Catch 26: A Novel. Carol Prisant

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СКАЧАТЬ needed to go somewhere to think. She needed to leave this house right away.

      Naked, she was just trying to tiptoe out of the bathroom, when, somehow, her unaccustomed body bumped the bedside table. Something glassy fell to the floor and broke.

      Which was when Stanley sat up in bed. And saw her.

      “Uh, me …”

      The utterance trailed away as, in the semi-darkness of – was it already dawn? She watched his eyes grow wide and round. Then she saw him push himself up, try to rise, and instead, fall off his bed and onto his knees. His unchecked weight hit the floor with a muffled thud while an errant gleam of light picked out tears of surprise in his eyes. A peculiar noise issued from his mouth, a terrible high-pitched whinny, and Stanley rolled awkwardly onto his back.

      “Stanley. What’s wrong?” Frannie felt her way around the twin beds and knelt at his side.

      “What can I do? Stanley?”

      Was he gawping at the strange naked woman cupping his face? His mouth was skewed to one side and from it, as she watched, a trail of glistening saliva slid haltingly toward his ear and slipped familiarly within.

      A stroke? Had he had a stroke? His eyes were fixed on hers. Was he angry, she wondered? It looked like he was terribly angry. At her? What had she done?

      “Come back, Stanley,” she cried. “Don’t leave.”

      Jamming her hands into his damp armpits, she tried to heave him toward the bed, but he was heavy! So much heavier than she’d imagined. Now his left arm dropped across her bare shoulder and seemed to be sliding down her side. Frannie sat back on her heels and wept, and the arm fell to the floor, but after a minute or two of shoving and grunting with the effort, she managed, at last, to maneuver him into a semi-sitting position against the wall.

      “Stanley! Wake up, Stanley.”

      Fumbling, she buttoned his pajama top up to his neck and patted it smooth against his chest. She chafed his chilled hands and her fingers slid across the ridges of his nails. She knew there was a vein in the neck somewhere, but where? Feeling along his unshaven throat up to just below his ear – what pale, thin, fingers she seemed to have! – he found … nothing at all. She didn’t know where that vein should be. His eyes were open. She could see tears on his cheeks and her own tears were cold on her face, as, stroking his temples, she crooned and keened, “Don’t go, Stanley. Don’t go.”

      But he was still.

      Oh God. Oh, God. Oh, stupid! Call 911!”

      Leaping to her feet, Frannie snapped the little lamp on and snatched the bedside phone.

      A woman’s voice.

      “Help! Please! My husband may be dying. My husband might be dead. Send someone! Hurry!”

      A maddeningly unruffled voice sounded maddeningly impassive as it pried her address from her, and Stanley’s name … her name … his age … her name … her age …

      Why didn’t the stupid bitch just send someone?

      “Send someone right now, will you? Please! Please! Hurry!”

      Frannie dropped the handset near Stanley’s bare foot. His scowl had disappeared. He was looking almost pleased.

      “Help is coming,” she whispered.

      Help was coming.

      He had looked at her and died of shock.

      Now their bedroom was grayed with watery light and she couldn’t be here when the ambulance came.

      Throwing open the closet door, Frannie grabbed for her best winter dress, but it looked huge! Too huge! Shaking, she stepped into it and felt it billow about her body, until, frantic with haste, she managed to dig out one of Stanley’s old belts and pulled it close. That ought to keep the cold out, she thought.

      But her shoes wouldn’t fit. She needed shoes.

      Glancing at the clock radio, she calculated. No more than seven minutes since she’d phoned and whatever could be done, they would do. She knelt and shook her husband’s shoulder gently. His chin had settled on his chest.

      Frannie stood and grabbed the photo of the two of them, then stuffed it and her winnings down to the bottom of her oldest tote. Hooking it over her shoulder, she raced to the front closet, jammed her bare feet into an old pair of Stanley’s rubber boots and slipped her incredibly long arms into her navy coat. They stuck out way beyond the sleeves, of course, and the coat was far too short now, but it was the only one she owned.

      Oh, Stanley. God! Stanley! She half-turned towards the bedroom. But there was nothing she could do. She needed to leave.

      Outside, the streetlights stuttered off one by one, and on the horizon, just above her neighbors’ roofs, an ugly dawn was beginning to soil the leaden sky. The snow they’d been expecting had started falling at last, and Frannie stopped on the porch, with the front door still ajar. The street was silent. In the living room, their lights and TV were off forever now.

      Stanley was dead. There’d be no going back. She had killed her husband.

      And Randi was real.

      Boot tops smacking at her calves, she ran to the car. The engine of the Ford caught obediently, as Frannie Turner – or not Frannie Turner – pulled out into the empty street.

      On the highway, she passed St. Louis Rescue in the opposite lane, its sirens breaking the day.

      “To be happy in Married Life … you must have a Soul-mate”

      Samuel Taylor Coleridge

      “Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.”

      Robert Browning

ONE YEAR

       CHAPTER 5

      In the tatty old tote on her shoulder now, this lovely new wallet has appeared. It’s small and soft and red. It is in there along with the Bank of the West checkbook with Fernanda Turner printed in one corner. And in that account is $31,682.30.

      Over the past several hours, Fernanda (Fernanda!), along with stopping at the bank, has bought a plane ticket to Manhattan (despite Randi’s possible presence there), abandoned the Ford in a parking garage, and taken a taxi to Saks to buy some New York City clothes. At Saks, she allowed a sleek, skinny salesgirl to choose for her and on the whole, she’d done quite well. Although there is this one black dress – “the perfect LBD (whatever that might be)” – the girl had called the dress. But it fit “like a second skin” and exposed a good deal more of Frannie – Fernanda – than she’s ever thought to display before. Wonderful, though, she thinks. She hopes.

      She purchased a suitcase and a new black purse there, as well. Not a purse, she was politely corrected by the saleswoman, but a “bag.” СКАЧАТЬ