Evan Hunter - Nobody Knew They Were There

“Mr. Eisler, you’ll need transportation to the bridge….”

“And from it, I hope.”

“In any event, if Sara doesn’t choose to drive you, we must make other arrangements. Discuss it with her and let me know.”

“I’ll discuss it with her.”

They walk me into the entrance hall. Raines opens the door for me.

“Mr. Eisler?” Hester says.

“Yes?”

“I think you’re a foolhardy man,” she says, “but I think you’re doing a splendidly courageous thing. I have nothing but admiration for you.”

Her words surprise me. I am, in fact, speechless.

“Good night, Mr. Eisler,” she says.

“Good night,” I say again. As the door closes gently behind me, I murmur, “Thank you.”

Sara is in the bathroom brushing her teeth.

“Hester wants to know if you’ll drive me to the bridge Saturday morning,” I tell her.

“I will,” Sara says, and spits into the sink.

“Do you want to?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t have to. They can arrange…”

“I want to. I'll drive you there, and I'll wait for you.”

“We’ll see about waiting for me.”

“How else will you get back?”

“I don’t know. I suppose…”

“I’ll wait for you,” she says. “Now get out of here, please, I want to shower.”

I go back into the bedroom, take off my clothes, put on my blue nightshirt, and crawl under the covers. In the bathroom, Sara is singing in the shower again.

“Oh, dear, what can the matter be?

“Seven old ladies locked in the lavat'ry.

“They were there from Monday till Saturd’y.

“Nobody knew they were there.”

She stops singing only when she finishes showering. “Whooo!” she shouts, and throws open the bathroom door. A cloud of steam escapes into the bedroom. I hear her grunting as she briskly towels herself.

“Hester’s giving a party tomorrow night,” I yell from the bed.

“What?” She pokes her head around the doorjamb.

“Hester. A party tomorrow night.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she says in dismissal, and goes back into the bathroom. She is in there for perhaps another five minutes, humming, brushing out her hair. She comes into the bedroom naked, turns out the lights, and gets into bed beside me. In the darkness, in each others’ arms, we whisper like the conspirators we are.

“Do you want to go to the party?” she asks.

“It was my idea.”

“Then I guess we’ll be going.”

“Well, you’ll be going with Professor Epstein.”

“Oh, lovely,” Sara says.

“But I'll join you before midnight.”

“Where will you be till then?”

“At the bridge.”

Sara nods. She is silent for a long time. Then she asks, “Are you nervous about Saturday, Arthur?”

“I’m petrified”

“So am I.”

“You don’t have to drive me, Sara. In fact, I’d prefer…”

“I want to. I want to be with you.”

She is silent again. She smells of soap, she feels soft and smooth and wonderfully warm. “What time must we leave Saturday morning?” she whispers.

“I’d like to be at the bridge by ten-thirty.”

“That means…”

“We’ll have to leave here by ten. No later. That’s if the road’s good If it snows…”

“It might. It looks like snow.”

“Yes. We’d have to leave earlier if…”

“If it snows, yes. I’ll borrow Seth’s car. I’m sure…”

“No. Let’s leave Seth out of this. We’ll have to get a car elsewhere. I’ll rent one, if you like.”

“That might be best.”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“What about after the bridge? Will you come back here?”

“No. The airport. Directly to the airport”

“Do you have a ticket yet?”

“I can get one there, that’s no problem.”

“I’d rather you got one in advance, Arthur.”

“All right, I will.”

“There’s a travel agent in town. On Carter. Will you make a reservation tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“There are flights to New York all day long.”

“I know.”

“I’ll drive you directly to the airport afterward After the bridge.”

“All right.”

“Now what about this party?”

“It’s a costume party, did I tell you that?”

“Ridiculous,” Sara whispers. “Where are we supposed to get costumes?”

“They can be simple.”

“Sure, like what?”

“I don’t know. It’s really not important, Sara. As long as Epstein’s unrecognizable.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, I see. That’s very clever, Arthur. Did you think of that?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very clever. But what shall I go as?”

“Anything you like.”

“I think I’ll go as a cheap whore.”

“Fine.”

“Or a pregnant college girl.”

“Anything you like.”

“Or maybe both. Which would you prefer, Arthur?”

“I prefer you.”

“You’ve got me.”

“Have I?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“I can tell.”

“Gloria disapproved of you at first. But I think she liked you by the end of the night”

“I’m glad.”

“I am, too. I’m very fond of Gloria. She’s my closest friend, I tell her everything. I even told her…”

“Yes?”

“No, nothing.”

“What did you tell her?”

She hesitates a moment, and then says, “Only that I love you very much.”

I know this is not what she was about to say, but I can hardly quibble. “I love you, too, Sara,” I tell her.

“Very much?”

“Very much.”

“Yes, good.” She nods in the darkness, and is thoughtfully silent. After a while, she says, “There’s a thrift shop near the railroad station. I’ll stop there tomorrow after class and see if I can find something to wear. They have all kinds of junky, musty crap there. I’ll get something, don’t worry.”

“Epstein’s coming here at nine in the morning,” I tell her.

“Okay. Good night, Arthur,” she says, and sighs.

“Good night, Sara.”

She sighs often during the night, and once she mumbles, “Oh, dear, dear, dear” in her sleep. Something is worrying her, and it worries me in turn. I circle back over our conversation, trying to discover the source of the uneasiness, but I cannot pinpoint the exact location, and I toss restlessly, unsettled.

I hold her close, and each time she sighs, her troubled breath shudders through me like my own.

I do love her very much indeed.

Weglowski has not taken the truck tonight, for fear it will be recognized. Instead, he is driving a nondescript, faded blue, 1968 Chevrolet sedan, the trunk of which is loaded with dynamite, blasting caps, coils of wire, friction tape, and tools. I notice that he drives with extreme caution, but I make no comment. He seems dour and uncommunicative, a trifle tense. When at last I ask him whether he is worried about setting the explosives, he answers that he is worried only about going to jail. I tell him, with what I consider to be a humorous edge, that I quite share his concern. He acknowledges my comment with a brief dismissive nod.

We park the car at the overlook, and hastily unload the trunk. He has packed the dynamite and blasting caps into two knapsacks, and we quickly strap these to our backs. There are several large coils of wire, and we loop these over our arms and shoulders. Weglowski shoves the roll of black tape into the pocket of his mackinaw and then straps on his tool belt. We cannot risk being seen on the highway this way, and so we take to the woods at once, stepping into knee-deep snow, and begin the half-mile trek back to the bridge.

I am worried about leaving footprints.