There's
an entire new occupation
these days in our land, a
growth industry of
"specialists"
whose function is to
train the freshly
unemployed in
job-hunting, and
specifically how to
prepare that
all-important resume, how
to put that best foot
forward in the
increasingly competitive
struggle to get a new
job, another job, the
next job, a job.
HCE has taken such an
expert's advice, his
resume reeks of it. For
instance, no photo. For
those applicants over
forty, one popular theory
holds that it is best not
to include a photo of
oneself, in fact not to
include anything at all
that points specifically
to the applicant's age.
HCE doesn't even give the
years of his employment,
limiting himself only to
two unavoidable clues:
"23 years" and
his college graduation in
1969.
Also, HCE is, or at
least he wants to appear
to be, impersonal and
efficient and
businesslike. He says
nothing of his marital
status, or his children,
or his outside interests
(fishing, bowling, what
you will). He limits
himself to the issues at
hand.
It is not the best
resume I've seen, but
it's far from the worst;
about middling, I would
say. About good enough to
get him an interview, if
some paper manufacturer
should be interested in
hiring a manager-level
employee with an intense
history in the production
and sales of specialized
polymer paper products.
Good enough to get him in
the door, I would say.
Which is why he must die.
The point in all this
is to be absolutely
anonymous. Never to be
suspected, not for a
second. That's why I'm
being so very cautious,
why in fact I'm driving a
good twenty-five miles
toward Albany, actually
crossing into New York
State, before turning
south to make my way
circuitously back into
Connecticut.
Why? Why such extreme
care? My gray Plymouth
Voyager is not after all
particularly noticeable.
I'd say it looks rather
like one vehicle in five
on the road these days.
But what if, by some
remote chance, some
friend of ours, some
neighbor of ours, some
parent of a schoolmate of
Betsy or Bill, happened
to see me, this morning,
eastbound in Connecticut,
when Marjorie has been
told I'll be westbound in
New York or even airborne
by now, toward
Pennsylvania? How would I
explain it?
Marjorie would think
at first I was having an
affair. Although--except
for that one time eleven
years ago that she knows
about--I have always been
a faithful husband, and
she knows that, too. But
if she thought I were
seeing another woman, if
she had any reason to
question my movements and
my explanations, wouldn't
I eventually have to tell
her the truth? If only to
relieve her mind?
"I was off on a
private mission," I
would finally have to
say, "to kill a man
named Herbert Coleman
Everly. For us,
sweetheart."
But a secret shared is
no longer a secret. And
in any event, why burden
Marjorie with these
problems? There's nothing
she can do beyond what
she's doing, the little
household economies she
put into place the
instant the word came I'd
be laid off.
Yes, she did. She
didn't even wait for my
last day on the job, and
she certainly wouldn't
have waited until my
severance pay was gone.
The instant I came home
with the notification
(the slip was yellow, not
pink) that I was to be
part of the next
reduction in force,
Marjorie started the
belt-tightening. She'd
seen it happen to friends
of ours, neighbors of
ours, and she knew what
to expect and how--within
her limits--to deal with
it.
The exercise class was
cancelled, and so was the
gardening workshop. She
cut off HBO and Showtime,
leaving only basic cable;
antenna TV reception is
virtually impossible in
our hilly corner of
Connecticut. Lamb and
fish left our table,
replaced by chicken and
pasta. Magazine
subscriptions were not
renewed. Shopping mall
trips ceased, and so did
those wandering slow
journeys pushing a
grocery cart through Stew
Leonard's.
No, Marjorie is doing
her job, I couldn't ask
for more. So why ask her
to become part of this?
Particularly when I still
can't be sure, after all
the planning, all the
preparation, that I can
do it. Shoot this person.
This other person.
I have to, that's all.
Having driven back
into Connecticut, well
south of our
neighborhood, I stop at a
convenience store/gas
station to fill the tank
and to take the Luger out
of my suitcase, putting
it under the raincoat
artfully folded on the
passenger seat beside me.
There's no one around at
the station except the
Pakistani nestled behind
the counter inside,
surrounded by girly
magazines and candy, and
for one giddy second I
see this as the solution
to my problem: banditry.
Simply walk into the
building there with Luger
in my hand and make the
Pakistani give me the
cash in his till, and
then leave.
Why not? I could do
that once or twice a week
for the rest of my
days--or at least until
Social Security kicks
in--and continue to pay
the mortgage, continue to
pay for Betsy and Bill's
education, and even put
lamb chops back on the
dinner table. Just leave
home from time to time,
drive to some other
neighborhood, and rob a
convenience store. Now
that's convenient.
I chuckle to myself as
I walk into the station
with the twenty-dollar
bill in my hand and
exchange it with the
surly unshaven fellow in
there for a one-dollar
bill. The absurdity of
the idea. Me, an armed
robber. Killer is easier
to imagine.
I continue to drive
east and a bit south,
Fall City being on the
Connecticut River not far
north of where that minor
waterway enters Long
Island Sound. My state
road atlas has shown me
that Churchwarden Lane is
a winding black line that
moves westward out of the
town, away from the
riverside. I can come to
it, according to the map,
from the north, on a back
road called William Way,
thus avoiding the town
itself.
The houses in the
hills northwest of Fall
City are mostly large and
subdued, light with dark
shutters, very New
England, on large parcels
of well-treed land.
Four-acre zoning is my
guess. I wind slowly
along the narrow road,
seeing the affluent
houses, none of the
affluent people or their
affluent children visible
at the moment, but their
signs are everywhere.
Basketball hoops. Two or
three cars in wide
driveways. Swimming
pools, not yet uncovered
for the summer. Gazebos,
woods walks, lovingly
reconstructed stone
walls. Extensive gardens.
Here and there a tennis
court.
I wonder, as I drive
along, how many of these
people are going through
what I'm going through
these days. I wonder how
many of them now realize
just how thin the ground
really is, beneath those
close-cropped lawns. Miss
a payday, and you'll feel
that flutter of panic.
Miss every payday, and
see how that feels.
I realize I'm
concentrating on all
this, these houses, these
signs of security and
contentment, not only to
distract myself from what
I'm planning, but to make
me firm in my intention.
I'm supposed to have this
life, just as much as any
of these damn people on
this damn winding road,
with their names on their
designer mailboxes and
rustic wooden signs.
The Windbull's.
Cabett.
Marsdon.
The Elyot Family.
William Way does T at
Churchwarden Lane, as the
map shows. I turn left.
The mailboxes are all on
the left side of the
road, and the first one I
see is numbered III7. The
next three have names
instead of numbers, and
then there's III2, so I
know I'm moving in the
right direction.
I'm also coming closer
to the town. The road is
mostly downhill now, the
houses becoming less
grand, the indicators now
more middle class than
upper middle. More
appropriate for Herbert
and me, after all. What
neither of us wants to
lose, because it's all
we've got.
The nine hundreds, and
at last the eight
hundreds, and there's
835, identified only by
number, HCE apparently
being the modest sort,
who doesn't flaunt his
name at the brim of his
property. The mailboxes
are still all on the
left, but Everly's house
is surely that one on the
right, with an arbor
vitae hedge along the
verge of the road, a
blacktop driveway, a neat
lawn with two graceful
trees on it, and a modest
white clapboard house
surrounded by low
evergreen plantings and
set well back; probably
late-nineteenth century,
with the attached two-car
garage and the enclosed
wraparound porch added
later.
A red Jeep is behind
me. I continue on, not
too fast, not too slow,
and about a quarter mile
farther down the road I
see the mailman coming
up. Mail woman, actually,
in a small white station
wagon plastered with US
MAIL decals. She sits in
the middle of the front
seat, so she can steer
and drive with left hand
and foot, and still lean
over to reach out the
right side window to the
mailboxes along her
route.
These days, I am
almost always home when
the mail is delivered,
because these days I have
a more than casual
interest in the
possibility of good news.
Had there been good news
in my mailbox last month
or last week or even
yesterday, I wouldn't be
here now, on Churchwarden
Lane, in pursuit of
Herbert Coleman Everly.
Isn't he likely to be
at home as well, watching
out the front window,
waiting for the mail? Not
good news today, I'm
afraid. Bad news today.
The reason I've given
this full overnight trip
to the Everly project is
because I had no idea how
long it would take me to
find and identify him,
what opportunities I
might have to get at him,
how much time would be
spent tracking him,
waiting for him, pursuing
him, before the chance of
action would present
itself. But now, it seems
to me, the likelihood is
very good that I'll be
able to deal with Everly
almost at once.
That's good. The
waiting, the tension, the
second thoughts; I hadn't
been looking forward to
all that.
I turn in at a
driveway to let the Jeep
go by, then back out onto
the road and head uphill
once more, back the way
I'd come. I pass the
mailperson, and continue
on. I pass 835, and
continue on. I come to an
intersection and turn
right, and then make a
U-turn, and come back to
the Stop sign at
Churchwarden. There I
open my road atlas, lean
it against the steering
wheel, and consult it
while watching for the
appearance of the
mailperson's white
station wagon. There is
almost no traffic on
Churchwarden, and none on
this side road.
The dirty white car;
coming this way, with
stops and starts. I close
the road atlas and put it
on the seat behind me,
then make the left turn
onto Churchwarden.
My heart is pounding.
I feel rattled, as though
all my nerves are
unstrung. Simple
movements like
acceleration, braking,
small adjustments of the
steering wheel, are
suddenly very hard to do.
I keep overcompensating,
I can't fine-tune my
movements.
Ahead, a man crosses
the road from right to
left.
I'm panting, like a
dog. The other symptoms I
don't object to, I half
expect them, but to pant?
I'm disgusting myself.
Animal behavior...
The man reaches the
mailbox marked 835. I tap
the brakes. There's no
traffic visible, either
ahead or behind. I
depress the button, and
my driver's side window
silently rolls down. I
angle across the empty
road, hearing the crunch
of tire on roadway now
that the window is open,
feeling the cool spring
air on my cheek and
temple and hollowly
inside my ear.
The man has withdrawn
letters, bills,
catalogues, magazines;
the usual handful. As
he's closing the front
lid of the mailbox, he
becomes aware of my
approach and turns,
eyebrows lifted in query.
I know him to be
forty-nine years old, but
to me he looks older.
These past two years of
unemployment, perhaps,
have taken their toll.
His mustache, too bushy
for my taste, is pepper
and salt with too much
salt. His skin is pale
and drab, without
highlights, though he has
a high forehead that
should reflect the sky.
His hair is black,
receding, thin, straight,
limp, gray at the sides.
He wears glasses with
dark
rims--tortoise?--that
look too large for his
face. Or maybe his face
is too small for the
glasses. He wears one of
his office shirts, a blue
and white stripe, under a
gray cardigan with the
buttons open. His khaki
pants are baggy, with
grass stains, so he's
perhaps a gardener, or
helps his wife around the
place, now that he has so
much free time. The hands
holding his mail are
surprisingly thick,
big-knuckled, as though
he's a farmer and not a
white-collar worker after
all. Is this the wrong
man?
I pull to a stop next
to him, smiling out of
the open window. I say,
"Mr. Everly?"
"Yes?"
I want to be sure;
this could be a brother,
a cousin: "Herbert
Everly?"
"Yes? I'm sorry,
I--"
... don't know me, I
think, finishing the
sentence for him in my
mind. No, you don't know
me, and you never will.
And I will never know
you, either, because if I
knew you I might not be
able to kill you, and I'm
sorry, but I really do
need to kill you. I mean,
one or the other of us
must die, and I'm the one
who thought of it first,
so that leaves you.
I slide the Luger out
from under the raincoat
and extend it partway
through the open window,
saying, "You see
this?"
He looks at it,
expecting no doubt that I
want to sell it to him or
tell him I just found it
and ask his, or whatever
happens to be the last
thought that crosses his
brain. He looks at it,
and I squeeze the
trigger, and the Luger
jumps up in the window
space and the left lens
of his glasses shatters
and his left eye becomes
a mineshaft, running deep
into the center of the
earth.
He drops backward.
Just down and back, no
fuss, no lunging, just
down and back. His mail
frets away from him in
the breeze.
I make a sound in the
back of my throat like
someone trying to
pronounce that Vietnamese
name. You know the one
Ng. I put the Luger on
top of the raincoat and
drive on down
Churchwarden, my
trembling finger on the
window button until the
window completely shuts.
I turn left, and then
left again, and two miles
later I finally think to
put the Luger under the
raincoat.
My route is now
planned out. A few miles
farther on, I'll find
Interstate 91, which I'll
take north through
Hartford and on up into
Massachusetts at
Springfield. A little
north of that I'll turn
west on the Massachusetts
Turnpike, heading once
again for New York State.
Tonight I'll stay in an
inexpensive motel near
Albany, paying cash, and
tomorrow afternoon I will
return home jobless from
my interview in
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Well. It seems I can
do it.
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