The War of the Roses

18

He had heard the bang, but paid little attention to it. He had, of course, understood her anguish about Mercedes. The confrontation had been inevitable and he was glad that it was over, at least for the moment. To think that he was capable of killing Mercedes was a misperception. How could she possible believe he was capable of such an act?

He had been confused by her hatred of him from the beginning, but it was only now that he realized the full extent of it. He was not at all the rejected spouse with whom she had shared what he thought were good and productive years; he was the mortal enemy. Maybe she was unhinged. In need of psychological help.

He hadn’t really discussed such a tack with Goldstein. How could they prove she needed help? She would never submit to psychological testing. But raising the point might influence the judge. Perhaps she was crazy, had gone off her rocker. He had made her a reasonable offer. Surely Solomon would have ruled in his favor. The optimism mollified him. He was sure that, in the end, he would win.

The problem was that he was giving in to extraneous matters. He must guard against emotions going out of control. He would simply have to weather the waiting period, summon the patience to hold his line. She, on the other hand, had a tougher row to hoe. She was trying to prove that she had been damaged career-wise and, therefore, that her sacrifice had a value equal to the house and all its contents. A judge would have to be mad to grant such a depraved request.

The heat rose in the sauna and he felt his pores open and his body ooze into delicious liquefaction. Nothing was better than a sauna to relieve tension. He felt pain and anxiety slip out of his body.

He had set the sauna to its maximum heat, determined to cook himself into oblivion, so that the cold water of the shower, which completed the process, would shock him into luxurious relaxation. He would return, repeat the procedure three times, then drag himself up to bed and the dead sleep of physical depletion. There hadn’t been any new movies to see and he had stayed in the office doing legal research, more to fill up time than out of necessity. He had bought himself a pizza, which had lodged itself somewhere halfway between his mouth and his stomach. She had chosen a poor time for a confrontation.

The wall thermometer indicated a temperature of 200 degrees, but he continued to lay supine on the redwood slats, feeling the sensation of melting, knowing how quickly the icy water would restore him, prod his adrenaline; then he would recede into sweet exhaustion. In the morning he would wake up fresh, able to meet the rigors of the new day.

The sauna, he had always found, chased his depression, renewed him. He watched the little bubbles of sweat ooze out of his pores and he reached out and smoothed the oily moisture over his body. The sauna isolated him in the little redwood room and, in his mind, it became a womb, warm and comfortable. Anguish was not allowed in the sauna.

By the time the temperature reached the red danger point of 220 degrees, he began to play a game with himself. He wanted to reach the furthest point of body heat, then quickly jump out into the shower. The change of temperature would shoot the adrenaline through him, recharge him, obliterate all terrors and anxieties. His body heat rose and he sat up and let the juices that had squeezed out of his body run down his chest and back. The oily liquid oozed out of his buttocks and he slid gently, enjoying the smoothness of the wood against his skin. He knew he was testing himself, pushing his endurance in the heat, if for no other reason than to prove the hardness of his will.

Finally, he was satisfied that he had fulfilled this promise to himself, and he eased himself off the high bench and pushed at the door. It did not open. He pushed again. Still no movement. He braced his shoulder against it and heard a brief creak, but the door would not budge. Making hammers out of his fists, he beat against the door. He began to scream. The sound echoed in the room.

He listened but heard no response. Weakening, he dropped to his knees and put his cheek against the wood slats of the floor, where the air was coolest. He rolled onto his back, with waning strength, and banged the door with the soles of his feet. He felt himself growing faint. He realized then that he had not shut off the sauna. Rising, feeling his weakness, gasping for each breath, feeling the heat singe his lungs, he reached up and switched the temperature dial to off.

Stretching out on the floor again, he tried to collect his senses. The heat, he knew, would drop very slowly. He had deliberately made the sauna tight. The redwood from which it was constructed was the best available and he had carefully fitted the joints. Lying on his back, he tried to shout.

‘Please help me,’ he cried, but his strength was ebbing and he felt a numbing weakness. It was futile to cry out, he realized, even in his panic. They were two floors above him. He remembered the thump he had heard earlier – one stroke. He had thought it was her fist, a brief act of rage. Now he was certain that she had wedged something into the door crack. He no longer had the strength to move and his chest hurt. Looking upward, he saw that the temperature had begun to drop, slowly. It already registered below the red mark and was heading toward 200 degrees.

Closing his eyes, he waited. Physical danger had never been a part of his reality. Aside from the time of his false heart attack, he had never felt on the edge of impending death. He couldn’t get himself to believe that he could escape twice, nor could his mind grasp the idea that Barbara was capable of such an act. Something had, indeed, changed inside her. Snapped. If he survived this, he decided, he would move out. Run as far away from her as possible. The temperature continued to drop and his panic slowly subsided. His strength was still spent. He rose to his knees, then fell back again, but the evaporation process had begun to cool him. Then his mind went blank and a profound drowsiness came over him.

When he awoke, he was cool and strong enough to stand. He tapped the door with the heel of his hand. The sounding showed him where she had placed the wedge. He saw his earlier mistake. He had put the pressure of his body on the center of the door. Bracing himself, his hands gripped the two-by-fours that held the bench overhang, and he smashed with his heels just below the point where she had obviously placed the wedge. He felt the door give with a squeak. A few repeated blows pushed open the door and he heard the chisel drop to the floor. Still shaky, he staggered to the shower and turned on the cold water.

By the time he had toweled himself off he felt somewhat better physically, although his lungs still hurt. His first reaction was to bound up the stairs, break down her door, and pummel her with his fists. Worse – he wanted to kill her. He craved her destruction with a force so compelling that he feared to go upstairs.

His mind was not functioning clearly. Naked, he moved up the stairs, holding the chisel as a dagger. He proceeded stealthily, like a stalking killer. He was sure he needed something to kill, if not her, something of hers. Hers alone. Passing the sun-room, now bathed in the light of a full moon, he breathed in the aroma of the plants — her African violets, her Boston ferns – and the memory of his murdered orchids crystallized his sense of mission.

With the cutting edge of the chisel, he slit the stems, pulling them out of the pots and then putting them in a neat pile on a nearby throw rug. Still, he did not feel his urge placated. He carried them in his arms, as if they were dead bodies, into the kitchen and lay them beside the sink. He took the largest stock pot he could find and stuffed them into it, then filled it with water and put it on the stove over a low flame. Death by stabbing; death by drowning; death by boiling. The act was, he knew, poindess. Mad. But he felt better for it. He went upstairs to bed and fell asleep instantly.

‘She tried to kill me, Goldstein. Pure and simple.’ He was still weak and when he breathed too deeply his lungs hurt. He had not the strength to take his usual walk to the office and had flagged down a cab on Connecticut Avenue.

‘It sounds like an Agatha Christie method. How did she get so clever?’ Goldstein had turned pale at the revelation puffing up thick clouds of cigar smoke.

‘I’ll admit that she’s clever – and pretty handy too. I taught her an awful lot about mechanical things. She had put the wedge in just right.’ Despite himself, he felt an odd sense of admiration. He had created a monster.

‘But you did get out. She must have known that you wouldn’t have let yourself fry.’ He brushed away the smoke with his stubby hands, as if the gesture also cleared his mind. Tm not condoning it. But to ascribe to her a deliberate intention to murder you sounds bizarre.’

‘It was bizarre, Goldstein.’ Oliver clenched both fists and banged on Goldstein’s desk. ‘This whole thing is bizarre.’ The violence of his act starded Goldstein, who resumed his usual all-knowing pose.

‘You mustn’t give in to it, Rose. You want me to press an attempted murder charge. You need some proof that isn’t circumstantial. You bring the police in on domestic matters, they laugh.’

‘It’s not funny.’

‘To you it’s not funny. To me it’s not funny. To the police it becomes funny. And funny becomes ludicrous. And ludicrous becomes ridiculous. Besides, I’m not a criminal lawyer.’

Oliver stood up and paced about the office, then, feeling the pressure in his lungs again, he sat down.

‘I know she wanted to murder me. Nothing you say, Goldstein, will convince me otherwise. She has simply reached a new threshold of hatred.’

‘And you?’ Goldstein said shrewdly.

‘If only you weren’t so… so rabbinical, so superior, like you know all the secrets of the human heart.’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Goldstein said, as if he were debating with God.

‘Yes. I also wanted to murder her. It was a clear option and I very nearly took it. Fortunately I was waylaid by her plants and I murdered the plants instead. In retrospect it may sound odd, but she will get the message. On my part, I would say that the plants saved her life.’ He had spoken the words slowly, deliberately. Goldstein seemed to be chilled by this assertion and clasped his hands as if in supplication.

‘What you felt is perfectly natural…’ Goldstein began.

‘So you’re also a psychiatrist, Goldstein?’

‘If I were a psychiatrist, I would add another fee to the bill. I’m giving you only wisdom. No charge. Everybody has a killer in him. The feeling passes. If it doesn’t, we have troubles.’

‘That’s wisdom?’

‘There’s more. If I were you, I would stay clear of her. Just live like you’re in a vacuum.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘Who said it was easy?’

‘Sometimes, Goldstein,’ Oliver said, ‘I want to chuck it all. Get out of this city. Start all over again. If only I weren’t a boiler-plate lawyer, locked into the FTC. It’s too cushy. Too lucrative.’ He felt a huge wave of despair crash over him. ‘How easily we get corrupted by material things.’ It galled him to hear himself mouthing the cliche.

‘They got a new word. Life-style. She doesn’t want to give up her life-style. And let’s face it – you don’t want to give up yours. After all, what does a house represent? Shelter? Shelter shmelter. It’s a symbol of prestige. A house, Rose, is not just a home.’

‘You and your fucking wisdom.’

Goldstein sighed, looked at him again, and shook his head.

‘A few more months. Then the judge will decide. They’re all putzes, so either we or they are going to appeal.’

‘I won’t let her have it all. I won’t. Twice I escaped death for this. At least figuratively. I’ve stuck it out seven months, I’ll stick it out the other five.’

‘Ignore her. What’s so hard?’

‘I’ll try.’ He looked at Goldstein. ‘Mr. Wise Man, if you ignore the Angel of Death, does it go away?’

‘I don’t need the creeps so early in the day.’