Eighteen Read online

  Bill looked up to see a familiar figure coming toward him. Not the one he most wanted to see, but close enough. Harry had come to fetch him.

  “Did she send you for me, Harry?” Bill asked, allowing Harry to lead him outside.

  “No, sir.”

  “You came on your own?” he asked in surprise. Harry had never indicated approval of Bill, a lack Bill took to mean disapproval.

  “No, sir,” Harry replied, but Bill noticed that the old man actually seemed a little embarrassed to admit it. Harry gently guided him into the back seat of the Rolls.

  Bill waited until Harry got into the car. He felt as if he might be sick, but he fought it off. “Why’d you come after me?” he persisted.

  “Miss Miriam suggested it. She has many suggestions, sir.”

  Bill signaled him to wait, opened the door and spared the upholstery.

  Harry drove him home, windows down. But even over the long ride, Bill had sobered little. He made it into the house under his own steam, and began the climb the stairs. He swayed a bit as he reached for the bedroom doorknob, twisted it, and found it locked. He stared at it in his hand, as if somehow he were just doing it wrong, this simple act of opening a door.

  Harry came in then, and quietly coming up the stairs, asked in a whisper if Bill might need some assistance. Bill was hanging on to the knob, staring dumbly at the door. Harry reached and tried the knob, then murmured, “It’s locked, sir. Perhaps…” but his voice broke off as they heard another door open.

  Miriam, clad in a nightgown that seemed to offer little difference from sleeping in the nude, smiled and called out, “Ellie left some things for you outside the bedroom off your office downstairs. I guess you’re in the dog house tonight, Billy Boy.”

  “You seem happy to hear it,” Bill said, trying to stand up straight. Having this greedy woman in the household would sorely try him. Harry stepped aside as Miriam came closer. Miriam tried to put an arm around Bill, giggling when he clumsily pushed her hand from his waist. She stepped back.

  “Why do you two stay together?” she asked. “Ellie doesn’t seem interested. I could see why you tried to win her over at first, but now-well, why bother? You’ve got plenty of money. Most women would consider you quite a catch.”

  “For your information,” Bill said, his drunken state not obscuring her intentions, “I wouldn’t make any money without your sister. If I leave her, I can’t write. She’s my Muse.”

  Whatever reply Miriam might have made was lost when a loud crash sounded against the other side of the bedroom door.

  “Ellie! Are you all right?” Bill called frantically.

  “Go to hell!” came Ellie’s voice from the other side.

  Bill heard Miriam giggle behind him as she closed her bedroom door.

  “Don’t do this, sir.”

  Bill was so taken aback by Harry’s plea that he stopped packing for a moment. But he shook his head and latched the suitcase.

  “Sorry, Harry. I can take the silent treatment, and finding out that she threw a portrait of me against the door that night. I can even take the blame for starting this. But I can’t stay here if she doesn’t trust me.”

  Until that afternoon, Bill hadn’t heard a word from Ellie in three days. After that first morning, when Harry brought Bill’s clothes into the bedroom adjoining Bill’s office, Bill hadn’t tried to go back to the room he had shared with her. He had heard her move about in her office, just on the other side of the wall. Each day, she had gone from her room to her office and back again, speaking only to Miriam or Harry. Miriam, suddenly the solicitous sister, would take meals to Ellie in her room. Bill tried to ignore it, told himself her temper would cool, and he would be able to tell her just how much she meant to him, that she was much more to him than the means to an end. Until then, he would keep his distance.

  But this morning she had ventured outside the house, asking Harry to take her for a ride. They had been gone for about an hour when Bill heard someone rustling papers in her office, and went to investigate. Miriam was bent over some documents on Ellie’s desk, pen in hand.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, startling her.

  “None of your business.”

  He moved closer, and she snatched one of the pages off the desk and wadded it up in her hand.

  “Why are you in Ellie’s office?” he asked, glancing at a contract Ellie had signed, the document Miriam had been studying.

  “I said, none of your business.”

  He reached out and grabbed the hand with the paper in it. She clawed at his face, struggling furiously, but he caught both of her wrists and squeezed until she let the paper drop. He bent to pick it up even as Miriam ran crying from the room.

  He sat down at the desk, ignoring the sting of the scratches. The contract was nothing unusual, he noted, as he smoothed the paper out. Ellie’s signature was on the scrap. But as he studied it closer, he realized it was almost Ellie’s signature.

  A tearful voice took his attention from the paper. “I caught him trying to forge your signature. I grabbed the paper he was practicing on and he attacked me!”

  He looked up to see Ellie staring at him in disbelief.

  “Ellie…“he protested, standing up.

  “Did you do this to her?”

  She held out Miriam’s wrists. There were dark red marks on them.

  “Yes, but Ellie…”

  “I don’t want to hear it!”

  She led Miriam from the room, consoling her.

  And so he left the house in the hills. He had no trouble finding a house to rent. He told himself he only rented one because he was too busy finishing his manuscript to do serious house-hunting. Never mind that he was finished before his deadline. While waiting for his editor’s response, he began outlining another work, writing character sketches. He told himself this productivity was a sign that he was readjusting, living a new life.

  But he knew that wasn’t the truth. The truth was, he wrote because writing was all he had left. He felt closer to her when he wrote, even as he told himself he didn’t miss her. But that was the biggest lie of all.

  When his editor proclaimed the new manuscript Bill’s best work, Bill didn’t feel the sense of elation such praise might have once brought. Ellie wasn’t his link to writing after all. It wasn’t inspiration he missed; it was Ellie herself.

  He found himself on Westwood Boulevard at three in the morning, staring at the place where the gas station had been. It was gone, transformed into a parking lot. But as he stared, a gold Rolls-Royce was pulled into the empty lot.

  For a moment, his heart leapt. But then he saw that Harry was driving.

  Alone.

  It wasn’t the first time he had seen Harry. Harry kept tabs on him, he knew. In the beginning, he thought that she might have asked Harry to do so, then realized that Harry only appeared on his day off. Harry seldom spoke to him, and never mentioned Ellie. But it seemed to Bill that Harry was looking older each time he encountered him.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Hello, Harry.” And then, breaking a promise he had made to himself, he asked, “How is she?”

  Harry seemed to perk up a bit. He studied Bill’s face, then seemed to make up his mind about something. “She’s not well, sir.”

  “Not well?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Harry was silent.

  “Harry, did she put you up to this? Is she trying to get me to come back? Because I’m doing just fine on my own now.”

  Harry shook his head. “You disappoint me, sir.” He stepped back to the car.

  “Harry, wait.”

  Harry waited.

  “Does she know you watch over me?”

  “No, sir. But for some time now she has…I mean to say sir, that whatever has gone before, at present she may be too ill to contact you herself.”

  Bill frowned. “I don’t like hearing that she’s ill.”

  Harry stayed silent.<
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  “I know she dislikes doctors. Has she been to a doctor about this illness?”

  “Miss Miriam has supplied a doctor, sir. He often comes to the house to care for Miss Eleanor.”

  “Oh.” He looked away from Harry’s studying gaze for a moment. “Well, I don’t suppose…that is, if Miriam has found a doctor who will make a house call, I don’t suppose Ellie needs me for anything.”

  Harry hesitated, then said, “Permit me to say, sir, that I’m not certain Miss Eleanor has done well under this physician’s care.”

  “Tell her that you saw me,” Bill said. “Tell her that you saw me here. She’ll know what that means. Tell her to-to let me know if she needs me.”

  Bill didn’t sleep at all that night. If she were seriously ill…

  He hesitated until late the next afternoon, then called the house. Miriam answered.

  “Miriam, this is Bill.”

  “Bill the caterer? Terrific. About this evening…”

  “No, no. Bill Gray. Let me talk to Ellie, please.”

  “Oh, that Bill.” After a long pause, Miriam said, “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Let me hear her say that herself.”

  “Listen, she has a new man in her life. One who doesn’t cause so many problems. We’re having a dinner party tonight and he’s the guest of honor. So I really don’t think you’re someone she wants to talk to.”

  The line went dead.

  A new man. He half-believed it. If the wrenching in his gut was any indication, he believed it more than half. But Harry said she was ill, seeing a doctor. Why would she throw a dinner party if she wasn’t well? Why would Harry look for him if she was seeing someone else?

  Not much later, he heard a car pull into his driveway. Bill looked out the window to see the Rolls. He hurried out the front door when he saw the look of worry on Harry’s face.

  “Is she all right?” Bill asked.

  “Sir, I’m to give you this.”

  Harry pressed a key into Bill’s palm.

  “There is a dinner party tonight, sir. I believe the persons in attendance are interested in acquiring the house and surrounding properties.”

  “Ellie is selling the house?”

  “No, sir. But there now exist documents which say Miss Miriam is given power of attorney over the sale of the house, due to her sister’s ill health. And indeed, her sister is ill.”

  Bill looked down at the key.

  “She said you could win the game, sir. Do you know what she means?”

  “The game? The Hitchcock game. It must be Notorious.”

  “The game is notorious, sir?”

  “No, Harry. Notorious is a Hitchcock film. Claude Rains plays one of the leaders of a group of Nazi scientists living in Brazil. They’re trying to build an atom bomb. Ingrid Bergman has married him, but as he discovers, she’s an American spy working with Cary Grant.”

  “Does the key give you some clue about her health, sir?”

  “No,” Bill said absently, “but in a Hitchcock film, the story is always larger than the objects which become the focus of the suspense.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Bill continued to stare at the key, but answered easily. “The key is to a wine cellar, where an important secret is kept. But the film isn’t really about spies and secrets. Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman are in love, but misunderstandings and mistrust stand between them. It isn’t until the end of the film, when he realizes that…” Bill suddenly looked up at Harry. “Harry, when you said she was ill…oh, no. Get me to the house at once! Drive like a bat out of hell!”

  Harry complied. As they drove, Bill asked him questions that made Harry wonder if the young man had somehow spoken to Miss Eleanor, even though Miss Miriam had taken the phone out of Eleanor’s room long ago. Bill asked about Miss Eleanor’s symptoms, and every time Harry said, “Yes, sir. She’s had terrible stomach cramps,” or “Yes, sir, very dizzy,” Bill seemed to grow more frantic.

  “Keep the motor running,” he said as they pulled into the drive. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Bill burst through the front door, nearly knocking a startled maid off her feet. He could hear voices in the dining room, but he didn’t bother with the dinner party in progress. He ran up the stairs.

  “Sir!” The maid called. “You can’t go up there!”

  He ignored her.

  His only moment of hesitation came as he stepped inside Ellie’s bedroom and saw her for the first time in months. He had expected to find Ellie’s bedroom door locked, but quickly realized why it wasn’t.

  She was too ill to run away.

  He forced himself to move again, came quickly to her side. Her skin was jaundiced and she was so thin, almost skeletal, he thought, then pushed the thought away. Her hair, her beautiful hair, was dull in color and missing in patches. Her breathing was steady but rasping. He put his hands beneath her and lifted her frail body from the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. He told himself that self-recrimination must wait.

  Her big brown eyes were open now, watching him.

  “Good to see you,” she whispered.

  “My God, Ellie.” He tried to gather his wits. “How long has she been poisoning you?”

  “Little at a time,” she said, wincing as she spoke.

  “Don’t talk now, not if it hurts. Has it just been since I left?”

  She nodded, the effort seeming to wear her out.

  A month. A month of arsenic. “I’m not leaving again, Ellie. Except to take you with me.”

  She continued to watch him, but now the barest smile came to her lips.

  He had started down the stairs when Miriam, dinner party in tow, entered the foyer.

  “What are you doing?” Miriam screeched.

  “I’m taking her to a hospital. To see a real doctor. You had better pray to God that I’m not too late.”

  Miriam tried to block his way. “She’s too ill to move! You have no business…”

  “Careful, Miriam,” he said in a low voice. “She’s awake and lucid. Shall we discuss this in front of your guests, or do you want to wait until after Harry describes your so-called doctor to the gents at the sheriff’s office? Ellie’s bloodwork will probably give them all they need to go after both of you.”

  Miriam paled, then stepped out of the way.

  “What’s going on here?” one of the guests demanded.

  “My sister’s…”

  “Fiancé,” Bill supplied, as he reached the front door. “Her fiancé is taking her to a hospital.”

  The group followed him toward the car. He wasn’t watching them. He was watching Ellie. She moved her hand, covered his with it. Her skin was cool and paper dry. “You’re safe now, Ellie,” he told her.

  “I’m coming with you!” Miriam said, hearing the guests murmuring behind her.

  “No you aren’t, miss,” Harry said, helping Bill into the backseat.

  “She’s her sister!” one of guests protested.

  “Her sister will remain here with you,” Bill said. “She wants to tell you about a Hitchcock film.”

  “What are you talking about?” another man asked.

  “Notorious,” Bill said, closing the car door.

  “You’ve won, sir, haven’t you?” Harry said as they drove off.

  “I’ve had help,” Bill replied. “All along, I’ve had help.”

  Ellie squeezed his hand.

  White Trash

  The woman dressed in black ninja garb moved stealthily across the street, armed with a spray bottle of a popular herbicide purchased at her local hardware store. In the dim light of the streetlamp, she set the spray mechanism to “stream” and went to work. Quickly she moved the bottle in a graceful, sweeping motion. She left as furtively as she had arrived.

  Three weeks later, much to the horror of the jerks who lived across the street, a rather obscene directive appeared on their lawn, spelled out in dead grass letters. Alas for these evil neighbors, the Sub
urban Avenger had succeeded once again…

  I looked up from my bowl of cornflakes and glanced across the street, wondering-just wondering, mind you-if I could get away with it.

  In every nearly perfect suburban neighborhood, there is the family that makes it “nearly” instead of “perfect.” In ours, it was the Nabbits. You could find the Nabbit house without a street number. I would sometimes use its distinctive features to guide other people to my own home. “We live across the street from the house with the pick-up truck parked on the lawn,” I’d say. Or, “Look for the old mattress propped up against the side of the garage, then pull into the driveway directly opposite the box springs.”

  Sarah Cummings, who owned the pristine property to the right of the Nabbits, had warned us about these troublemakers from the day we moved into the neighborhood. “I call them the ‘Dag Nabbits,’” she said. “Nola Nabbit is a tramp. You watch. If Napolean’s army had been as big as the one that has marched through Nola’s bedroom doors, they’d be speaking French in Moscow today. Daisy, the little girl, is okay. But the kid! He’s a mess.”

  The kid was Ricky. Ricky Nabbit, I soon learned, was a frequent guest of the California Youth Authority. He had a seasonal habit of breaking into houses, shoplifting, and other purely selfish acts.

  “As long as it’s baseball season,” Sarah told me, “We won’t have any trouble. He’s a baseball nut. But every winter”-here, Sarah shivered-“he robs somebody.”

  When Sarah heard that I would be working out of my home, she was elated. “Maybe you can help keep an eye on things,” she said. Specifically, she meant Ricky Nabbit.

  We had moved into our home in the spring of the year when Ricky turned fourteen. I would watch him walk home from baseball practice at the nearby park. Skinny, clean cut, and looking smartly athletic in his uniform, he wore a glove so often, I had visions of him eating with the mitt on his left hand.