Donald Westlake - Two Much!

“Make it today.”

It was now shortly after six, approaching dinnertime. I said, “Candy, even if I had time to come out to Fair Harbor, I’d never make the last—”

“I’m in New York.”

Flashback: vision of Candy entering this selfsame building as I was exiting it with Betty after the mirror trick. “Ah,” I said. “You’re in New York.”

“I left Ralph.”

“Oh, Candy, think what you’re saying.”

“I wrote him a letter, Art, I told him everything.”

“A letter? To Ralph?”

“Everything, Art.”

“Candy, are you sure you—”

“I’ll show you the carbon. Take me to dinner and I’ll show you the carbon, and we can talk.”

Good God. An hysterical or overemotional woman at this juncture would have been bad enough, but a woman who tells all to her husband in a letter and makes a carbon is neither hysterical nor overemotional. No. Such a woman is a woman with something in mind. I said, carefully, “Candy, if you want to talk over your problems with me for old time’s sake, I’ll be hap—”

“Old time’s sake? We had a lot more than old times before you started running around with that rich bitch.”

“Candy,” I said, “I hate to bring this up, but the reason we haven’t seen so much of one another lately is because you threw me out. Remember that?”

“We’ll talk about that, too, Art.”

“Um. What does Ralph say, Candy?”

“About what?”

“About the letter, what else?”

“He hasn’t seen it yet. I’m going to mail it to him tonight.”

“Oh,” I said.

“After you and I have our talk,” she said.

“I see.”

“You always were pretty quick, Art.”

Candy hardly counted as a friendly face, but God knew she was a warm body. So much for Linda Ann Margolies — too bad. I said, “Where are you now, dear?”

“At home.” Meaning the apartment on West End Avenue in the eighties.

“I’ll come by for you at seven?”

“Have the doorman buzz me,” she said. “I’ll come down.”

“You don’t want me to come in, Candy?”

“First,” she said firmly, “we’ll talk.”

We had dinner in the library, a Broadway restaurant near her apartment. I’d asked immediately to see the carbon of this famous letter, but she’d said, “Let’s not spoil our appetites with a lot of argument,” so we’d had to go through the entire meal, spoiling my digestion if not my appetite, and at last over coffee she took a well-folded document from her purse and handed it over to me.

Two sheets of paper, typed. Sighing, convinced I was not going to be happy with this letter, I began to read:

Dearest Ralph,

Darling, I want you to know that no matter what happens from this point in time forward in time I have never lost respect and love for you and I never will lose that respect and that love.

However, I have come to the distraught conclusion that it can no longer be possible for you Ralph and me Candice to continue to live together as husband and wife. The gulf mat stretches between us cannot be bridged by our best intentions no matter how good those intentions of ours might be.

We are drifting apart, my darling, and I no longer see any possible way or circumstance in which we could drift back together again. Our problems of sexual and emotional incompatibility are simply too deep for us to be able to climb over them and find one another in the valley of love on the other side.

You know that I have asked you repeatedly to see Doctor Zeeberger about your premature ejaculations and your occasional impotence and your general inability to satisfy me in the conduct of our conjugal affairs in the bedroom. I want to be honest with you, Ralph, now more than ever, and I do know that you have been to see Doctor Zeeberger, but I do not believe you could possibly have explained the situation to him or he would not have said it was me he wanted to talk to. I do not have premature ejaculations. I do not have occasional impotence. In fact, Ralph, if you will recall and be honest with yourself and with me, you will know that I have given you every possible verbal assistance and reassurance on this subject, saying such things to you as, “I’m sure it’ll be just fine this time,” and, “Don’t get tense, sweetheart,” every single time we go to bed together.

Ralph, I have a confession to make. I am a woman, with the needs and desires of a woman, and in my frustration and anguish I have turned to another man. Yes, you know him, Ralph, he is your dearest friend and mine, Art Dodge. In his arms I have found the fulfillment that fled me within my marriage. Art and I have had intercourse on a regular basis for over a year now, in a variety of settings. I am enclosing photostats of four motel registers where we registered as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Dodge.

Ralph, I hate to cheat and lie. Desperation drove me to Art, but love has kept me with him. We love one another, Ralph, and we want you to give us our freedom so that we may marry and be honest before the world.

It was this summer in Fair Harbor, when the children became aware of what was going on, that I knew I could be a dishonest woman no longer. Yes, they know, Ralph, in their childish way. That’s why I sent Art away, hoping against hope that you and I could somehow make a go of it, though the odds against us were astronomical.

Well, it can’t happen. You will find a better woman than me, Ralph, I am sure. All I want is the children and child support, you know I would never be greedy. And don’t think too harshly of Art. Love hit him like a ton of bricks, just like it hit me.

Hail and Farewell,

I finished reading this remarkable carbon, nodded slowly, refolded the thing on its original creases, laid it on the table, sipped at my coffee, looked at Candy sitting across from me like a sharper who’d just switched decks, and I said, “Do you really have those photostats?”

“They’re in the envelope with the original.”

“And where is this envelope?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “You aren’t getting that. Besides, I can always write the letter again, and I can always get more photostats.”

“Uh huh.” I tapped the folded letter, thinking things over. “Why, Candy?”

She frowned, not understanding me. “What do you mean?”

“Why me? Ralph makes a better living than I do, he’s more reliable, he’s more blind and therefore more safe, and he likes your kids. I hate them, you know, and I always will.”

“You’ll get used to them.”

“Why me , Candy?”

The look she gave me was both vulnerable and defiant. “Maybe I love you,” she said.

“Christ,” I said, in honest depression, “I believe you do.”

“And I can make something of you,” she said.

I half-closed my eyes when I looked at her; I didn’t like seeing her head on. “Make something of me?”

“You’ve never had any ambition,” she said. “You’ve just been content to live on what you can con and cheat and steal. You’re very smart and very imaginative, and if you really tried you could be a big success.”

Four hours ago Liz had married me, and here was Candy trying to turn me into a husband.

“The only kind of big success I want to be,” I said, “is without trying. Money that’s earned by the sweat of my brow is tainted; I won’t touch it.”

She pointed a triumphant red-tipped finger at me. “I’m going to change all that,” she said. “I’m going to make you a success in spite of yourself. You’ll have money, respectability, accomplishment. You’ll be proud of yourself, and I’ll be proud of you.”

“You’ll reclaim me from Satan.”

“You could say it that way,” she said, without flinching.