Kill Me a Husband Page 3

  “’Bye, Mommy,” Eileen said.

  Alma waved as they went out, then covered her ears with her palms as the sound of more explosive backfiring came in through the open door.

  She read for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then she walked to the dining room window and drew aside the lacy curtain. The light which streamed from the garage’s open doors showed Norman leaning on the Essex’s high fender, head bent over the engine. From the exhaust came coiling clouds of black smoke.

  Opening the glass-doored buffet, she took down two shot glasses of different sizes and a pint flask of whiskey. She filled the larger glass to the brim and put considerably less in the smaller one. She put the glasses on a tray, walked to the kitchen and filled a tumbler with tap water. Placing it beside the whiskey glasses, she went outside.

  He scowled as she approached. Then he noticed what was on the tray and his expression changed to mild surprise.

  “What’s that for?” he said.

  “It’s chilly. I thought you might be cold.”

  His greasy fingers picked up the larger glass and he downed its contents in one swallow, chasing it with a gulp of water.

  He did not thank her. Turning back to the engine, he made an adjustment which caused it to sputter and gasp like a large animal unable to breathe enough air. She watched him for a few minutes, sipping from her glass, then she returned to her chair in the sitting room.

  But now she was unable to remain still. She walked idly around the room, straightening an embroidered doily on the sofa, rearranging the Swedish bric-a-brac on the corner shelf. As her fingers moved, the stone in her engagement ring twinkled and she thought back to the night Norman had presented it to her. Eleven years ago. Eleven wasted years. Even then she hadn’t loved him. But it had been a large diamond, the largest she’d ever seen, much too large to be ignored by a nineteen-year-old girl who didn’t know the full meaning of the word love. A nineteen-year-old girl who soon, however, learned the full meaning of the word hate.

  She paused beneath the photograph of Winifred. Now she felt no pity for Winifred, only hate. For eleven years she had lived with this portrait of Norman’s dead fiancee. He had hung it in a prominent place in each of their homes, starting with their honevmoon flat on West Fourth Street. He had made it clear more than once that she was merely a substitute for Winifred. Always when their arguments grew most violent he mentioned Winifred and what a much better wife she would have made.

  Winifred, Winifred, Winifred . . . He’d even put Winifred’s name on his motorboat and there had been weeks of dispute, weeks of tears, until he consented, bitterly, to paint out the word Winifred and replace it with Alma, in smaller letters.

  Winifred, Winifred . . . She felt her fingernails pressing sharply into the flesh of her clenched fists.

  She hated Winifred, hated her with every fiber of her being. Winifred had been dead for many years, vet in this house she had been kept tormentingly alive. And in Norman’s mind she was still the same sweet fiancée of scarcely twenty, unchanged, sensitive, still so very virginal. And how Norman loved to hint about Winifred’s virginity. How proud he was of Winifred’s virginity. The fool. As if that was anything to be proud of.

  She cursed him. Her hatred for Winifred was great, but it was nothing compared to her deep and violent hatred for him. Because the portrait of Winifred and the constant mentions of Winifred’s superiority were only two of the numerous cruelties he practiced.

  Most of them were smaller cruelties, but just as deliberate. But the worst of all was his coldness, the pride he took in not caring what she did with herself dav after day, not caring about what happened to her.

  She cursed hirn. Then she went to the tray and with trembling fingers refilled his glass with whiskey.

  When she returned to the garage, he was lying beneath the quietly idling car. With her foot she nudged his nearest leg where it protruded from under the running board. He crawled partway clear of the car and frowned up at her from the floor.

  “Now what?”

  She knelt beside him. “It’s getting colder. I thought you might like another.”

  For a moment there was puzzlement in his gray eyes and she could guess what he was thinking. Tonight was the first time she had ever brought the tray to the garage and anything which wasn’t routine bothered him. But since he was used to being waited on, demanding constant service from her mother as well as herself, she was certain his puzzlement would be brief.

  She was right. He reached for the glass, downed the whiskey and followed it with a swallow of water.

  “Nearly got her fixed,” he said. “Notice how quiet she’s running?”

  She nodded.

  He crawled back under the car and Alma walked outside to the vard. But she did not go into the house. For a few minutes she stood in the darkness near the kitchen porch. Whiskey always made him drowsy. The two glasses had contained a larger amount than usual and his drowsiness should commence a little sooner.

  She shivered as a chill breeze pierced the thin cloth of her housedress and dashed a handful of dry leaves against the fence.

  She walked back to the garage. Quietly she closed the left-hand door, noting that he was still working beneath the car. The hinges of the right-hand door squeaked as she pushed it shut, but she was certain the sound was muffled by the idling engine.

  Hurrying across the yard, she did not Icok back at the garage. When she returned to her chair in the sitting room, her heart was beating so rapidly it felt like a bird trying to escape from within the walls of her chest. Rarely had she known such excitement. It was exquisite, equal even to that she had enjoyed with Bud yesterday afternoon.

  She picked up her magazine, but almost immediately laid it aside. Her fingers felt cold and she rubbed them together. She glanced at her watch and realized the doors had been closed less than two minutes. It seemed so much longer.

  She walked once around the room. She stopped at the buffet and filled the smaller shot glass with whiskey. She drank half, paused a moment, and finished it. The liquor was pleasantly warm, but it was not what she wanted, after all. Opening the top buffet drawer, she drew out a package of gum and put one of the clove sticks in her mouth.

  She chewed hard. She chewed in rhythm with the swift beat of her heart. Almost at once she felt better, felt in control of her nerves once more.

  Striding to the portrait of Winifred, she stared coldly at the young, wistful face, chewing the gum with short, rapid movements of her jaw.

  The excitement was becoming almost too much. She found that she could not bear to stand in one place. It was much easier to walk around the room, to circle the room again and again and think only about how she loathed everything about Norman.

  Exactly seven minutes had passed when she heard the abrupt sound in the yard.

  She was close enough to the dining room window to see light streaming once again from the garage because the doors were open and swinging on their hinges.

  Norman was leaning against the car trunk, shaking his head violently from side to side.

  He walked away from the garage, coming toward the house with unsteady, weaving footsteps.

  When he cnme in through the side door, she was seated in her chair, eves upon her magazine.

  She heard him stumble against the sewing machine, but she did not look up. Her heart was beating so loudlv she was certain he would hear it.

  Gasping and coughing, he dropped heavily onto the sofa. He pounded his chest with his fist.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said.

  He did not replv until his coughing subsided.

  “Gas,” he said. “Monoxide.”

  Clearing his throat, he spat into his handkerchief. Then he looked at her, but there was no accusation or suspicion in his eyes.

  “God damn wind,” he said. “Blew the doors shut on me!

  She walked over to the buffet, filled a glass with whiskey and took it to him.

  “You should be more careful,” she said.<
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  CHAPTER 4

  Not until two months later, in November, were Alma and Ward able to arrange an entire night together. For Ward it had been a day of continual rushing, winding up corset sales early in several specialty shops, almost missing his train, finally meeting Alma for a late supper in downtown Manhattan.

  It was ten o’clock before they’d reached the suite she had rented in the La Paloma Hotel.

  Now it was nearly midnight and she was still in her strange mood.

  “I just don’t want to make love,” she said.

  “But why, Alma? What’s the matter?” His face was tinged with worry.

  “I just don’t feel like it.”

  “But why?”

  She did not answer. Instead she shrugged, picked up her film magazine and sat on the chesterfield, her legs folded comfortably beneath her. She stroked the arm rest, which was brown brocade with a heavy gold thread.

  “Isn’t this nice material?” she said. “You still haven’t told me how you like the suite.”

  “But I did, Alma. It was the first thing I mentioned when we came in.”

  “Oh, did you?” She turned the magazine’s pages idly, not looking at them, but not looking at him, either.

  Ward was completely baffled by her attitude. For weeks they had planned this date, their first night together. They had exchanged numerous notes and phone calls, deciding that the Friday after Thanksgiving would be the easiest to arrange because Norman would be away on a fishing trip. Norman was always the complication; Ward’s wife was never a problem because she was used to his being away on sales trips. Finally everything had been worked out. All during the hectic, long day he had looked forward eagerly to tonight, thinking about the pleasures they would share, thinking about her amazing body.

  He sat down on the chesterfield beside her. He reached toward her knee which was partially exposed below the hem of her black party dress. Almost immediately she twisted away from him, tucking both knees out of reach.

  His frustration turned to anger and as it rose bitterly within him he realized it was the first time he’d ever felt this way toward her. And it was all so foolish. There was absolutely no reason for it.

  He crashed his palms together angrily and strode away from the chesterfield. Standing before the glass-topped bureau, he poured himself a large drink of whiskey, added a little water, and downed a good portion of it in the first swallow. Over the rim of the tumbler, he studied himself in the bureau mirror. There was nothing wrong with his appearance. His white shirt was fresh, his red and black tie was knotted correctly and he had shaved on the train for the second time today in order to be presentable.

  Finishing the drink, he set the tumbler down on the bureau top with an emphatic click. It was his third drink, or possibly his fourth, and he waited a moment, letting it settle within him, adding fuel to his anger, building up his confidence.

  Abruptly he turned away from the bureau.

  “God damn it!” he said.’ “I want to know what’s the matter!”

  He was surprised at his tone. It was strong, almost authoritative, totally unlike the usual sound of his voice.

  Alma looked up from her magazine.

  “Why, Bud,” she said. “Shame on you.”

  “What for?” he demanded.

  “I thought you never took the Lord’s name in vain.” Her words were softly mocking. “I didn’t think you ever swore.”

  “God damn it, I will if I want to!” Pushing his fists deep into his trousers pockets, he strode back to the chesterfield and glared down at her. He knew the whisky was making him act this way and he welcomed the change in himself, even if it might only be temporary. “Now what the hell’s the matter? Is it me? Is it something I’ve done?”

  “Partly.”

  She smiled a mysterious feminine smile that told him nothing.

  “All right, damn it,” he said. “What have I done?”

  Her smile became warmer. “I like you when you act this way, Bud. So masculine. Now you sit down and I’ll tell you what’s the matter.”

  He started to sit beside her on the chesterfield, but she restrained him.

  “No, Bud. On the floor. Here.” She pointed to the rug directly before her. “You see, dear, I want to run my fingers through your hair.”

  As soon as he sat on the floor, he knew it was a mistake, another sign of weakness, because somehow her higher position on the chesterfield automatically robbed him of authority. But as he leaned back, closing his eyes, feeling her fingers stroking his hair, he decided that if it was a mistake it was certainly a very enjoyable one.

  “I love your hair, Bud. It’s so thick, so wavy, and exactly the color of autumn leaves. And you keep it so neat, not all shaggy like Norman.”

  Her fingers stroked his forehead and then lightly touched other parts of his face.

  “You have a very good forehead, Bud. It’s high and that’s a mark of intelligence.” She toyed with the gold frame of his glasses. “And these are a mark of intelligence, too. But best of all I think I love your chin. Did I ever tell you that you’re the only man I’ve ever known that had acleft chin?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it’s true. I think your chin is just perfect.”

  Her fingers explored the cleft lightly, enticingly, and as he kissed her palm, he felt an urge to draw her down beside him, to embrace and fondle her. But when he tugged gently at her arm, she resisted and drew her arm away.

  He tried to rise, but her hands caught his shoulders.

  “No,” she said. “Stay there while I finish. I love meeting you like this, Bud,’ darling. I love spending the night with you. It’s very exciting. And I don’t mind having to pay for the suite because Norman’s got plenty of money. And if you want me to lend you another twenty-five, I’ll be glad to, as you well know.”

  “Thank you, dear.” He placed his palm over hers where it rested on his shoulder. “Business sure has been rotten.”

  “I know. But, Bud, darling, you must realize that I’m the one that’s taking the greater risk. You realize, don’t you, that the man always has it the easiest? And it’s the woman who suffers if anything should go wrong?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I’m glad you do, Bud. And that’s why I wanted to have this little talk. I feel that you owe me something—and I don’t mean money—for what I’ve given you. And what I want to give you.”

  “Of course, Alma.” Turning, he noted that her large, blue-green eyes were somber, more serious than he had ever “seen them. “What is it that you want. Alma? Is something the matter, is something worrying you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? Is it Norman?”

  “Partly.”

  “Is there something you want me to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to promise something.”

  “Of course, Alma, darling. All you have to do is name it.”

  “All right, dear. I want you to promise to help me.”

  “To do what?”

  “I want you to promise to help me no matter what happens. I want you to promise to stand by me and help me if I should need you.”

  “Of course, dear. But what are you afraid of? What do you think might happen?”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Will you promise on the Bible?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then get that one over there.” She pointed to the mahogany writing desk where a Gideon Bible was displayed.

  “All right.”

  He brought the book to her and they placed both their palms upon it.

  “Do you swear to help me?” Her eyes were deeply concerned. “Do you swear to help me if ever I need you?”

  “Yes, Alma. I swear it.”

  “Thank you, darling. I feel so relieved.”

  She rose from the chesterfield and kissed him on the lips. “In fact, I feel wonderful. Let’s hav
e some fun! Let’s have a party!”

  She tossed the Bible into the air and it landed upside down on the chesterfield, cover open, its own weight wrinkling the thin pages.

  Pulling up her skirt, she kicked off her high-heeled pumps, sending them skidding across the rug.

  “Fix me another drink, Bud!” She snatched her empty glass from the end table and expertly flipped it to him. “Fix me a big sexy drink!”

  While he poured the whisky into their glasses, she rubbed her hip against him, with slow, cat-like motions. They laughed as he spilled some of the liquor. After touching their glasses together, they drank, kissed, drank and kissed some more.

  Alma finished her drink first. She unwrapped a stick of chewing gum, put it in her mouth and gave him another kiss..

  “Whisky and clove,” she said. “Sexy?”

  “Very much so!” He felt the blood beating heavily against his throat and now he was glad that she had delayed like this and put him off because it was more exciting this way, a dozen times more exciting. He reached for her, but before he could touch her wonderful breasts, she twisted quickly away from him arid went toward the chesterfield.

  She bounced on the cushions, then climbed to the arm rest, standing with her arms stretched overhead, moving her hips slowly from side to side.

  He ran toward her, but she squealed happily and pushed him away.

  “Not yet, Bud!”

  Unfastening the hooks on her dress, she started to pull it over her head, but as soon as it covered her eyes she lost her balance and teetered to and fro on the arm rest.

  He stared at her, totally entranced because there had been no hint at any time during the evening that she wore nothing under the black party dress.

  She slipped off the arm rest and fell across the chesterfield, half in the dress, half out.

  “Bud,” she giggled, “help me!”

  He leaned over her, hesitating. Then he drew the Bible from under her knee, closed it and placed it on the end table.