Stranglehold. Part 5

"Because it's not going to fly over at the Club? That's no good reason."

"The Club has nothing to do with it."

"Of course it does. Be honest, for G.o.dsakes. None of their wives work. If I work, then you figure that you lose face. But you keep forgetting-their wives all have kids to raise."

"That again."

"Look, there's only one other reason I can think of. And that I like even less."

He looked at her. She took a deep breath.

"That you need to have total control over the purse strings. Control over me."

"That's bulls.h.i.t."

"Is it? I hope so. I honestly do. But it's got to be one thing or the other. Or both. This business of 'we don't need to' just doesn't make the slightest bit of sense. I'm talking about me having a full life here, something in my life that's really mine. Not about what we need or don't need. I want kids or I want work."

"You're giving me some sort of ultimatum now, is that it?"

"Call it whatever you want. All I know is I just can't do this anymore."

She paused and then told him what, for her, was the simple but deepest truth of the matter.

"It isn't fair."

He looked at her for a moment over the coffee cup, then slammed it down. Lydia jumped. Coffee filled the dish.

"d.a.m.n you!"

He pushed up from the table and walked away. She turned and saw him hand his credit card to the waiter. The waiter moved fast to oblige him.

He was leaving her sitting there.

Just like that.

She guessed she was wrong. She guessed that there was always another room for him to hide in even if the room was Harvard Square.

That's that, she thought. For three long years she'd tried. At first to understand him. Then to cope with him. And then finally to survive him-to somehow exhume her own life from the empty crypt of her empty days.

They had a Pica.s.so drawing, small but authentic.

They had nutske and a Steinway and two-hundred-year-old j.a.panese art.

Jim would succeed further. Jim was just getting started.

It didn't matter.

She found that, unsurprisingly, the women's group hadn't really helped her at all in one area. Despite what she knew to be true-that this was his fault, not hers-she felt she'd f.u.c.ked up again.

That she'd asked too much, given back too little. For all the talk, when it came right down to it what she knew and what she felt were still two different things.

She finished the coffee and pecan pie at her own deliberate pace. It was a matter of pride. Then she walked past the waiter out the door and smiled at him and hailed a cab for home.

He wasn't there. That didn't surprise her either.

What there was was a note.

You want a divorce, get it.

She felt a tingling down her spine.

This was just too d.a.m.n easy.

Wait a minute.

She knew him. Something else was going on.

She went to their bedroom. Searched through his bureau, through the closet. It wasn't long before she found it, a note off some other doctor's prescription pad, the doctor's name unfamiliar, written in a woman's hand and tucked into the side pocket of his navy blue jacket.

The note had a little round happy face at the bottom and said 2:30 Wednesday at the Copley Sheraton, Rm. 2208. Right after your meeting. Today was Friday so that meant three days ago. Yes, he'd worn the navy blue that morning. She was sure of it. She wondered how often he'd been this careless or if lately it had been getting so that he wanted her to know.

You want a divorce, get it.

Okay, Jim.

She wanted.

Plymouth, New Hampshire March 1983 It was nearly a half hour past closing time. The waitresses were long gone. They had the chairs up on the tables for the kid who swept out in the morning and most of the lights off and he was closing out the register but Jake, Arthur's night man, was still indulging this guy. The guy was seriously loaded and stooped low to the bar so Jake had put a cup of coffee in front of him gratis, but the guy preferred the watery dregs of his scotch to that. Sipping it slowly. The f.u.c.king idiot.

"Jake. You take off. I'll lock up."

"Sure, Art. Thanks a lot."

"Sir? You want to finish up your coffee now? I'd appreciate it."

Jake was right to feed the guy coffee because at least they could say they'd done that for him when the a.s.shole wrapped his car around a tree a little while later.

Jake was a pretty good man. If he'd had a few more like him back in Boston he might have made a go of the place. Boston was a disaster.

Masters degree in Business, specialty in small-business management and here he was back in New Hampshire not fifty miles from where he grew up.

At least he was making a profit here.

"Night, Art. Take care now."

"Night, Jake."

He locked the door behind the barman and heard him fire up his Land Rover while he went behind the bar and finished closing out the register. They'd had another good night tonight. The Caves was popular with the older students and faculty at Plymouth State; his location out on 93 near the Polar Caves tourist trap was well chosen, and Arthur knew his business. He had probably the best bartenders around and definitely the best cook. Summertime and ski season he drew a bonanza.

The drunk lurched up from his barstool, muttered 'scuse me, gotta p.i.s.s, waved at Arthur, and started weaving his way through the tables toward the back of the restaurant.

Arthur slammed home the pseudo-antique silver-plated register drawer.

a.s.shole.

The guy looked to be maybe fifty, wearing a red-and-black checked hunting jacket.

A laborer.

Scruffy. Not a regular.

I've just about had it with you, buddy, he thought.

He tossed the rest of the man's coffee into the sink and rinsed and racked his cup. He poured a short Dewar's rocks for himself and lit a cigarette and then sat down at the bar, waiting.

How long could a p.i.s.s take, anyway?

He sipped his scotch.

His mother and father had been in again tonight, dressed to what they thought was the nines. Of course they hadn't a clue. Usually whatever it was, was right off the rack at his father's store in Ellsworth. Arthur didn't mind. His staff all seemed to think they were sort of charming and old-fashioned. His parents always called him at home for reservations nights they wanted to come in as though maitre d's didn't exist and he always made a point of being there when they arrived if that was possible. He didn't know why.

It wasn't as though he'd actually bother to sit down to eat with them or anything. He guessed he just sort of liked showing off the place.

He finished his smoke.

Jesus! How long did a p.i.s.s take?

He got up and walked back to the men's room to face what he guessed was the inevitable and there the guy was, pa.s.sed out snoring in the first stall.

"Hey. You. Up."

He slapped the man's face. The drunk just blinked.

G.o.d! this guy's s.h.i.t stunk like he swallowed sulphur pills all day. He flushed the toilet.

Then slapped him again.

"Get up."

He grabbed the guy's arm and stood him up. "Mmmmm," the guy said.

"Pull up your pants." He had to repeat it twice. Then he had to tell him to b.u.t.ton them and zip his fly.

"Come on."

He half-walked, half-dragged the man to the door. He unlocked it and stepped outside. The man seemed to revive a little when the cold air hit him. At least his eyes were open. Arthur looked around.

No car.

His Lincoln was the only one in the lot.

"Where's your car?"

"Hmmmm?"

"I said where's your car?"

Arthur still had to hold him up. The guy was heavy and he smelled like raw meat.

"No car. Took my license."

It wasn't hard to see why.

"So how'd you get here?" They were out on a highway for chrissake!

"Fella drove me. Friend a mine."

"Well, your friend's gone."

Anthur dropped him. The man crumbled to the pavement. "Hey," the man said.

He walked back inside and turned off the lights, switched on the security system, closed the door and double locked it. The man still sat there propped up on one arm.

Arthur had a notion.

"Listen," he said. "You want a lift? I'll give you a lift, come on."

The man crawled around to his hands and knees, concentrating, got his legs down under his weight and staggered to his feet.

"The car's over here."

He unlocked the driver's side and flicked the switch to open the pa.s.senger door. Then he got in and watched the man haul himself around the hood of the car to the pa.s.senger side. The man flopped heavily into his seat and sat there looking straight ahead, breathing hard and blinking.

"'Preciate it," he said.

"Where to?"

The man mumbled something.

"What?"

This time the guy e-nun-ci-a-ted.

"First road past Rumney Depot. Number two-two-three."

Arthur drove the dark quiet highway. He glanced over at the man now and then, saw the head bobbing and the eyes close. Soon the guy was snoring again.

He pa.s.sed the Depot and turned off north into the mountains. It was a road he knew. He had taken women here from time to time, to see the sights he would tell them. There was never anybody around.