Control (23 page)

Feeling very much a fool—no, worse—feeling very much an
old
fool, W. Nelson Stewart silently unlocked the great front door of his mansion and stepped inside. It was midnight of the day of his supposed Boston trip, and bitter. He had been hesitating outside for more than a few minutes, and now as he stood there in the darkness, he shivered, shivered with the cold.

At least that was one reason.

Probably a greater contributor was simply fear, fear of what he suspected might be going on between Charlotte and Theo—no, worse—fear of what he
knew
to be going on between them.

He crept now toward the staircase.

Crept. That was the right word. Here he was, a decent fellow, a decent somber admittedly humorless businessman, mid-fifties, worth a million and more for every year, reduced to skulking.

To skulk was lower in dignity than to creep.

I have never committed an immoral act in my life, Nelson Stewart thought, never knowingly wronged another, and here I am, stealthily slinking
into my own house,
prowling up
my own stairs,
intent on lurking in the dark to catch
my own wife
in the arms of another.

Part of his mind said
“
get out, stop this, it doesn
’
t matter, this is not what you do well, you don
’
t belong here
”
and for a moment he paused on the stairs and glanced back at the door.

But he did belong here. It was, after all, his home.

And of course, it did, it did matter.

He had cared for Charlotte Bridgeman since she was born, had watched her become perhaps the one genuine beauty it had ever been his great pleasure to know, had married her, babied her, fathered children with her.

Only to be betrayed.

The act of betrayal was not in itself so surprising. Nelson remembered the looks Charlotte got when they entered rooms together. And he knew he was, to her, old, and he knew he had more stomach than necessary and his rimless glasses were not the sort a hero might wear. And there were always so many younger men in the world—as you got older, he realized, their number increased; thirty was now a younger man to him, thirty-five even.

But in his mind, if he was to lose Charlotte, it was also to an athlete, someone who matched her beauty. A man who played tennis or golf and of course had money and the graces and darting eyes; that sort of figure might replace him.

Not a Theo.

Not an undernourished less than manly trashy poet. At the top of the stairs now, Nelson wondered again at the incredible choice Charlotte had made. And though he was yet short of tangible proof, he had caught the looks between them, seen the flushes of cheek, caught the occasional stammer.

As he crossed silently toward his bedroom, he allowed for the possibility that he was wrong. That she had not betrayed. That his jealousy was simply getting brewed stronger with age. Fifty-five. He was fifty-five, she was just past thirty.

But Theo was young and that must be the greater part of it. Plus: he was though dreary to Nelson, undoubtedly soulful to her. Probably he read her poetry aloud. Probably he spoke in metaphor.

But surely there could not be much physical between them.

Nelson entered his bedroom, crossed it, carefully unlocked and turned the terrace door. Their rooms were close, his and Charlotte
’
s, and the terrace went the entire length of the house. He slipped outside now, walking very slowly. A step at a time. Pause. Another. Pause. Breath. No sound. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. As he approached her bedroom, he slowed even more. There was a splash of light where the curtains parted. Not much. But more than sufficient for his needs.

W. Nelson Stewart moved to where the bed was entirely within his view. He stepped back, taking no chance of being seen from within. Then he waited.

Theo was seated on her bed, his hands clasped in his lap, a tatty robe tight around his ridiculous body. He wore old slippers, torn. One of his toes protruded.

W. Nelson Stewart shook his head. For such a creature, betrayal. For such a forlorn wet kitten of a man, a life thrown away. No sense, no sense at all.

Charlotte entered the room now from her dressing room area. Her black hair framed her pale face; her violet eyes had never been brighter. She wore a long elegant robe her husband had lovingly bought her in Paris on their honeymoon.

Theo stood.

Charlotte gestured sharply, gestured down.

Theo sat.

Charlotte approached the bed.

Nelson approached the window.

She knelt, reached out, took off one of his slippers, then the other. Then she stood, reached out, took his hands. And kissed them. And kissed them. She brought him to his feet their hands still clasped.

Nelson moved back a quiet step.

She put her fingers to the sash around his robe, untied it. The robe parted. Theo was naked. She put her hands beneath the robe, moved it back until it fell from his shoulders. It fell to the floor. She bent, picked it up, touched it gently with her strong fingers, stroked the robe smooth, lay it carefully at the foot of the bed. Then she stood in front of him and leaning forward, put her tongue to his nipple. Theo reached for her. She took his hands, replaced them at his sides. She kissed his other nipple, then knelt in front of him briefly and kissed him again.

It was somewhere in there that Nelson knew he had to kill them.

Break the little bastard
’
s back, rip out her offending tongue, storm in, surprise them, destroy them but let them live enough to suffer for their sins, beat them, slash them, crush them—

—with what?

He looked at his hands—they were small, unused to violence, soft, useless when it came to feats of strength. And even though Charlotte was a woman she was strong, and Theo though small, was young and—and—

—with the pistol.

He turned, walked along the terrace, reentered his room, moved swiftly to the door and to the stairs beyond. Down the stairs and then he turned toward the library. He went immediately to the
large desk, took his keys, unlocked the central drawer. Then he reached inside toward the deep right corner, pulled the pistol out.

It had never been fired. Certainly never by him. He had bought it years before when two robberies had taken place on Gramercy Park within a week. He opened it now just long enough to see the bullets were in place.

Then back up the stairs, to his room, to the terrace door, to outside. He was amazed at the clarity of his mind. While he had waited outside the house before entering, he had imagined all kinds of wild scenes, all kinds of rage bursting from him. But he felt no rage now. Just a desire for order, for justice, for sins to be repaid.

The night air was no longer cold to him. He walked along the terrace steadily, steadily without fear approached the light. The gun was at his side. He stared into the room.

Theo was pursuing his wife.

He was still naked, emaciated, worthless. She was still beautiful in her Paris robe. He pursued her slowly around her bed. She retreated, he advanced. Then he leapt forward, grabbed her, brought her to him, kissed her.

Charlotte turned her head away. He tried again to kiss her. Again she would have none of it. He tried to hold her tight but she broke free and stepped away. She pointed sharply to the bed. He made for her again but she gestured to the bed a second time, more sharply. She meant it—
sit
—
down.

Theo sat.

Charlotte moved in front of him. Slowly her hands went to her own sash. She was about to disrobe.

The pistol was level now, level and aimed at Theo—Nelson wanted her to be the first to see her loved one
’
s pain.

And it was then that Charlotte began to dance. Not like a waltz, not really steps at all. But it was some kind of dance movement, her shoulders dipped and her hips undulated and—

—and as Nelson watched he realized she was vamping him. She was Cleopatra now, she was flirting with Antony. Charlotte
’
s eyes flashed and gradually the robe came off one shoulder and her hips kept moving—

—and as Nelson watched what had so recently been passion now became, to his eyes, ridiculous and sad. Charlotte was never graceful and she was always big and her eyes narrowed as she
dropped the robe to the floor and now she was naked too, except naked her breasts were soft and sagging and her poor stomach bulged from the scars of giving birth.

Nelson stared at his wife, then at his pistol. Dear God, he had actually contemplated using the thing. Had considered stamping
“
scandal
”
beside his family name forever. Inside now, Charlotte raised her long arms and continued her slow movements. Theo sat as before, pale and implausible on the bed. What a terrible thing almost happened, Nelson thought, watching his aging beauty of a wife, scarred and simple, at most with half a-mind. Not an item to go berserk over. Hardly that. She was snapping her fingers now as he
r dance
of passion continued. Feigned passion, Nelson thought. He doubted the real thing had ever happened to her. Not even doubted; he knew.

Whenever they had sex, she was always dry
…

It was their day off, Eric was in a foul mood, so Haggerty decided they could do with the double sirloin at Wally
’
s.

Haggerty treasured his days off now. When he was first alone, they were a bitch. Crazy-making. But once he finally admitted Helen was not going to pull a Lazarus, he realized what he had to do was block out his time, not leave himself unattended spaces. So he always slept late, no problem, he was good at sleeping, even better when he was allowed to doze. He loved dropping off again, coming to half an hour later, stretching, getting the pillow back smooth, then snoozing another twenty, thirty minutes; he was a great dozer.

Then up and coffee and a bagel bought the night before, the bagel toasted and sometimes with peanut butter, sometimes cream cheese. Then a long letter to Frank Jr., in middle management now at Boeing, and how are the grandkids, that sort of breezy note.

Then, since his days off were generally Saturday, dress up, the good suit and a fresh ironed shirt and a bow tie for pizzazz, and off to theatre. If there was a new musical in town, he
’
d head straight for it, buy a ticket or, if they were sold out, a standing room. If there wasn
’
t a new musical, which was the case today, instead of seeing one, he
’
d catch maybe four or five.

But you had to time it just right, and of course, the theatres had to be reasonably close to each other. You could handle
Annie
and
Evita
since one was on 52nd Street, the other just around the corner.
Sugar Babies
was up there too, so that could fit nicely. But if you wanted to add in
A Chorus Line
you needed track shoes, since the Shubert Theatre was eight crowded blocks away, down on 44th.

Haggerty felt like
A Chorus Line
today—-he loved the opening. AH the dancers going
“
five-six-seven-eight
”
and their bodies trying to get the steps right—if
“
Rose
’
s Turn
”
gave
Gypsy
the best ending to any musical, Haggerty felt
A Chorus Line
laid claim to the greatest start.

It was almost two and most of the crowd was already in when he walked up to the man taking tickets, flashed the gold badge, and muttered,
“
just checking,
”
as he hurried inside. The ticket taker knew his face, but even if he didn
’
t, no one gave cops or firemen trouble when it came to standing in the back on Broadway.

Haggerty knew that strictly speaking, what he was doing wasn
’
t honest—screw
“
strictly speaking,
”
it was dishonest But he tried to tell himself he
’
d paid seven times full price to see the whole show, and if something odd broke out in the audience, well, a detective was already there, ready to quell the disturbance.

Now there went the houselights.

Haggerty stood in the back corner; a child again. Of course, he
’
d never been to Broadway when he was a child, but if he had been so blessed, he knew what he
’
d have felt then was what he was feeling now.

Half an hour later he left, stood on the sidewalk, checked the time. It was tricky, doing this kind of thing, because it had to be perfect or it was nothing. You paid to see Babe Ruth hit a home run, not to see the teams run into their dugouts at the end of an inning.

Hmmm. Although
Deathtrap
wasn
’
t strictly speaking a musical —screw
‘‘
strictly speaking,
”
what
’
s the matter with you today, it
’
s a
play.
In any case, Haggerty liked the shocker at the first act curtain and the way the audience buzz-buzzed as they made their way up the aisle. But he also was a peat fan of the title number from
They
’
re Playing Our Song.
The problem was they could run very close to each other in time. And if one show started a few minutes late, you could be in trouble.