Robert Coover - John's Wife

At the door. And through it. Found at last, when least expected, nor where he’d have thought to look. All the way out here, slipping through back streets and unmarked roads in the borrowed truck, Cornell had been thinking about his escape from Yale’s girlfriend’s apartment after, well, after what had happened to her, and how his whole life since then seemed like a single thread: through those scary streets, down into the ground below, then through that dark stinking maze of tunnels and sewers, up the metal stairs, out the door at the top, into a life with that clubfooted lady that was, somehow, already underway, then out again to find the one true friend he had in the world, and now once more on the run, but aboveground and with something important to do and no longer all alone. That thread of his life, he sensed (he remembered Marie-Claire’s horrible final message: maybe what she’d meant to say was THINK!), was now being knotted, he didn’t know how, but it was all coming round full circle, and he was suddenly sure he would find at last the door that he’d been looking for, solving the mystery of his life and freeing himself from the sensation of there being not just one of him but two. That second Corny, the mixed-up married one, shaken off for awhile, was back with him now, not so much riding in the seat beside him or in the truckbed behind as actually sharing the driver’s seat and interfering with his moves, even if he was trying to help, as he sometimes did on hairy turns or in heavy traffic with his video games reflexes, but more often determined, it seemed, to lead him astray in some random rerouting of his intentions: he had to be single-minded about this business and simply could not. What he had to do now, if the other Corny would only let him, was return this cumbrous truck and pick up his old van, make a quick grocery run, then meet his friend in the woods, which was where he now imagined he might discover that elusive door (something about the smell of the place had stirred a faded memory and excited that imagining) through which they could make their escape before the crazy people in this town caught up with them. The last place they’d tried to hide was an unused hangar out at the airport and that had worked for a little while, poor Pauline could even stand up and walk around a little, but they’d hardly settled in when they’d been surprised by four or five very mean guys, including one of Corny’s former high school teachers, who’d actually shot at them with a gun. Holy cow! Corny had had to floorboard it out of there, right through the lot of them and crashing out the half-opened door, and, with all the roads out of town cut off by police cars, there was nowhere big enough left to go but Settler’s Woods. Not perfect. Once inside there was no easy exit, and it was risky to be so near the highway and strip, though the motel was useful for food and clean sheets, which Pauline wore like diapers now that her red cloak hardly came below her armpits. The Country Tavern was close by as well, and there was a mall Corny could reach by foot. So, after finding a safe place to hide Pauline and the truckload of food (it didn’t look like a place where a door might be, but that was where the sensation struck him, gazing up at his friend as she squatted to offer him her finger between his legs — zowie! — that he was at least getting warm), he left a few false garbage clues to send the police chasing and then took the back roads to the Ford garage, skirting danger as best he could whenever the second Corny wasn’t making him take wrong turns — as he did too often, turning the trip out into a maze. Corny was worried, hopping down out of the truck at the car lot, about all the time he’d lost: he’d left Pauline in the woods in blazing midday sunshine, and already it was pitch-dark! He found the old van, but locked up: the keys must be in the office. Which, fortunately, though everything appeared closed down for the night, was unlocked. He turned the handle and crossed the threshold and that was when it came to him that the door he’d been looking for all this time was the one he’d just stepped through.

Across town in the retirement home built by John, Barnaby stepped through his bathroom door, dragging his leaden leg behind him, staggered over to the laundry basket, and tipped it over. “God, Barnaby!” Audrey snapped, from her seat on the toilet, “can’t you give a woman a little privacy?” “Too old for that, Aud. I just thought of something.” “Well, that’s a novelty,” she said sarcastically, but she seemed uneasy, watching him as he struggled to tip the hamper upside down. Not a simple trick for a crippled puddinghead. But he managed it and, sure enough, the old handgun he’d been looking for all this time clattered out onto the tiled floor. She leapt up off the pot, but she was hobbled by her lacy drawers (Audrey always was one for fancy underthings), so for once he was able to beat her to it simply by falling on top of it. Not sure how he was going to get up again, but he had the gun and it was pointed, however unsteadily, from under his chin, up at her. “Now sit back down there,” he said. “We’re gonna have a little talk about that rewrote will.” She plopped back in place looking a bit deflated as he pushed up onto his elbows and knees, waving the gun more or less in her direction and reminding her that he was a mite shaky so she shouldn’t get adventurous. “I thought I’d moved it from there,” she sighed, staring at all the dirty laundry scattered across the floor. “I must have forgotten.” Using the tub and lavatory, he was able to haul himself to his feet, but not without the gun going off, sending a bullet ricocheting out of the washbasin, off the medicine cabinet mirror, and into the ceiling, and provoking a squawk from Audrey, who jumped a foot off the stool, then snapped: “You damned fool! You want to kill somebody? You can’t undo what’s already been done!” In some remote subdivision of his devastated brain he knew that was true, but in the front war-room lobes behind his eyes, from which heavily fortified enclosure he was organizing this do-or-die operation, there remained a stubborn hope for victory. “We can try,” he said heroically, and accidentally fired off a shot through the window. Audrey winced and ducked but stoically kept her seat. “You’re a crazy old buzzard who ought to be locked up,” she said. She was really boiling. “It’s a good thing John’s running the company, or we’d all be ruined. I’m glad I changed that will!” “Why do you favor that coldhearted boy, Aud?” he asked, trading anger for anger. “On account of he reminds you of your old beau?” “Oh brother! Why don’t you stick that peashooter up your backside, lamebrain, and leave us all in peace?” “Hey, tell me, love of my life, I’ve always wondered, did you ever have a tumble with that ruthless whoremonger?” “Well, what can I say, Barn? Mitch was once a handsome man, and he had a charming way with the ladies. Which is more than can be said for present company!” The doorbell rang. “That’s likely the police,” Audrey said, reaching for the toilet paper. “They probably want to know why you’ve been shooting at the neighbors.” The bell rang again and someone banged on the door with his fist. “All right! All right! I’m coming!” he shouted, though he knew that was not what it sounded like to others. Audrey was the only one who understood him now, so it was just as well he hadn’t knocked her off, he might need her to get him out of trouble. He limped out, trying unsuccessfully to holster his weapon in the sock sewn into the armpit of his robe, and as he opened the door, shot the carpet. There was Mitch with a dead wet cigar in his mouth. “Don’t shoot, Sheriff, I’ll marry your daughter!” Mitch said, and took the gun away from him, looked it over skeptically. He glanced past Barnaby’s shoulder and added: “You all right, hon?” She came running over and fell into Mitch’s arms, and he gave her a big hug. “I’ve been so frightened, Mitch!” Mitch backed out with that two-timing woman under his arm, the little silver gun pointed at Barnaby’s kneecaps. The sonuvabitch was stealing his damned wife, right from under his nose, but Barnaby wasn’t surprised, they’d taken everything else. Wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shot him either. Wished he had. He was really all alone now. Couldn’t even do himself in. He shut down the war room and his daughter came in and closed the door. “Where have you been?” he croaked. “I’ve needed you!” He was crying, he couldn’t help it. She put her finger to her lips and shushed him and led him over to his bed to tuck him in. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m here now.”