The Ax

18

That's where I sat the other day, the first time I came here, and walked up Footbridge Road. Now I sit in the Voyager, parked by the side of the road, next to that stub of stone wall where I caught my breath, last Sunday, after the climb. I sit in here, unnoticed, and I watch KBA and his wife put stakes in the ground, bring out flats of seedlings, dig and plant and fill. How they garden.

How they believe in togetherness, in fact. From this vantage, from the height of the Voyager, I can see down over the slope, the uncleared land above their house, and I can see them moving around together, working together, handing each other things, talking and sometimes laughing together. They're goddam irritating.

I got here a little before nine this morning, and they weren't yet out, but the Honda Accord was in the driveway, just as it had been last Sunday. I waited, sitting here, and at about nine-thirty out they came, dressed for gardening again, and they've been down there ever since, as the morning has slowly passed.

It's like watching a Japanese art movie, seeing those two in the distance, putting in their crops, not knowing the bandit is in the hill above them, watching. This time, he isn't waiting for the harvest, to steal it. This time, he's waiting for them to separate, just for a few minutes. That's all I need.

But it doesn't happen. They brought a cordless phone out with them, and twice this morning I've watched the wife answer it. Once it was for her, and once she handed it on to him, but neither call made one of them go off alone into the house.

That's what I need, for her to go in. If she does, and if it looks as though she'll stay indoors for a while, I'll get out of the Voyager and take the Luger from under the raincoat on the passenger seat, and I'll walk down there and shoot him.

Or why doesn't one of them take the car, and go on an errand? If he leaves, I'll follow him and shoot him. If she leaves, I'll walk down to him in his garden and shoot him.

But neither happens. They keep working, and I suppose they're taking advantage of the cool and cloudy day to get all this hard laborious donkey labor done.

At twenty to twelve the mail delivery arrives, a youngish man in a small green station wagon with US MAIL posters in the windows. I suppose this is a second or third job, these days, for a lot of those people. At work most of their waking hours, and only sliding backward a little more every day.

Isn't there something in Alice in Wonderland about that?

They put down their tools and walk down to the mailbox together. What are they, Siamese twins?

I could almost do it, shoot them both, but the memory of Mr. and Mrs. Ricks holds me back. How horrible that was. It's enough I'm going to take this woman's husband, I can't take her life as well. I have to wait it out.

I'm very visible, parked just up the road, when they come out to the mailbox, but neither of them looks up in my direction at all. They're very involved in one another. He opens the mailbox, pulls out the little messy stack, distributes some to her, keeps some for himself. I see her ask the question, I see him shake his head in response; no job today. Then they go up to the house, together, put their mail on the table on the side porch, and walk back out to their garden.

Twelve-thirty. They compare watches, and go inside, hand in hand. Lunchtime; of course.

I'm hungry, too. Just north of town, I noticed this morning, there's a small mall, with an extensive garden nursery and an Italian restaurant. I wait two minutes after they disappear into the house, just in case he has to go to the store for something, but when he doesn't emerge I drive on down to New Haven Road and turn left, and have a not very good spaghetti carbonara in the Italian restaurant, with coffee.

When I drive back up Footbridge Road, they're in the garden again, still together. I'm reluctant to park in the same place as this morning, because sooner or later they're bound to notice me, or neighbors farther up the hill will notice me. I drive another quarter mile, and pull off the road to consult my road atlas, and I see that this road is no use to me at all in this direction. It merely curves around and heads south, away from home. So I make a U-turn and drive slowly back down Footbridge Road.

Yes; there they are. There's no point watching them any more today. They'll simply keep on doing what they're doing, and then they'll go indoors together, and that will be the end of it.

Not a Thursday this time, then. Maybe Friday.

I drive on down to New Haven Road and turn left, and drive past the place where I had the not very good lunch — tomorrow, if I'm still on watch, I'll have to find somewhere else to eat — and I head home.

One strange advantage to this miserable experience with Marjorie is that I no longer have to tell her where I'm going. We aren't talking to one another that much any more. This morning, after breakfast, I simply got into the Voyager and drove away.

Not having to make up destinations and job interviews and library research is a great burden lifted. Not the greatest burden, of course.

Driving homeward, I can't help but contrast KBA and his wife with Marjorie and me. It's true he hasn't been out of work as long as I, and he could have a much thicker financial cushion. His resume didn't mention children, and I saw no sign of children around the house, and come to think of it, that togetherness of theirs is something I associate with childless couples.

Children are the great expense in life, or one of the great expenses. If KBA and his wife have no children, and if they have a bigger nest egg, and I know he hasn't been jobless as long as I have (and he's still under fifty, the son of a bitch, as he likes to tell us), then naturally he'll be calmer about his situation than I can be, he'll be more patient, less worried. It won't affect his marriage as much, not yet. But wait till he's out of work for two or three years, then see how much togetherness they show.

Well. We won't be testing that, will we?