Fury on Sunday Read online

  “Place looks a mess,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. She kept pouring whiskey.

  “Guess I’d better have the woman in Monday instead of Tuesday,” he said.

  She finished pouring her drink.

  “How about another?” he said.

  “Another what?” she said and sat down. Her nightgown slipped up over her knees and his throat moved. She looked up at him and pulled the gown up further, pleased at the mottled color it brought.

  “You look like a cow in heat,” she said idly.

  “Maybe I’ll have one too,” he said, trying to ignore her remark.

  “One what?” she asked.

  She always asked questions like that. He knew very well she was aware of what he was talking about. But unless he named his object in so many words, unless he used the noun, she would impale him on a question he felt obliged to answer.

  “I’ll have a drink,” he said in a surly voice.

  “Sure, why not?” she said. “Drink up, dear one.”

  He didn’t know how to take that sort of remark either. He rarely knew how to take her remarks. They always had the earmarks of a trap he might fall into. It made him nervous analyzing each of her remarks before he answered them. But he had to or else he wouldn’t know what to say. And, anyway, he invariably stumbled and said the wrong thing and, suddenly, her scorn, or her mocking laughter, would surround him. Or, worse, her raw, nerve-taut fury would lash out at him and make him afraid. That was it. He was afraid of her.

  He poured a little whiskey into a glass and squirted a lot of soda in after it. He knew he shouldn’t have any. But he didn’t want to go back to bed and he had to have some excuse to stay with her. That was the situation too. He had to have an excuse to stay with his own wife. As he made the drink he looked at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock.

  He sat down in a chair across from her.

  “Couldn’t you sleep either?” he asked, trying to be amiable.

  “Sure,” she said. “Sure, I could sleep. I’m in there now. I’m sound asleep. This is my astral projection drinking whiskey on a Sunday morning. Astral projection of Jane Sheldon drinking whiskey. Corpus slumberi of Jane Sheldon asleep in bed, dead to sorry old world.”

  And what did you answer to such a remark? He insulted himself by smiling a little at her, sheepishly. He retained the smile but the muscles of his stomach knew, and they tied a knot that made him grunt and bend over in pain. A little of his drink spilled over the edge of the glass.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, go to bed,” Jane snapped. “Don’t subject me to your goddamn attacks!”

  He straightened up and tried to blink away the tears of pain that shimmered in his eyes.

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  She turned away with a rustle on the chair, and she stared into the dark kitchen. There, too, she thought, was the result of this so glorious party: the uneaten sandwiches, the drinks all watery with melted ice cubes, the glasses and dishes broken, the crumpled napkins smudgy with lipstick wiped from many a guilty visage.

  A hardly audible chuckle sounded in her throat, a brief light of amusement took away the haggard dullness in her eyes. It never failed to amuse, if only for seconds—this spectacle of passion unleashed, snuffing about like a freed puppy, seeking out the hydrants of excitement. These parties designed and executed for the sole purpose of escape.

  “What’s funny?” he asked, half faithful in reaction to her smile, half afraid that she was laughing at him.

  Her eyes turned to him slowly, the light gone, the flat dispassion back.

  “You’re funny,” she said.

  And how did you answer that? His throat moved. His face, for one unguarded moment, flinted and was the face of a man. But there was no mind of a man behind the mask and the old will-less convolutions returned to his face.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why am I funny?”

  She just looked at him.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Forget it. Ignore it. Cancel it.”

  “No, I want to know.” He knew very well he was punishing himself now.

  “Will you go to bed?” Jane said. “Go to bed before I insult you some more.”

  “Seems to me you have always insulted me,” he said, surprised at his own mild courage.

  She looked at him over the edge of her drink and he watched her thin throat move while she swallowed the drink. Those eyes, those cold blue eyes; detached, always inspecting.

  “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” she slurred. “Go to bed, will you?”

  “I—”

  “For Christ’s sake, will you go to bed!”

  There was almost an anguish in her voice; as if, in spite of her despising him, she wanted to reach out for comfort. He half started to his feet, his face lined with concern for her.

  But when she saw him coming toward her, she almost recoiled into the cushion of the chair.

  “Don’t come near me,” she said, her voice thick with loathing.

  His brow furrowed with lack of understanding. He stood in the middle of the room looking at her with blank eyes.

  Her voice was almost hysterical. “I swear to God I’ll jump off the balcony if you don’t get out of here.”

  He stiffened momentarily.

  “Now see here, Jane.”

  “What are you,” she asked, “a whipping post? Don’t you ever know when to quit?”

  “Jane, I…”

  “Is it possible, is it at all possible that I can make you quit?” she said, her voice a throaty insult. “Is there anything in the world I can say to make you bristle? Is there one insult in the whole world that will make you fight?”

  “Honey, why don’t you take a sedative and—”

  “A sedative!”

  A breathless gasp of laughter tore back her lips.

  “Dear Christ, a sedative he wants me to take!” Her head shook quickly. “No, no, I’ll bet there isn’t. I’ll bet there isn’t a single insult in the world that would make you angry. I bet I could insult your whole family down to the last person and I could call you everything in the book and it wouldn’t make any difference at all.”

  “Jane…”

  “Oh—Jesus, will you shut up! You fool, you dolt, you ignoramus. You jerk, you—you fat slob!”

  He recoiled under her words.

  “There!” she snapped triumphantly. “Maybe I can get you to fight. You pig, you revolting mass of…”

  The urge left as quickly as it had come. She sank back and the fire went out of her eyes. In an instant she had fallen into complete depression again. She reached out the glass to put it on the table beside the chair, but she didn’t make it and the glass went thumping to the floor. She sat there twisting on the chair.

  Stan had put his drink down on the table by the couch. He was still shaking from her words, his body throbbing with the pain of them. Without a word he stumbled past her chair and into the darkened bedroom. He sank down on his bed and his head dropped forward until his chin rested on his chest. He sat looking into the living room as Jane moved into sight and lay down on the couch. She had the bottle of whiskey with her and she took a drink from it. She was going to get drunk, he knew. She was going to drive herself into a cloud of forgetfulness.

  He fell back on the pillow and lay there in the silence, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of his own breathing, heavy and wheezing in the darkness. He fell into a troubled half-sleep.

  He wasn’t sure whether it was a dream or not. But it seemed as if he heard the doorbell ringing. The buzzing sound seemed to penetrate the thick layers of darkness. He stirred slightly on the mattress, his mouth twitching a little.

  Then the cry of fright jerked him up to a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring, his heart jolting against his chest wall.

  “What in God’s—” he started to mutter, not even conscious of speaking.

  Quickly, trembling, he dropped his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

  “I said lock t
he door!” he heard someone command in the front hall.

  That voice. It drove like a lance into his mind and made him shudder.

  Vince.

  Quickly he moved into the living room, hearing Jane say something inaudible, then Vince again.

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t! You think I care if I shoot you?”

  With a gasp, Stan backed into the bedroom. The phone, quickly, the phone! He backed across the dark room, eyes fastened on the living room. He bumped into Jane’s bed and fell onto it with a start. Hurriedly, he pushed up and moved for the phone on the bedside table. He jerked up the receiver and reached for the dial.

  “Where’s Stan?” Vince asked, entering the living room.

  Stan’s heart jolted and, with shaking fingers, he quickly put down the receiver. If Vince had a gun he mustn’t be found calling for help. He knew what Vince was like. God in heaven, he thought, how did he get out?

  Quickly he sank down on his bed and threw up his legs. I’ll pretend that I’m asleep, his mind planned. Maybe Vince won’t do anything then. Maybe I’ll get a chance to call the police.

  “I told you he was asleep,” Jane said.

  Stan’s legs twitched on the sheet. Maybe it was his imagination but she didn’t sound afraid. She had cried out, yes, but now there was almost that sound of disinterest in her voice again.

  He kept his eyes tightly shut. There was a murmur in the living room, then Vince snarling.

  “You fix it or I’ll kill you!”

  “All right, all right,” she said quickly.

  Stan twitched as the bedroom light was flicked on. He opened his eyes and started violently. It had been a long time since he’d seen Vince. He wasn’t prepared for the gaunt wildness of his face, the madness glittering in his dark eyes.

  “Vince,” he said automatically. “What are you—”

  “Get up,” said Vince. “My arm is hurt.”

  Stan sat up and let his legs hang over the edge of the mattress. He saw that Vince kept his left arm stuck in the pocket of a black raincoat and he saw the strange, dark wetness of the sleeve.

  Stan stood up quickly, looking at Vince, not knowing what to say or do. He saw Jane walk into the bathroom and heard her turn on the light. Then he heard her rummaging around in the medicine cabinet as his eyes moved back to Vince.

  He twitched at Vince’s sudden words.

  “Hurry up!” There was a break in Vince’s voice. He stood there weaving a little, his eyes glazed with pain and fright.

  “Sit down, Vince,” Stan said nervously. “Why don’t—”

  His voice broke off and he stood silent as Vince’s eyes jerked over and peered at him. He saw Vince’s teeth grit together.

  “I can stand,” Vince said, tensely. “Don’t think I can’t, either.”

  Stan swallowed. “Sure,” he said, “sure you can stand, Vince. If you want to.” He felt a tightening in his throat. He couldn’t be sure how to talk to Vince. He never had been.

  They stood looking at each other and, abruptly, a nervous, rasping laugh hovered in Vince’s throat.

  “Broke out,” he said. “Guess you never thought I’d—”

  He stopped and pressed his white lips together, then drew in a shaking breath.

  “Hurry up!” he yelled at Jane. “I swear to God I’ll shoot you if you don’t!”

  “I can’t find any gauze,” Jane answered quickly.

  “In back, in back,” Stan said.

  He turned back to Vince again and stood there awkwardly looking at him. There was no sound but that of Jane in the bathroom. Stan’s hands twitched at his sides. He put them behind his body and they bumped into the bedside table.

  At the feel of the smooth wood, he remembered the gun in the drawer. He forced his lips together suddenly because he felt them begin to tremble. He mustn’t act nervous. If he could only pull open the drawer and…

  “H-how are you, Vince?” he asked in a hollow voice. Vince didn’t answer right away. His thin throat moved convulsively as he swallowed. The heavy pistol in his hand slowly began to lower.

  “She’ll b-be right out,” Stan said hurriedly, “She’s getting it, isn’t she?” His throat moved quickly. Behind him his fingers trembled on the knob of the drawer. Could he grab the pistol in time, could he fire before Vince? Questions muddled through his mind and made his hands shake more. His fingers twitched away from the knob as Vince looked at him.

  Then Jane came into the bedroom carrying a box of gauze, a roll of tape and a bottle of iodine.

  “This isn’t going to do much good,” she said, “not for—”

  “Never mind that,” Vince said, voice shaking. “Bandage my arm. And don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot you.”

  Stan watched the big black pistol waver with Vince’s nervous movements. Now Jane was between him and Vince. Stan’s hands moved back again and touched the drawer knob. I can’t fire if she’s in the way. And, once again his hands jerked away from the drawer.

  “You’ll have to take off your raincoat,” Jane told Vince.

  Stan shuddered at the realization that Jane wasn’t afraid. At least she didn’t sound afraid. He couldn’t understand that. Was she so tired of living that death no longer held any menace for her? He felt sweat break out on his forehead. He had to get the gun. What if she did something foolish? If anything happened to her it would be the end of him, too. No matter what troubles they had, she was life to him. His fingers felt back again and touched the knob.

  Vince was backing away from her. His dark hair had slipped across his forehead and some of the ebony hairs had been plastered to the skin by sweat. His eyes had a wild, frenzied glow.

  “Don’t come close to me,” he warned Jane.

  “How can I bandage you if I don’t come close?” Jane said.

  Don’t talk to him like that! Stan’s mind felt the stabbing of anguished fear. He tugged with a spasmodic finger contraction and one drawer edge angled out. He heard Vince say, “I mean—while I take off my coat.” He heard the anger in Vince’s voice and knew that Vince was hating her for her logic.

  Now Jane had stepped back and there was a clear line between him and Vince. Stan shuddered once and tried to pull out the drawer further. It was stuck.

  They stood watching Vince as he put the gun on top of the bureau. Now, now! Stan tugged harder.

  The drawer squeaked.

  Vince tensed and his hand half reached for his pistol.

  “What are you doing?” he asked Stan, his dark eyes suspicious.

  Stan shook his head in fright. “Nothing, nothing,” he said. “I just bumped into the table. I’m—still half asleep.”

  “Don’t try anything funny,” Vince said grimly, “because I can get my gun in a second if you do try anything.”

  It angered Vince that Jane didn’t show any fright. He liked it when that other girl had been paralyzed with fear. It had given him a warm feeling of power.

  Well, he’d fix Jane soon enough too. She was going to die. As he thought that, he did not let himself notice the curves of her young body pushing against sheer silk.

  Eyes moving from Stan to Jane, quickly, he pulled his right arm out of the raincoat. As he did the left arm tugged a little and he couldn’t stop a gasp of pain from passing his lips. Jane started forward impulsively at the sound and Vince clawed at the pistol and jerked it up.

  “The next chamber has a bullet for you,” he said hurriedly.

  Jane stepped back, feeling as if all the warmth in her body had drained suddenly into the floor. Her arms and legs felt numbed with cold as she stood there, whitefaced, staring at Vince in paralyzed silence. She’d never been that close to death. It was one thing to drunkenly contemplate it. It was another to have someone suddenly point a big black pistol at you.

  Vince waved her back with the gun and set it down, again.

  Stan had started forward, his heart pounding. Now, as he stood motionless by the bed, watching Vince try to take the coat off his left arm, he was amaze
d to realize that, for a moment there, he had been unafraid. Without a gun, without a knife, without anything, he was going to attack Vince. Because the gun was pointed at Jane, at his wife.

  It was incredible that, after all she’d done to him, he was still instantly prepared to lay down his life for her.

  But the sudden loss of fright had passed too. He was back against the table, not sure whether he should try to get the pistol or not. The sudden emergence of fear that followed blind courage left him trembling.

  The arm was badly hurt. Vince tried but he couldn’t stop the whimpering entirely. His body shook terribly as he drew the raincoat down off his shoulder. The sleeve was sticking to his arm around the wound.

  He had to put down the pistol again.

  “I swear to God,” he said, “don’t try anything or I’ll shoot you both. I’ve already…”

  No, he mustn’t tell them about Harry.

  “We—” Jane started to say something but couldn’t finish. She stood there shivering.

  The pistol was on the bureau again. Stan felt his body edging back involuntarily. Stop, stop, he muttered in his brain. The drawer will stick, I’ll drop the pistol, the pistol will jam, Vince will fire first… He could think of a million arguments against trying to open the table drawer and grabbing the pistol.

  Vince had clenched his teeth to stop off any cries that might come pulsing up from his throat. Like a rigid stalk of nerves he stood there struggling with the coat.

  It wouldn’t come loose. Blood had glued it to his arm. He stood there helplessly, watching them as he struggled. Every time he tried to pull the dark raincoat loose, the movement sent a barb of pain up his arm and into his body, making him shudder. He felt the sobs working up through his chest. Trapped—he was trapped again. No matter what he did he couldn’t get his arm loose. Blood dribbled down across his wrist.

  His eyes jerked up at them suddenly, his lips trembling.

  “Help me!” he yelled furiously. “It hurts!”

  They didn’t move. “You said you’d shoot us,” Jane said, “if we came close to…”

  Vince didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. Not to be confounded and presented with the flaws in his own reason.

  “I said you’d help me,” he muttered in a gasping voice. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll—”