Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

‘I’ll wait for your call,’ Eve said, colder now. Ann lingered for some time in the phone booth, her hands shaking. She dreaded going back to that house.

She walked, moving counter to the rush-hour foot traffic, careless in the way she crossed the streets, ignoring the honking horns.

She had no plan. Again she debated calling the police. Had she the right to meddle? Her thoughts were confused. One thing was certain. She would not, ever again, enter that house.

It looked as innocent as ever, its white facade and black shutters glittering in the sunlight. Stepping up to the door, she banged the clapper. Her hands shook. Her heart pounded. As before, there was a long silence. This time she vowed not to be deterred. She persisted, banging at a rhythmic pace, shrilly urgent, a persistent staccato. Sooner or later, they would answer.

When no one answered after twenty minutes, she began to bang the door with her fists.

‘Please,’ she cried. ‘It’s about the children. Please.’

She raised her voice to a scream. Nothing stirred in the neighborhood, which was as quiet and serene as ever. No one ever became involved. Everyone was protected by a big house, walled in. Besides, many of the residents had gone away for the summer, and the buzz of the air conditioners of the occupied houses nearby assured auditory privacy. Everybody was living his own life, unaware of the pain or outrage of others. How little relationship rich people really have to each other, she thought. Every house was a private armored ship in which its occupants steered their own course.

She determined to be relentless. Not to falter. The palm of her hand became numb with pain.

‘I know you’re in there,’ she cried.

Something flashed into her peripheral vision and she looked up suddenly. She saw his face in an upper window through an opening in the drapes. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stepped backward.

‘Oliver,’ she yelled through cupped hands. She saw him lingering in the shadows.

‘Oliver.’

He moved closer to the window. His face startled her. It was gaunt, bearded, disheveled. His eyes were vague and glazed.

‘The children,’ she shouted. ‘You must call the children.’

Oliver continued to look down at her, uncomprehending. He seemed confused. Indifferent. ‘Your children,’ she cried. His face was chalk-white, expressionless.

‘I’m Ann,’ she cried, feeling foolish.

He nodded slowly, his response unclear. What is happening? An image of ghosts in a haunted house popped into her mind. A scream choked in her throat as she saw Barbara’s face at one of the windows of the third floor. She was smiling benignly, contentedly. Her appearance had altered. Her hair was unkempt, her face gaunt and gray.

‘You must call the children,’ Ann cried, hoping that both of them might hear. She was surprised to see Barbara nod as if she had comprehended. Why did she have to plead for this? Eve and Josh were their children. Their indifference revolted her. Oliver continued to look at her without expression. She saw him lift a wine bottle and take a long drink. Who were these people really? she wondered.

‘Do you understand?’ she called.

Barbara continued to nod, like one of these perpetually nodding little toys. Oliver, watching her impassively, took another swig from the bottle. She felt helpless and inert. Remembering the condition of the house’s interior, she shuddered with anxiety.

The exterior seemed to mock her now. The happy house. She wished it would fall to the ground like the walls of Jericho. It was offensive, unclean, masking ugly secrets. She was disgusted by its clean white facade, its arrogant, aristocratic air. Finally, she turned away, depressed, and began to move off. When she turned again for one last look, they were gone. She had, she assured herself, done her duty. She never wanted to see either them or the house again as long as she lived.

She walked for a long time, trying to comprehend what she had seen. The man in the window was not the man she had loved. Remembering his vague expression, she nevertheless dismissed the idea that he was merely in a drunken stupor. What she had seen went beyond that. And Barbara. So ridiculously contented. She seemed drugged, divorced from reality.

She walked down Twenty-second Street, across Washington Circle, down to the Lincoln Memorial, then onto the bridge and along the bicycle path past the Pentagon. Possessions – what good were they? It was better to own nothing. Possessions carried their own seeds of destruction. Compared to human values, they were worthless gewgaws. Having no possessions made her feel pristine, virtuous. She would own nothing, she decided. As for love, perhaps Barbara was right after all. Love lied, she had said. But to whom?

She was so absorbed in her thoughts she did not notice the sun had set. The impending darkness jogged her memory. She had promised to call Eve and now began to search for a phone. Someone told her there was one along the path, but it was farther than she had expected and she did not reach it until it was dark. She didn’t have the proper change and finally she had to cross the highway on foot to reach the Marriott Motel. A clerk changed a dollar.

Finding a phone, she waited impatiently as Eve was summoned. Then a voice came on the phone that Ann did not recognize.

‘Eve’s gone,’ the voice said in a whisper.

‘Gone?’

‘With Josh.’ There was a long moment of hesitation. ‘Is this Ann?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Kathy, Eve’s friend. They haven’t noticed that she’s gone yet. She said she’d call you when she got home.’

‘What?’ Ann fought to catch her breath. ‘She was worried about her parents. She took Josh home. They took a one-o’clock bus.’

‘When will that get them to Washington?’

‘About eight.’

‘Why didn’t she wait for my call?’

‘She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to go see for herself. Every night she cried herself to sleep.’

‘The fools,’ Ann cried into the phone. Kathy gasped. ‘Not you,’ Ann assured her, thanking her and hanging up. She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight-thirty.

Running to the front lobby, she hailed a cab.

‘You’ve got to make this the fastest run ever,’ she told the driver. ‘Please.’

On his hands and knees, Oliver groped in the forest of empty bottles. His candles had burned out. His matches were gone. Occasionally he would find a bottle with a few dregs of wine still in it, but never enough for a gulpful.

His frustration gave way to rage and sometimes he would pick up a bottle and smash it against a wall. Occasionally a shard of broken glass would open a cut in his flesh. By now even physical pain was irrelevant. Finally he found a full bottle, uncorked it, and drank. It was tasteless. But that hardly mattered anymore.

What mattered was that his mind continued to focus narrowly on the vision of his mission. He must drive her from his house. Everything else was extraneous and unimportant. As if the image were a distant memory, he recalled seeing a young woman on the street below. An image of warmth, of a soft, yielding, loving body, had flickered briefly in his mind, had forced his recognition of a vague longing, some forgotten need. But his mind was already programmed to reject such thoughts. The only thing to be resolved was Barbara’s whereabouts.

In his mind – was it reality or imagination… or both? – he had heard her moving almost soundlessly in his manmade jungle. At first he thought the soft, padding step was that of Mercedes. It was the same catlike tread. The memory of her crushed and lifeless body floated into his consciousness. Mercedes was gone. Benny was gone. The thought of Benny stimulated a sour, chalky taste in his mouth and he gulped.