The Deep End (12 page)

“Oh yes, just a minute.” Joanne raced into the hail to the top of the stairs. “Mr…. Harry,” she called, not sure whether he had given her his last name. “Harry … Leon, could one of you move your truck?”

Leon took the stairs two at a time, saying nothing as he nodded to Mr. Rogers and skipped down the front steps. Maybe he
couldn’t
speak, Joanne pondered. An accident at birth perhaps …

“Having some work done?” Mr. Rogers asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“We’re installing a burglar alarm.”

“Good idea. What system are you going with?”

“I don’t know,” Joanne told him, feeling stupid again. Why didn’t she know? “My husband worked it out …”

But Mr. Rogers had already walked past her into the kitchen as if he took it for granted he had been invited inside. “How do you like it?” he asked, staring out the sliding glass door to the backyard.

“Well, it’s kind of a mess,” Joanne said meekly, following behind him and relieved to see that the creepy man was gone from her kitchen, though she noticed that
he’d left a trail of muddy footprints. She saw her purse on the floor beside the phone. Had it been lying on its side that way when she ran to answer the door, or had it been moved?

“It’ll be beautiful. You’ll see. You’ll love it. All you’ll have to do is walk into your backyard and you’ll be on vacation. Just like a summer cottage. Better. No traffic.”

“When do you think you’ll be finished?” Joanne ventured.

“Another few days, tops. It depends on the weather. We would have been finished by now except for all the rain. We’ll get the concrete in today. After that it’s just a matter of the finishing touches.”

“Seems like there’s quite a bit of work left.”

“No, nothing really, once the concrete’s in. Which, by the way, means another payment. You think you could have a check ready for me by the end of the day? Just give it to Rick there.”

“Rick?” Joanne glanced over at the pool, half-expecting the tall, skinny worker who had been inside her home to acknowledge the casual introduction with a wave of his dirty fingers. But Mr. Rogers pointed past him at another skinny worker with dark hair, who smiled and nodded his head. “That’s Rick,” Mr. Rogers said. “Just give him the check.”

“How much?” Joanne asked as Mr. Rogers, whom Joanne realized also had a slight rasp to his voice, handed her an invoice.

“See you later,” Mr. Rogers told her as he and Leon passed each other at the front door.

“Your coffee’s ready,” Joanne called after Leon, but he said nothing and continued down the stairs as if he hadn’t
heard her. Why doesn’t he speak? she wondered, returning to the kitchen and pouring coffee into the waiting mugs. Maybe he was just shy. Or maybe he was afraid that she might recognize his voice …

She froze, feeling her hands shake and the newly poured coffee slosh about dangerously close to the rims of the mugs. She lowered the mugs to the counter. If she wasn’t careful, she’d scald herself. And for what? Because every man who spoke to her, or for that matter, who
didn’t
speak to her, might be the mysterious caller? Someone who everyone kept assuring her was just some harmless crackpot. Someone who hadn’t even phoned in the few days since she’d had the number changed.

“Okay,” Harry said, appearing behind her without warning.

“My God!” Joanne gasped, spinning around and knocking over one of the mugs. She watched in helpless frustration as the dark brown liquid—like blood, she thought—dripped steadily to the floor by her bare feet.

“You got some paper towels?” Harry asked when Joanne made no move to wipe up the mess.

His words had the effect of a sharp jab to the ribs, and Joanne was instantly on the floor wiping up the spilled coffee and then pouring him another cup. “I’m so sorry.”

“Careful,” Harry cautioned, taking both mugs from Joanne’s unsteady hands and setting them down on the kitchen table. “We’re ready to start now,” he informed her, and Joanne realized that Leon had quietly entered the room at some point during the confusion of the last several minutes and had been observing her, his face a study of bemused indifference. He thinks I’m an idiot, Joanne thought.

“How long will it take?” she asked, careful to keep her eyes on Harry, with whom she felt more comfortable.

“A couple of days. We got a lot to do.”

“What exactly?” Joanne asked, wanting to sit down.

“Don’t you worry about it,” the man said, having obviously decided it was beyond her comprehension. “We got it worked out with the man of the house. I’ll explain how everything works after we get it installed. You decided yet where you want the intercom?”

“The intercom?” Now that she heard the word, Joanne vaguely remembered Paul saying something about …

“Your husband told us to install an intercom system. The house is already wired for one. You gotta have a main terminal. Most people like it in the kitchen.” He looked around the room. “There, beside the phone. That’s probably the best place for it.” He looked to Joanne for approval. She nodded silently, hearing a faint buzz in her ears. Probably all those butterflies flapping around in her stomach, she thought, trying to concentrate on what Harry was saying. But the harder she tried to listen, the more difficult the task became. Something about intercoms in all the rooms, about being able to listen in, and to speak to one another without having to yell. The man was obviously not a father of daughters. Joanne smiled, aware that he had finished speaking and had taken her smile for agreement. After all, he had already discussed everything important with the “man of the house.” Of course, the man of the house had neglected to mention that he was no longer “of the house” these days. Did that mean he was planning to come back?

The phone rang.

“It’s Paul, Joanne,” the voice said, businesslike, polite, as if she were a pleasant but distant relation. “Did the men get there?”

“From the alarm company? Yes, they’re right here.” It was only then that she remembered she was supposed to have phoned him after their arrival. “I’m sorry, I forgot …”

“Let me speak to Harry.”

Silently, she handed the phone to the older of the two men and listened while he conferred with her husband. She smiled nervously at Leon, who smiled back easily without speaking, slowly sipping his coffee, lost somewhere in thoughts of his own.

“Let’s get to work,” Harry announced suddenly. Leon quickly followed his brother out of the room.

“Didn’t my husband want to speak to me?” Joanne called after them.

“Didn’t say so,” Harry called back, disappearing down the steps.

Without prior thought as to what she was going to say, knowing that Paul would consider whatever she said another invasion of his time but unable to stop herself, Joanne picked up the phone and dialed her husband’s Manhattan office. “Paul Hunter,” she said to the receptionist of the large firm. Did the young woman know that Paul had moved out? The receptionist connected her immediately to Paul’s office. “Can I speak to Paul?” Joanne asked his secretary, Kathy. Did she know?

“He’s in a meeting,” Kathy answered, her voice resolutely nondescript. “Can he call you back?”

“I’m returning his call,” Joanne persisted. “It’s important.”

“Just a minute. I’ll see if I can interrupt him.”

Paul came on the phone a few seconds later. “Is there a problem, Joanne? Four guys just walked into my office.”

Joanne told him about Mr. Rogers’ request for more money, and Paul responded that the checks were in the drawer underneath the phone where they always were. Though he kept his voice even, he was clearly annoyed at what he felt was an unnecessary interruption.

The rest of the afternoon had the feel of an out-of-focus photograph, the house full of men scurrying about like mice. Several of the pool workers needed access to a pipe they could reach only through the furnace room and so they joined the two men from Ace Alarms, who were already inside, busy connecting wires and hooking up little boxes. At various intervals, a shrill bell would sound—”We’re testing the system,” Harry informed her—and each time Joanne would jump. Eve phoned when she returned from work to ask what all the trucks were doing on the street and to say that, on top of everything else, she thought she might be coming down with a sore throat; Robin and Lulu shot through the front door in the middle of a heated argument, which continued even after both girls were in their separate bedrooms supposedly doing their homework; Rick came to the door to collect the check promptly at five o’clock, just as Harry was asking Joanne what combination of numbers she had selected for the alarm.

“Numbers?” Joanne asked after Rick had departed with the money, suddenly aware that Leon, who always seemed to appear from out of nowhere when she thought she was alone with Harry, was watching her. He’s trying to decide whether I’m always this scatterbrained, she thought.

“Your husband said the numbers were up to you.” Joanne stared at Harry. “You’re supposed to pick four numbers, Mrs. Hunter,” Harry continued gently, sensing that something was the matter but unwilling to risk asking what it was. “Whatever combination you want.” He led her to the small box that they had installed just inside and to the left of the front door. It contained a series of push buttons identical to the face of a telephone. “Whenever you’re going to leave the house, you push the four numbers. A green light will go on. Then you have thirty seconds to get out and close the front door behind you. The same thing when you come back. You come inside, and you have thirty seconds to press the numbers to turn the system off. The green light will go off. If you don’t, the alarm goes off. Understand?”

Joanne nodded. The butterflies in her stomach had scrambled up into her chest, and were currently trapped inside the maze of her ribcage.

“So, pick four numbers.”

“Any numbers?”

“Whatever numbers your little heart desires.”

Leon suppressed a chuckle, disguising it as a cough, as from upstairs there came a barrage of loud accusations and the sound of doors slamming. “Girls,” Joanne called, secretly glad for the distraction. “Cut it out!”

“She called me a liar!” Lulu shrieked.

“She
is
a liar!” Robin yelled after her. “She says she wasn’t in my room.”

“I only went in there to get a book that belongs to me.”

“Liar!” Robin shouted.

“Thief!” came the instant retort.

Again the hall shook with the sound of doors slamming.

“The numbers?” Harry asked patiently.

“When was the start of the Civil War?” Joanne asked, her mind upstairs with her daughters.

“I beg your pardon?” Harry asked. “The Civil War?” He looked toward his brother.

“1861,” Leon said evenly. A perfectly nice voice, Joanne thought, but one he obviously didn’t exercise more than was minimally required.

“Can I use that?” Joanne asked.

“You can use the start of the Boer War, if you want,” Harry told her. “1–8–6–1 it is.”

“My younger daughter is weak in history … in remembering dates. Maybe this will help her,” Joanne confided, but the two men were already halfway down the stairs.

Joanne turned back toward the kitchen. The tall, creepy workman was standing in the doorway. How long had he been there?

“I knocked on the kitchen door,” he explained. “Guess you didn’t hear me. Is your husband home yet?” Joanne shook her head, unable to speak for the butterflies trying to push their way out of her throat. “He said that he wanted to talk to me before we went ahead with the grouting for the tile. We’ll be doing that tomorrow.”

“I’ll call him,” Joanne said, finding her voice and her feet at the same time and returning to the kitchen. She thought, as she listened to the man talking quietly to her husband over the phone seconds later, that his voice had lost any trace of the raspiness she had heard in it earlier. In fact, if she were being objective, she’d have to admit that his voice was rather pleasant. There was nothing especially creepy about the way he looked, either, she knew,
observing him closely and clearing her throat to rid herself of the scrofulous sensation that seemed to have lodged there.

The tall, skinny worker who gave Lulu the creeps (not Joanne, now that she was being so objective) replaced the receiver and swiveled on his heels to face Joanne. “Thank you,” he smiled, his eyes burrowing into hers as if he knew something that she didn’t. All her misgivings instantly returned. Had he been in her purse earlier? How long had he been standing in the doorway? Had he heard the numbers she and Harry had discussed? Did he understand what they were for? She couldn’t take a chance that he did—she’d have to change the combination.

“Harry,” Joanne called down the stairs seconds after the tall, skinny worker had departed and she had securely fastened the lock on the sliding glass door behind him.

“Yes, Mrs. Hunter?” Harry’s voice echoed with benign impatience, as if he already knew what she was about to say.

“When was the start of the Boer War?” she asked, hearing Leon break into unrestrained laughter. He thinks I’m an idiot, she thought.

“H
ow are you?” Karen Palmer asked with a touch more solicitousness than the question normally required. She knows, Joanne thought, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach. She pushed her purse inside her locker and tried to smile. She had held together this long—she was not about to fall apart in the women’s locker room of the Fresh Meadows Country Club. Especially in front of this woman, who was a casual friend at best.

“Fine,” Joanne answered simply, hearing her voice quiver. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, feeling it slide away from her toothy grip, and promptly burst into tears. The silent tears quickly grew into loud wails she was unable to control. Helplessly watching herself dissolve, Joanne stood in the middle of the gray carpeted floor and howled like a wounded animal.

“Oh my God, you poor dear,” Karen Palmer exclaimed, immediately wrapping her arms around Joanne. “Come on, let’s sit down.” Joanne allowed herself to be led to a row of comfortable chairs against one pale pink wall of the women’s locker room. “Go ahead, cry it out,” Karen Palmer advised as Joanne buried her head in the woman’s
huge bosom. It was like lying on a foam rubber pillow, Joanne thought between sobs, unable to stop shaking, her arms and legs tingling, a queasy feeling building in her gut. She hoped she wouldn’t throw up. Eve would be very upset with her if they missed another lesson. Where was Eve? Why wasn’t she here yet? “Do you want to talk about it?” Karen asked gently.