Big Foot Stole My Wife Page 6

  “Why didn’t you leave?” I ask.

  Miss Neige jerks around and stares at me. “And go where? Back to the hospital? Back to my stepmother’s home? I had no place to go—and I wasn’t willing to abandon my idyllic little cabin simply because they were there. It was crowded, but not intolerable. It’s not as if we were running into each other.” Her laugh reminds me of the caustic echo of a crow. “How could we do that?”

  “Who were ‘they’?” I ask hesitantly.

  “You are such a fool.”

  “I am?” I don’t know how else to respond.

  “Yes, you are. Why should you be surprised at the number of people living in my cabin in the woods? Is there a reason I should have been alone? Did I not deserve companionship and company? Am I as ugly as my stepmother says?”

  “Dear, no,” I say as I hastily stand up. “You are a charming young woman, and as I said, most attractive. I’m just not clear about the … arrangements at the cabin.”

  “The murder.” She says this flatly. “That’s what you want me to talk about.”

  “Would it be too painful to discuss?”

  “No.” Her voice rises in pitch. “That afternoon I was sleepy, so I went out by the stream to take a nap. I made myself a nice bed of pine branches, and was dreaming of servants and food on platters when he accosted me. I awoke to find his lips pressed against mine, his hands on my shoulders, his hair dangling in my face like a cobweb. Blinded by terror, I grabbed a stone and defended myself. Only when I came to my senses did I discover that it was poor John Earl sprawled on the ground, his skull crushed by my repeated blows. Before he died, he managed to tell me that he’d spent months searching for me, starting at the hospital and then questioning local farmers until he’d been able to narrow down the area.”

  “How distressing.”

  “An interesting word, Doctor. I murdered the only man who ever pretended that he loved me. I’m not sure he really did, considering my father’s position. He might have. Then again, I didn’t really murder him. I’d just been jolted out of a dream, and I suspect I was dopey. Dopey can be very unpleasant. Grumpy can, too, although he is rarely violent.”

  Her green eyes are flickering like strobe lights. Her expression shifts as quickly; a smile becomes a smirk and then a scowl. I begin to understand what thus far has sounded like a fairy tale of a little girl, a wicked stepmother, and a cozy cottage in the woods.

  “Miss Neige,” I say, “our time is up.”

  “Call me Blanche,” she says as she picks up her purse and opens it, then stares at its contents with a curiously complaisant smile. “Bashful came up with the name. He was smitten with the French tutor, although he could never bring himself to confess his feelings to her. Poor, tongue-tied Bashful. Not even Doc could help him.”

  I clear my throat. “I think you’re as aware of your condition as I am. You have what’s known as multiple-personality syndrome. We can work together to help you find a way to balance these distinctive aspects of your—”

  I stop because she’s taking a knife out of her purse.

  “There’s one you haven’t met, Doctor,” she says in an insolent drawl. “Say hello to Nasty.”

  Make Yourselves at Home

  It was the summer of her discontent. This particular moment on this particular morning had just become its zenith; its epiphany, if you will; its culmination of simmering animosity and precariously constrained urges to scream curses at the heavens while flinging herself off a precipice, presuming there was such a thing within five hundred miles. There was not. Florida is many things; one of them is flat.

  Thus thwarted by geographical realities, Wilma Chadley could do no more than gaze sullenly out the kitchen window at the bleached grass and limp, dying shrubs. Fierce white sunlight baked the concrete patio. In one corner of the yard remained the stubbles of what had never been a flourishing vegetable garden, but merely an impotent endeavor to economize on groceries. Beyond the fence, tractor-trailers blustered down the interstate. Cars topped with luggage racks darted between them like brightly colored cockroaches. The motionless air was laden with noxious exhaust fumes and the miasma from the swampy expanse on the far side of the highway.

  Wilma poured a glass of iced tea and sat down at the dinette to reread the letter for the fifth time since she’d taken it from the mailbox only half an hour ago. When she finished, her bony body quivered with resentment. Her breath came out in ragged grunts. A bead of sweat formed on the tip of her narrow nose, hung delicately, and then splattered on the page. More sweat trickled down the harshly angular creases of her face as the words blurred before her eyes.

  From the living room she could hear the drone of the announcer’s voice as he listed a batter’s statistics. As usual, her husband, George, was sprawled on the recliner, drifting between the game and damp, uneasy naps, the fan whirring at his face, his sparse white hair plastered to his head. If she were to step between him and his precious game in order to read the letter, he would wait woodenly until she was done, then ask her to get him another beer. She had no doubt his response would be identical if she announced the house was on fire (although she was decidedly not in the mood to conduct whimsical experiments in behavioral psychology).

  Finally, when she could no longer suffer in silence, she snatched the leash from a hook behind the door and tracked Popsie down in the bathroom, where he lay behind the toilet. “It’s time for Popsie’s lunchie walk,” she said in a wheedling voice, aware that the obese and grizzled basset hound resented attempts to drag him away from the cool porcelain. “Come on, my sweetums,” she continued, “and we’ll have a nice walk and then a nice visit with our neighbor next door. Maybe she’ll have a doggie biscuit just for you.”

  Popsie expressed his skepticism with a growl before wiggling further into the recess. Sighing, Wilma left him and went through the living room. George had not moved in over an hour, but she felt no optimism that she might be cashing a check from the life insurance company any time soon. Since his retirement from an insignificant managerial position at a factory five years ago, he had perfected the art of inertia. He could go for hours without saying a word, without turning his head when she entered the room, without so much as flickering when she spoke to him. He bathed irregularly, at best. In the infrequent instances in which she failed to harangue him, he donned sweat-stained clothes from the previous day. Only that morning he’d made a futile attempt to leave his dentures in the glass beside the bed, citing swollen gums. Wilma had made it clear that was not acceptable.

  She headed for the house next door. It was indistinguishable from its neighbors, each being a flimsy box with three small bedrooms, one bathroom, a poorly arranged kitchen, and an airless living room. At some point in the distant past, the houses had been painted in an array of pastels, but by now the paint was gone and the weathered wood was uniformly drab. Some carports were empty, others filled with cartons of yellowed newspapers and broken appliances. There were no bicycles in the carports or toys scattered in the yards. Silver Beach was a retirement community. The nearest beach was twenty miles away. There may have been silverfish and silver fillings, but everything else was gray. During the day, the streets were empty. Cemetery salesmen stalked the sidewalks each evening, armed with glossy brochures and trustworthy faces.

  Polly Simps was struggling with a warped screen as Wilma cut across the yard. She wore a housedress and slippers, and her brassy orange hair was wrapped around pink foam curlers. There was little reason to dress properly in Silver Beach since the air conditioner had broken down at the so-called clubhouse. For the last three years the building had been used solely by drug dealers and shaky old alcoholics with unshaven cheeks and unfocused eyes. Only a month ago a man of indeterminate age had been found in the empty swimming pool behind the clubhouse. The bloodstains were still visible on the cracked concrete.

  “Damn this thing,” Polly muttered in greeting. “I don’t know why I bother. The mosquitoes get in all the same.” She dropped the scr
een to scratch at one of the welts on her flabby, freckled arm. “Every year they seem to get bigger and hungrier. One of these days they’re gonna carry me off to the swamp.”

  Wilma had no interest in anyone else’s problems. “Listen to this,” she said as she unfolded the letter. When she was done, she wadded it up, stuffed it in her pocket, and waited for a response from one of the very few residents of Silver Beach with whom she was on speaking terms. Back in Brooklyn, she wouldn’t have bothered to share the time of day with the likes of someone as ignorant and opinionated as Polly Simps. That was then.

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Polly said at last. “The idea of allowing strangers into your own home is appalling. The fact that they’re foreigners makes it all the worse. Who knows what kind of germs they might carry? I’d be obliged to boil the sheets and towels, and I’d feel funny every time I used my silverware.”

  “The point is that Jewel Jacoby and her sister spent three weeks in an apartment in Paris. Jewel was a bookkeeper just like I was, and I know for a fact her social security and pension checks can’t add up to more than mine. Her husband passed away at least ten years ago. Whatever she gets as a widow can’t be near as much as we get from George’s retirement.” Wilma rumbled in frustration as she considered Jewel’s limited financial resources. “And she went to Paris in April for three weeks! You know where George and I went on vacation last year? Do you?”

  Polly blinked nervously as she tried to think. “Did you and George take a vacation last year?”

  “No,” Wilma snapped, “and that’s the issue. We talked about driving across the country to visit Louisa and her loutish husband in Oregon, but George was afraid that the car wouldn’t make it and we’d end up stranded in a Kansas cornfield. He’s perfectly happy to sit in his chair and stare at that infernal television set. We’ve never once had a proper vacation. Now I get this letter from Jewel Jacoby about how she went to France and saw museums and cathedrals and drank coffee at sidewalk cafes. All it cost her was airfare and whatever she and her sister spent on groceries. It’s not fair.”

  “But the French people stayed in her apartment,” Polly countered. “They slept in her bed and used her things just like they owned them.”

  “While she slept in their bed and sat on their balcony, watching the boats on the Seine! I’ve never set foot in Europe, but Jewel had the time of her life—all because the French people agreed to this foolish exchange. I’ll bet they were sorry. I’ve never been in Jewel’s apartment, but she was the worst slob in the entire office. I’d be real surprised if her apartment wasn’t filthier than a pig sty.”

  Polly held her peace while Wilma made further derogatory remarks about her ex-coworker back in Brooklyn. Wilma’s tirades were infamous throughout Silver Beach. She’d been kicked out of the Wednesday bridge club after an especially eloquent one, and was rarely included in the occasional coffee-and-gossip sessions in someone’s kitchen. It was just as well, since she was often the topic.

  Wilma finally ran out of venom. Polly took a breath and said, “I still don’t like the idea of foreigners in my house. What was the name of the organization?”

  “Traveler’s Vacation Exchange or something like that.” Wilma took out the letter and forced herself to scan the pertinent paragraph. “She paid fifty dollars and sent in her ad in the fall. Then in January she got a catalog filled with other people’s ads and letters started coming from all over Europe, and even one from Hawaii. She says she picked Paris because she’d taken French in high school forty years ago. What a stupid reason to make such an important decision! I must say I’m not surprised, though. Jewel was a very stupid woman, and no doubt still is.”

  Wilma went home and dedicated herself to making George utterly and totally miserable for the rest of the summer. Since she had had more than forty years of practice, this was not challenging.

  Florida/Orlando X 3-6 wks 0

  George & Wilma Chadley 2/0 A, 4, 2 GB

  122 Palmetto Rd, Silver Beach FL 34101

  97

  97

  (407) 521-7357

  ac bb be cf cl cs dr fi fn gd gg go hh mk ns o pk pl

  pv ro rt sba se sk ss tv uz wa wf wm wv yd

  “Here’s one,” Wilma said, jabbing her finger at an ad. “They live in a village called Cobbet, but it’s only an hour away from London by train. They have three children and want to come to Florida in July or August for a month.”

  “I reckon they don’t know how hot it gets,” Polly said, shaking her head. “I’d sooner spend the summer in Hades than in Silver Beach.”

  “That’s their problem, not mine.” Wilma consulted the list of abbreviations, although by this time she’d memorized most of them. “No air conditioning, but a washer and dryer, modern kitchen with dishwasher and microwave, garden, domestic help, and a quiet neighborhood. They want to exchange cars, too. I do believe I’ll write them first.”

  “What does George think about this?”

  Wilma carefully copied the name and address, then closed the catalog and gave Polly a beady look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I haven’t discussed it with him. I don’t see any reason to do it until I’ve reached an agreement and found out exactly how much the airfare will be.”

  Polly decided it was too risky to ask about the finances of this crazy scheme. “Let me see your ad.”

  Wilma flipped open the catalog and pointed to the appropriate box. While Polly tried to make sense of the abbreviations, she sat back and dreamily imagined herself in a lush garden, sipping tea and enjoying a cool, British breeze.

  Polly looked up in bewilderment. “According to what this says, the nearest airport is Orlando. Isn’t Miami a sight closer?”

  “The main reason people with children come to Florida is to go to Disneyworld. I want them to think it’s convenient.”

  “Oh,” Polly murmured. She consulted the list several more times. “This says you have four bedrooms and two bathrooms, Wilma. I haven’t been out in your back yard lately, but last time I was there I didn’t notice any swimming pool or deck with a barbecue grill. We ain’t on the beach, either. The nearest one is a half-hour’s drive and it’s been closed for two years because of the pollution. It takes a good two hours to get to an open beach.”

  “The couch in the living room makes into a bed, so they can consider it a bedroom. One bathroom’s plenty. I’ll be the one paying the water bill at the end of the month, after all.”

  “Your air conditioner doesn’t work any more than mine, and if you’ve got a microwave and a clothes dryer, you sure hide ’em well. I suppose there’s golf and skiing and playgrounds and scuba diving and boating and hiking, but not anywhere around these parts. You got one thing right, though. It’s a quiet neighborhood now that everyone’s afraid to set foot outside because of those hoodlums. Mr. Hodkins heard gunfire just the other night.”

  Wilma did not respond, having returned to her fantasy. It was now replete with crumpets.

  122 Palmetto Road

  Silver Beach, FL 34101

  Dear Sandra,

  I received your letter this morning and I don’t want to waste a single minute in responding. You and your husband sound like a charming couple. I shall always treasure the photograph of you and your three beautiful children. I was particularly taken with little Dorothy’s dimples and angelic smile.

  As I mentioned in my earlier letter, you will find our home quite comfortable and adequate for your needs. Our car is somewhat older than yours, but it will get you to Disneyworld in no time at all.

  You have voiced concern about your children and the swimming pool, but you need not worry. The ad was set incorrectly. The pool is a block away at our neighborhood clubhouse. There is no lifeguard, however.

  I fully intended to enclose photographs of ourselves and our house, but my husband forgot to pick up the prints at the drug store on his way home from the golf course. I’ll do my best to remember to put them in the next letter.

  I believe we�
�ll follow your advice and take the train from Gatwick to Cobbet. Train travel is much more limited here, so we will leave our car at the Orlando airport for your convenience.

  In the meantime, start stocking up on suntan oil for your wonderful days on the beach. I wouldn’t want Dorothy’s dimples to turn red.

  Your dear friend in Florida,

  Wilma

  “Have you told George?” Polly whispered, glancing at the doorway. Noises from the television set indicated that basketball had been replaced with baseball, although it was impossible to determine if George had noticed. His only concession to the blistering resurgence of summer was a pair of stained plaid shorts.

  Wilma snorted. “Yes, Polly, I have told George. Did you think I crept into the living room and took his passport photographs without him noticing?”

  “Is he excited?”

  “He will be when the time comes,” she said firmly. “In any case, it really doesn’t matter. The Millingfords are coming on the first of July whether he likes it or not. I find it hard to imagine he would enjoy sharing this house with three snotty-nosed children. Look at the photograph if you don’t believe me. They look like gargoyles, especially the baby. The two older ones have the same squinty eyes as their father.”

  “The house looks nice.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? If it’s half as decent as that insufferably smug woman claims, we should be comfortable. The flowerbeds are pretentious, but I’m not surprised. She made a point of mentioning that they have a gardener twice a week. I was tempted to write back and say ours comes three times a week, but I let it go.” She tapped the photograph. “Look at that structure near the garden wall. It’s a hutch, of all things. It seems that Lucinda and Charles keep pet rabbits. Because little Dorothy has asthma and all kinds of allergies, the rabbits are not allowed in the house. The idea of stepping on a dropping makes my stomach turn.”

  “Will that cause a problem with Popsie?”

  Wilma leaned down to stroke Popsie’s satiny ears. He’d been lured away from the toilet with chocolate-chip cookies, and now crumb-flecked droplets of saliva were sprinkled beneath the table. She felt a prick of remorse at the idea of leaving him for a month, but it couldn’t be helped, not if she was to have a vacation that would outshine Jewel Jacoby’s. “I haven’t mentioned Popsie in my letters. The boarding kennel wants twenty-five dollars a day. I’ve had to set aside every penny for our airfare, which is why the washing machine is still leaking. The tires on the car are bald and the engine makes such a terrible rattle that I literally hold my breath every time I drive to the store. There’s absolutely no way I can get anything repaired until we build up some cash in the fall. Besides that, my Popsie is very delicate and would be miserable in a strange place. If there are any disruptions in his schedule, he begins piddling on the floor and passing wind.” She looked thoughtfully at Polly and decided not to even hint that Popsie would enjoy a lengthy visit in his neighbor’s home. Not after what Popsie had done to Polly’s cat.