serious, the master sergeant type. He looked like Mike Hardin. He didn’t even look pale. Both his wrists were bandaged pretty good, though.

I lighted a cigarette and walked over to the window and looked out on the town. In the daylight it’s Norman Rockwell. For all its foibles and shortcomings, it’s a good town with good people. The exceptions to the latter generally don’t bother you with anything worse than brief burst of malicious gossip or pontification. You could see the changes, though. Like the shopping center distant on the north edge of town. The downtown merchants were scared of it, and rightly so. We had recently added a McDonald’s near the community college. There was talk of a chain pizza coming here next year. And then there were the commuters who lived in the large, expensive housing development to the west. Four bedrooms, three baths, two-and-three stall garages. The Interstate would swing by here in another couple years and the number of commuters would triple after that. Judging by things they wrote in the newspaper letter columns, they seem to regard us and our customs as “quaint.” Some of the quaintness irritated them. They especially hated farm smells and slow traffic when they were trying to get to their jobs in the morning. I don’t believe that a Jaguar or a Mercedes-Benz had ever so much as passed through our little town till the high-powered executives arrived. It was the brave new world of 1962.

After the nurse squeaked out the door, Hardin jammed a cigarette between his lips, fired it up with an expensive lighter, and said, “Pretty stupid, huh?” He held up his wrists to show me. He held them up the way he would little kittens.

“Pretty stupid.” We still didn’t like each other but this was no time to play tough guy.

“I can tell you what everybody’s saying.”

“That you killed her and her brother and then tried to kill yourself rather than face prison.”

“Yup. ‘Former University Football Star Murders Mistress.’”

“You should write headlines for a living.”

He smiled. It was a wide and deep and sincere smile, too. The suicide attempt had transformed him into a relaxed, friendly human being. “I’ll have to consider that since I’m soon going to be broke. If not behind bars.”

“You kill her?”

We watched each other for a while. Just watched. No particular expressions. Then he glanced out the window and back at me.

“I was always kind of an asshole to you, wasn’t I, McCain?”

“Me and a lot of other people, though this probably isn’t the time to say it.”

“I’m going to be changing that. Or trying, anyway. My wife’s only going to stick with me if I try. I wasn’t a hell of a lot better with her than anybody else. And the worst thing is that I’ve been that way pretty much all my life. I knew it, too. And I didn’t care. I don’t know that my two boys’ll ever forgive me.” Then: “You think I killed her?”