Evan Hunter: Nobody Knew They Were There

“What?” Gwen says.

“I scratched one of my contact lenses,” Sara explains. “Last week. This is a new one.” She points to her right eye.

“I thought witches never told,” I say.

“What?” Gwen says again, puzzled.

“Nothing.”

“How do you happen to know Professor Raines?” she asks.

“From Los Angeles,” I answer.

“Oh. Is he from Los Angeles?”

“He’s from Boston,” Sara says.

“We met in Los Angeles, though,” I say. “We’re old friends. We used to play soccer together.”

Sara shoots me a warning glance. Gwen says, “Are you putting me on?”

“Yes,” Sara says. “He is.”

“I am,” I admit Then, to show Sara how quick and inventive I am, I say, “The university is constantly expanding, constructing new buildings, and so on. Professor Raines thought he might be able to put me in touch with some of the local contractors. And since I’m originally from Philadelphia, he thought I might enjoy Sara’s company. She’s from Philadelphia, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s as simple as that,” I say, and smile.

“As simple as that,” Sara repeats, but she does not smile back.

I know I must call home. It would be dangerous to delay the call further. I try to imagine what Abby has already done, but I become hopelessly mired in possibilities. Twice I reach for the phone. Twice I change my mind. Instead, I call Sara. I have left her not a half hour ago, but I call her anyway. The line is busy. I pour myself a water tumbler full of scotch and slowly sip at it I try Sara again. The line is still busy.

At last, I place the call to New York.

Abby answers on the second ring.

“Sam?” she says when she hears my voice. “Where are you?”

I decide to lie. She cannot trace me because I am registered here as Arthur Sachs, but I lie anyway. “I’m in Salt Lake City,” I tell her.

“I thought you were dead,” she says. She sounds disappointed that I am not.

“No, I had to come out here suddenly.”

“Why?”

“Important contract to negotiate.”

“That Eugene knows nothing about?”

“You spoke to Eugene?”

“Yes, of course I spoke to Eugene. When a man suddenly disappears…”

“Eugene doesn’t know anything about this.”

“An important contract, and your partner doesn’t…”

“I was called in privately.”

“What is it, Sam?” Abby asks. “Are you out there with a woman, is that what it is?”

“No, Abby, I am not out here with a woman.”

“It’s the only thing I can figure,” she says. “You disappear suddenly…”

“Well, I’m sorry about that. There was no other way.”

“No other way? You go to Sioux City…”

“Salt Lake City…”

“Wherever the hell, without even calling your wife to tell her you’re leaving? What kind of behavior is that, Sam? Is that responsible behavior?”

“No, it’s irresponsible.”

“Is that adult behavior?”

“It’s childish, Abby.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Sam.”

“Whatever’s the matter with me is the matter with the world,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m suffering from the malaise of our time.”

“Sam, don’t get philosophical. Do me a favor, and save that for some other time, okay?” She hesitates. Her voice softens. “I was worried sick,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

“I almost called the police.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. My father said I shouldn’t He was convinced you’d deserted me. He said calling the police wouldn’t do any good.” She pauses again. “Have you deserted me, Sam?”

“No,” I tell her, “I haven’t deserted you.” But I am not sure I mean it

“When are you coming home?”

“On the second of November.”

“Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”

“I can’t tell you that, Abby.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you here.”

“Who said I was coming?”

“I know you, Abby. I have to handle this alone.”

“Handle what alone? Your important contract?”

“Yes, my important contract.”

“You’re with a woman, Sam. That’s your important contract.”

“I swear I’m not with a woman.”

“Then why won’t you tell me where you are?”

“Abby, we’re going around in circles.”

“Sam…” she starts, and her voice breaks. “Sam, don’t be a bastard.”

“Good-bye, Abby,” I say, and hang up.

I call Sara immediately afterward.

The line is still busy.

The town is full of young people.

They run the hotel, the shops, the restaurants, everything — part-time employees who did not come here to work. As a result, the service is poor everywhere. We pass each other on the windswept streets. They move swiftly and silently. They look much the same as they looked four years ago, two years ago. They dress as they did last year, when the Harvard Riots took place. But they are silent. Their voices have been stilled since then, and yet one expects them to converse at least, and they do not. One expects to find something still burning in their eyes, but instead there is only the sadness of vast disillusionment I am here to change that, and yet we have nothing to say to each other. We do not even smile at each other. They are serious and afraid, spiritless, defeated, numb. Yet even here, there is a seeming optimist. Scrawled on a gray fence surrounding a construction site, in huge letters, are the words BILL, ISN'T LIFE WONDERFUL? — signed in red as rich as blood, AMY.

Life is not wonderful, Amy.

You are mistaken.

At the sole car rental place in town, I almost tell the clerk my name is Arthur Sachs, and then remember that I must produce my driver’s license before they will let me have an automobile. I give him my real name, and tell him I will pay in cash. As I am initialing the little box that indicates I wish full insurance coverage, I realize that Arthur Sachs, unlike me, does not possess credit cards, or bank accounts, or keys to vaults and houses and automobiles, Arthur Sachs does not possess wife or family or even friends. Arthur Sachs is only a name.

(And yet, upon reflection, the name is my only real possession now.)

The countryside is burnished bright. I luxuriate in the drive, and almost forget why I am here. The road meanders through the foothills, running more or less parallel with the railroad tracks. The sky above is a bright blue, the air heady. I negotiate each turn as though I am driving the Alps. I remember my sons once telling me that I did not compare favorably with Italian drivers, this on the long tortuous stretch from Portofino to the French border. I had been showing off for them. I had been driving as expertly as I could — for them. And now I am about to commit murder — for them.

There is a deep ravine twelve miles west of the town. The highway clings relentlessly to the side of the mountain, but the railroad tracks take a more direct route here, crossing the ravine on an old steel bridge that hangs high above the cut. The train from California should come this way to enter the town.

There is no place to park the automobile. I realize that I shall have to call upon my assistant and come back tomorrow. That is the excuse I give myself.

The beer hall is thronged with noisy students who at least have the good grace not to sing rousing college songs. Photographs of yesteryear’s winning football teams, soccer teams, baseball teams, swimming teams line the walls, black-and-white reminders of fame’s fleeting touch. There are no waiters in the place. The bar is at the far end, serviced by two college students wearing aprons over their red striped shirts. Most of the patrons are drinking beer. Sara, too, says she would like beer. She advises me to order it by the pitcher, as it is cheaper that way. I am amused, but I do not smile.