Necessity

All too suddenly you were pushing thirty and in the morning you’d look fearfully in the mirror expecting to find a new crease in the beautiful skin.

It began to occur to you that you couldn’t go on living this aimless life. You didn’t want to think about that but now and then you’d have a premonition: a vision of yourself at thirty-seven trying to get work posing for lingerie ads in cheap mail-order catalogs and accepting some tedious schlemiel’s marriage proposal out of desperation, knowing it would be good—at best—for four or five years of domestic boredom and financial security and another few years of alimony: you even saw yourself thereafter, midfortyish and fifteen pounds overweight, working as office manager for a chiropractor and making reservations for ten days at a Club Med: over the hill and desperate.

In that context Bert looked like more than a good bargain. He looked like a heaven-sent dream.

Remembering marrying him—remembering why she married him—she feels soiled.

Then of course the other question: Why did Bert marry me?

He professed nothing cornball; you couldn’t expect Bert to deliver himself of pronouncements of loving devotion. The nearest he ever came was that remark about wanting you to be the mother of his children. There probably was quite a bit of truth in that. He had his head full of pop theories about genes and heredity. More than once he brought out her album of family photographs (she remembers, with a pang, leaving it behind) and showed it to their friends and boasted, as if they were his own ancestors, about her handsome grandparents and tall regal Great Aunt Irma who’d lived healthily into her 102nd year. He’d exult: “Look at that bone structure!”

But there was another factor as well, one crucially important to the role he envisioned for himself. He was climbing to new strata and he wanted a wife: visible, presentable, cultivated, respectable.

He wanted you because you decorated his life.

Did I ever love him?

Yes, she thinks; let’s be honest; you did love him. You’d have done anything for him. You’d have given your life for him.

And now?

Now it has been cruelly reversed. Now that you’re no longer prepared to give it, Bert will gladly take your life.

If he finds you.

21 She keeps opening accounts with the money she’s brought west. The forty bearer bonds are each worth $10,000 but most of the rest is still in wrapped bundles of $1,000 bills, awkward to negotiate because they draw attention.

The best she can do is to change no more than one or two bills in any particular bank.

The bearer bonds are easy to convert—she visits the financial houses and sells the first half of the bonds one or two at a time and uses the proceeds to open small trading accounts: insignificant stock portfolios.

Her tongue keeps prodding the bonding on her front teeth. The gap between teeth is gone but her mouth feels like a stranger’s.

Exchanging her cash for cashiers’ checks and money orders—she thinks of it wryly as laundering the loot—she sets about investing the money: buying treasury bills and certificates of deposit; opening interest-bearing bank accounts; going into three money market funds, each through a different broker because it is important to keep it all in scattered places and in sums too small to provoke anyone’s interest. She even opens an IRA on the chance she may survive long enough to need a retirement account.

The thought provokes a cringe of desperation: barely a month now to the deadline and so much to do.

She has left about half the money in the safety-deposit boxes; in a week or two she’ll take it along on a quick trip to Nevada and open accounts there in the name of Dorothy Holder.

Converting the first half of the money has used up tankfuls of gasoline and when all the transactions have been completed she has two safety-deposit boxes filled with bankbooks and account statements; there is no more than $20,000 in any one place but the total is short of $500,000 by only the few thousand she’s spent since the adventure began.

There is still half a million for the Nevada accounts—and she hasn’t touched the diamonds.

Those are Ellen’s.

22 “A little more aileron. Left foot,” Charlie Reid says. Then in exasperation: “Your other left, my beauty.”

“Sorry.”

She depresses the pedal. The plane has been sliding; now it banks and continues to turn.

She attempts to line up the nose with the mountain pass twenty miles away—she’s learned by now that it is called the Grapevine—and the plane skitters disobediently. She still isn’t comfortable with the unfamiliar feel of the controls.

Whoever said it’s just like learning to drive a car is an imbecile.

Charlie is talking into the radio mike and she hears the tower grant clearance; at least she assumes that is what is being discussed. There’s so much crackling noise in the headset earphones that she can make out barely one word in five. They all sound alike and they all seem to understand one another perfectly but to her it is as much of a foreign tongue as it was on the first day.

Charlie says something to her.

She peels one earphone away. “What?”

“We’re cleared to land. Go ahead.”

She stretches her body up to lean to her left and peer down through the window. Where the hell’s the Goddamned airport?

Everything looks alike. Cars and trucks are toys moving slowly along the monotonous grid of streets; the roofs, the yards, the trees, the bright blue swimming pools—thousands of them, all identical, and you never see anyone swimming in them.

She tells herself that’s because the inhabitants are indoors struggling with their own strife-ripped dualities of darkness and light. Never mind the bright landscape from the air. Cowering inside the boulevard shops and tract houses are creatures of despair, seducing and beseeching and murdering one another. She’s thinking: Count your blessings, Je

That’s the sort of pep talk she’s been inflicting on herself lately. It doesn’t do a very good job of persuading her. It’s hard to sympathize with strangers when you’re only one or two jumps ahead of the men with guns.

Wouldn’t it be fu

Suppose nobody’s looking for me?

After all, there’s no evidence they’re there.

Suppose it’s all in my imagination.

All this effort …

But she knows them better than that.

By the time she finds the airport she is nearly above it. She’s forced to go around in a wide circle and try again. Charlie is on the microphone apologizing, explaining things to the tower.

The runway moves from side to side within the frame of the windshield. It is coming up at her and the angle looks all wrong. She feels disoriented.

“Easy now,” he says. “Gentle down. You’re all over the sky. Just point the plane like a rifle. Honey child, you ever done any shooting?”

“Yes.”

“Aim it then.”

“I wasn’t very good at it.”

He says drily, “Bring the nose up now and cut your power back.”

She pulls the wheel toward her and is relieved when the angle of glide flattens out: it no longer has quite the feeling of going into the ground like a falling coconut. She reaches for the throttle.