A Kiss Before Dying (4 page)

He followed his regular routine on Wednesday, attending all his classes, but he was no more a part of the life and activity that surrounded him than is the diver in his diving bell a part of the alien world in which he is submerged. All of his energies were turned inward, focused on the problem of beguiling Dorothy into writing a suicide note or, if that could not be contrived, finding some other way to make her death seem self-induced. While in this state of laboured concentration he unconsciously dropped the pretence of being undecided as to whether or not he would actually go through with his plans: he was going to kill her; he had the poison and he already knew how he was going to administer it; there was only this one problem left, and he was determined to solve it. At times during the day, when a loud voice or the chalk’s screech made him momentarily aware of his surroundings, he looked at his classmates with mild surprise. Seeing their brows contracted over a stanza in Browning or a sentence in Kant, he felt as though he had suddenly come upon a group of adults playing hop-scotch.

A Spanish class was his last of the day, and the latter half of it was devoted to a short unannounced examination. Because it was his poorest subject, he forced himself to lower the focus of his concentration to the translating of a page of the florid Spanish novel which the class was studying.

Whether the stimulus was the actual work he was doing or the comparative relaxation which the work offered after a day of more rigorous thinking, he could not say. But in the midst of his writing the idea came to him. It rose up fully formed, a perfect plan, unlikely to fail and unlikely to arouse Dorothy’s suspicion. The contemplation of it so occupied his mind that when the period ended he had completed only half the assigned page. The inevitable failing mark in the quiz troubled him very little. By ten o’clock the following morning Dorothy would have written her suicide note.

That evening, his landlady having gone to an Eastern Star meeting, he brought Dorothy back to his room. During the two hours they spent there, he was as warm and tender as she had ever wished him to be. In many ways he liked her a great deal, and he was conscious of the fact that this was to be her last such experience.

Dorothy, noticing his new gentleness and devotion, attributed it to the nearness of their wedding. She was not a religious girl, but she deeply believed that the state of wedlock carried with it something of holiness.

Afterwards they went to a small restaurant near the campus. It was a quiet place and not popular with the students; the elderly proprietor, despite the pains he took to decorate his windows with blue and white crêpe paper and Stoddard pennants, was irascible with the noisy and somewhat destructive university crowd.

Seated in one of the blue-painted wall booths, they had cheeseburgers and chocolate malteds, while Dorothy chattered on about a new type of bookcase that opened out into a full-size dining table. He nodded unenthusiastically, waiting for a pause in the monologue.

‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, ‘do you still have that picture I gave you? The one of me.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Well let me have it back for a couple of days. I want to have a copy made to send to my mother. It’s cheaper than getting another print from the studio.’

She took a green wallet from the pocket of the coat folded on the seat beside her. ‘Have you told your mother about us?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Why not?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Well, as long as you can’t tell your family until after, I thought I wouldn’t tell my mother. Keep it our secret.’ He smiled. ‘You haven’t told anyone, have you?’

‘No,’ she said. She was holding a few snapshots she had taken from the wallet. He looked at the top one from across the table. It was of Dorothy and two other girls – her sisters, he supposed. Seeing his glance, she passed the picture to him. ‘The middle one is Ellen, and Marion’s on the end.’

The three girls were standing in front of a car, a Cadillac, he noticed. The sun was behind them, their faces shadowed but he could still discern a resemblance among them. All had the same wide eyes and prominent cheekbones. Ellen’s hair seemed to be of a shade midway between Dorothy’s light and Marion’s dark. ‘Who’s the prettiest?’ he asked. ‘After you, I mean.’

‘Ellen,’ Dorothy said. ‘And before me. Marion could be very pretty too, only she wears her hair like this.’ She pulled her hair back severely and frowned. ‘She’s the intellectual. Remember?’

‘Oh. The Proust fiend.’

She handed him the next snapshot, which was of her father. ‘Grrrr,’ he growled, and they both laughed. Then she said, ‘And this is my fiancé,’ and passed him his own picture.

He looked at it speculatively, seeing the symmetry of the clear planes. ‘I don’t know,’ he drawled, rubbing his chin. ‘Looks kind of dissolute to me.’

‘But so handsome,’ she said. ‘So very handsome.’ He smiled and pocketed the picture with a satisfied air. ‘Don’t lose it,’ she warned seriously.

‘I won’t.’ He looked around, his eyes bright. On the wall next to them was a selector for the jukebox at the rear of the restaurant. ‘Music,’ he announced, producing a nickel and dropping it into the slot. He traced a finger up and down the twin rows of red buttons as he read the names of the songs. He paused at the button opposite ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, which was one of Dorothy’s favourites, but then his eyes caught ‘On Top of Old Smoky’ further down the row, and he thought a moment and chose that instead. He pushed the button. The jukebox bloomed into life, casting a pink radiance on Dorothy’s face.

She leaned at her wristwatch, then leaned back, eyes closed rapturously. ‘Oh gee, just think,’ she murmured, smiling. ‘Next week no rushing back to the dorm!’ Introductory guitar chords sounded from the jukebox. ‘Shouldn’t we put in an application for one of the trailers?’

‘I was down there this afternoon,’ he said. ‘It may take a couple of weeks. We can stay at my place. I’ll speak to my landlady.’ He took a paper napkin and began tearing careful bits from its folded edges.

A girl’s voice sang:

‘Folk songs,’ Dorothy said, lighting a cigarette. The flame glinted on the copper-stamped match-book.

‘The trouble with you,’ he said, ‘is you’re a victim of your aristocratic upbringing.’ 

‘Did you take the blood test?’

‘Yes. I did that this afternoon too.’

‘Don’t I have to take one?’

‘No.’

‘I looked in the Almanac. It said “blood test required” for Iowa. Wouldn’t that mean for both?’

‘I asked. You don’t have to.’ His fingers picked precisely at the napkin.

‘It’s getting late—’

‘Just let’s stay to the end of the record, okay? I like it.’ He opened the napkin; the torn places multiplied symmetrically and the paper became a web of intricate lace. He spread his handiwork on the table admiringly. 

‘See what we women have to put up with?’

‘A pity. A real pity. My heart bleeds.’  

Back in his room, he held the photograph over an ashtray and touched a lighted match to its lowest corner. It was a print of the year-book photo and a good picture of him; he hated to burn it, but he had written ‘To Dorrie, with all my love’ across the bottom of it.

As usual she was late for the nine o’clock class. Sitting at the back of the room, he watched the rows of seats fill up with students. It was raining outside and ribbons of water sluiced down the wall of windows. The seat on his left was still empty when the lecturer mounted the platform and began talking about the city manager form of government.

He had everything in readiness. His pen poised over the notebook opened before him and the Spanish novel,
La Casa de las Flores Negras
, was balanced on his knee. A sudden heart-stopping thought hit him; what if she picked today to cut? Tomorrow was Friday, the deadline. This was the only chance he would have to get the note, and he had to have it by tonight. What would he do if she cut?

At ten past nine, though, she appeared; out of breath, her books in one arm, her raincoat over the other, a smile for him lighting her face the moment she eased through the door. Tiptoeing across the room behind him, she draped the raincoat over the back of her chair and sat down. The smile was still there as she sorted her books, keeping a notebook and a small assignment pad before her and putting the remaining books in the aisle between their seats.

Then she saw the book that he held open on his knee, and her eyebrows lifted questioningly. He closed the book, keeping his finger between the pages, and tilted it towards her so that she could see the title. Then he opened it again and with his pen ruefully indicated the two exposed pages and his notebook, meaning that that was how much translation he had to do. Dorothy shook her head condolingly. He pointed to the lecturer and to her notebook – she should take notes and he would copy them later. She nodded.

After he had worked for a quarter of an hour, carefully following the words of the novel, slowly writing in his notebook, he glanced cautiously at Dorothy and saw that she was intent on her own work. He tore a piece of paper about two inches square from the corner of one of the notebook’s pages. One side of it he covered with doodling; words written and crossed out, spirals and zigzagging lines. He turned that side downward. With a finger stabbing the print of the novel, he began shaking his head and tapping his foot in impatient perplexity.

Dorothy noticed. Inquiringly, she turned to him. He looked at her and expelled a troubled sigh. Then he lifted his finger in a gesture that asked her to wait a moment before returning her attention to the lecturer. He began to write, squeezing words on to the small piece of paper, words that he was apparently copying from the novel. When he was through, he passed the paper to her.

Traducción, por favour
, he had headed it. Translation, please:

She gave him a mildly puzzled glance, because the sentences were quite simple. His face was expressionless, waiting. She picked up her pen and turned the paper over, but the back of it was covered with doodling. So she tore a page from her assignment pad and wrote on that.

She handed him the translation. He read it and nodded. ‘
Muchas gracias
,’ he whispered. He hunched forward and wrote in his notebook. Dorothy crumpled the paper on which he had written the Spanish and dropped it to the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw it land. There was another bit of paper near it, and some cigarette butts. At the end of the day they would all be swept together and burned.

He looked at the paper again, at Dorothy’s small slanted handwriting:

He tucked the paper carefully into the pocket on the inner cover of the notebook, and closed it. He closed the novel and placed it on top of the notebook. Dorothy turned, looked at the books and then at him. Her questioning glance asked if he were finished.

He nodded and smiled.  

They were not to see each other that evening. Dorothy wanted to wash and set her hair and pack a small valise for their weekend honeymoon at the New Washington House. But at8.30 the phone on her desk rang. ‘Listen, Dorrie. Something’s come up. Something import ant.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got to see you right away.’

‘But I can’t. I can’t come out. I just washed my hair.’

‘Dorrie, this is important.’

‘Can’t you tell me now?’

‘No. I have to see you. Meet me at the bench in half an hour.’

‘It’s
drizzling
out. Can’t you come to the lounge downstairs?’

‘No. Listen, you know that place where we had the cheese-burgers last night? Gideon’s? Well, meet me there. At nine.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t come to the lounge—’

‘Baby, please—’

‘Is – is it anything to do with tomorrow?’

‘I’ll explain everything at Gideon’s.’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, yes and no. Look, everything’s going to be all right. I’ll explain everything. You just be there at nine.’

‘All right.’

At ten minutes to nine he opened the bottom drawer of his bureau and took two envelopes from under the pyjamas. One envelope was stamped, sealed, and addressed:

He had typed the address that afternoon in the Student Union lounge, on one of the typewriters available for general student use. In the envelope was the note that Dorothy had written in class that morning. The other envelope contained the two capsules.

He put one envelope in each of the inner pockets of his jacket, taking care to remember which envelope was on which side. Then he put on his trenchcoat, belted it securely, and with a final glance in the mirror, left the room.

When he opened the front door of the house he was careful to step out with his right foot forward, smiling indulgently at himself as he did so.

Gideon’s was practically empty when he arrived. Only two booths were occupied; in one, a pair of elderly men sat frozen over a chessboard; in the other, across the room, Dorothy sat with her hands clasped around a cup of coffee, gazing down at it as though it were a crystal ball. She had a white kerchief tied about her head. The hair that showed in front was a series of flattened damp-darkened rings, each transfixed by a bobby pin.

She became aware of him only when he was standing at the head of the booth taking off his coat. Then she looked up, her brown eyes worried. She had no makeup on. Her pallor and the closeness of her hair made her seem younger. He put his coat on a hook beside her raincoat and eased into the seat opposite her. ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously.

Gideon, a sunken-cheeked old man, came to their table. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Coffee.’

‘Jest coffee?’

‘Yes.’

Gideon moved away, his slippered feet dragging audibly. Dorothy leaned forward. ‘What is it?’

He kept his voice low, matter-of-fact. ‘When I got back to my place this afternoon there was a message for me. Hermy Godsen called.’

Her hands squeezed tighter around the coffee cup. ‘Hermy Godsen—’

‘I called him back.’ He paused for a moment, scratching the table-top. ‘He made a mistake with those pills the other day. His uncle—’ He cut off as Gideon approached with a cup of coffee rattling in his hand. They sat motionless, eyes locked, until the old man was gone. ‘His uncle switched things around in the drugstore or something. Those pills weren’t what they were supposed to be.’

‘What were they?’ She sounded frightened.

‘Some kind of emetic. You said you threw up.’ Lifting his cup, he put a paper napkin in the saucer to absorb the coffee that Gideon’s shaking hand had spilled. He pressed the bottom of the cup into the napkin to wipe it.

She breathed relief. ‘Well, that’s all
over
with. They didn’t hurt me. The way you spoke on the phone, you got me so worried—’

‘That’s not the point, baby.’ He put the soggy napkin to one side. ‘I saw Hermy just before I called you. He gave me the right pills, the ones we should have had last time.’

Her face sagged. ‘No—’

‘Well there’s nothing tragic. We’re right where we were Monday, that’s all. It’s a second chance. If they work, everything’s rosy. If not, we can still get married tomorrow.’ He stirred his coffee slowly, watching it swirl. ‘I’ve got them with me. You can take them tonight.’

‘But—’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t
want
a second chance. I don’t
want
any more
pills
—’ She leaned forward, hands knotted white on the table. ‘All I’ve been thinking about is tomorrow, how wonderful, how happy—’ She closed her eyes, the lids pressing out tears.

Her voice had risen. He glanced across the room to where the chess players sat with Gideon watching. Fishing a nickel from his pocket, he pushed it into the jukebox selector and jabbed one of the buttons. Then he clasped her clenched hands, forced them open, held them. ‘Baby, baby,’ he soothed, ‘do we have to go through it all again? It’s you I’m thinking of. You, not me.’

‘No.’ She opened her eyes, staring at him. ‘If you were thinking of me you’d want what I want.’ Music blared up, loud brassy jazz.

‘What
do
you want, baby? To starve? This is no movie; this is real.’

‘We
wouldn’t
starve. You’re making it worse than it would be. You’d get a good job even if you didn’t finish school. You’re smart, you’re—’

‘You don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘You just don’t know. You’re a kid who’s been rich all her life.’

Her hands tried to clench within his. ‘Why must everyone always throw that at me? Why must you? Why do you think that’s so important?’

‘It is important, Dorrie, whether you like it or not. Look at you – a pair of shoes to match every outfit, handbag to match every pair of shoes. You were brought up that way. You can’t—’

‘Do you think that matters? Do you think I care?’ She paused. Her hands relaxed, and when she spoke again the anger in her voice had softened to a straining earnestness. ‘I know you smile at me sometimes, at the movies I like, at my being romantic. Maybe it’s because you’re five years older than I am, or because you were in the army, or because you’re a man – I don’t know. But I believe, I truly believe, that if two people really love each other – the way I love you, the way you say you love me – then nothing else matters very much – money, things like that, they just don’t matter. I believe that, I really do—’ Her hands pulled away from his and flew to her face.

He drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to the back of her hand. She took it and held it against her eyes. ‘Baby, I believe that too. You know I do,’ he said gently.

‘Do you know what I did today?’ He paused. ‘Two things. I bought a wedding ring for you, and I put a classified ad in the Sunday
Clarion.
An ad for a job. Night work.’ She patted her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Maybe I did paint things too black. Sure, we’ll manage to get along, and we’ll be happy. But let’s be just a
little
realistic, Dorrie. We’ll be even happier if we can get married this summer with your father’s approval. You can’t deny that. And all you have to do for us to have a chance at that extra happiness is just take these pills.’ He reached into his inner pocket and brought out the envelope, pressing it to make sure it was the right one. ‘There isn’t one logical reason why you should refuse.’

She folded the handkerchief and turned it in her hands, looking at it. ‘Since Tuesday morning I’ve been dreaming about tomorrow. It changed everything – the whole world.’ She pushed the handkerchief over to him. ‘All my life I’ve been arranging things to suit my father.’

‘I know you’re disappointed, Dorrie. But you’ve got to think of the future.’ He extended the envelope to her. Her hands, folded on the table, made no move to accept it. He put it on the table between them, a white rectangle slightly swollen by the capsules inside. ‘I’m prepared to take a night job now, to quit school at the end of this term. All I’m asking you to do is to swallow a couple of pills.’

Her hands remained folded, her eyes on the sterile whiteness of the envelope.

He spoke with cool authority: ‘If you refuse to take them, Dorothy, you’re being stubborn, unrealistic, and unfair. Unfair more to yourself than to me.’

The jazz record ended, the coloured lights died, and there was silence.

They sat with the envelope between them.

Across the room there was the whisper of a chessman being placed and an old man’s voice said, ‘Check.’

Her hands parted slightly and he saw the glisten of sweat in her palms. His own hands were sweating too, he realized. Her eyes lifted from the envelope to meet his.

‘Please, baby—’

She looked down again, her face rigid.

She took the envelope. She pushed it into the handbag on the bench beside her and then sat gazing at her hands on the table.

He reached across the table and touched her hand, caressed the back of it, clasped it. With his other hand he pushed his untouched coffee over to her. He watched her lift the cup and drink. He found another nickel in his pocket and, still holding her hand, dropped the coin into the selector and pressed the button opposite ‘Some Enchanted Evening’.

They walked the wet concrete paths in silence, divorced by the privacy of their thoughts, holding hands through habit. The rain had stopped, but face-tingling moisture filled the air, defining the scope of each street-lamp in shifting grey.

Across the street from the dorm, they kissed. Her lips under his were cool and compressed. When he tried to part them she shook her head. He held her for a few minutes, whispering persuasively, and then they exchanged good nights. He watched as she crossed the street and passed into the yellow-lighted hall of the building.

He went to a nearby bar, where he drank two glasses of beer and tore a paper napkin into a delicate filigreed square of admirable detail. When half an hour had passed, he stepped into the telephone booth and dialled the number of the dorm. He asked the girl at the switchboard for Dorothy’s room.

She answered after two rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Dorrie?’ Silence at her end. ‘Dorrie, did you do it?’

A pause. ‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A few minutes ago.’

He drew a deep breath. ‘Baby, does that girl on the switchboard ever listen in?’

‘No. They fired the last girl for—’

‘Well listen, I didn’t want to tell you before, but – they might hurt a little.’ She said nothing. He continued, ‘Hermy said you’ll probably throw up, like before. And you might get a sort of burning sensation in your throat and some pains in your stomach. Whatever happens, don’t get frightened. It’ll just mean that the pills are working. Don’t call anyone.’ He paused, waiting for her to say something, but she was silent. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before but, well, it won’t hurt too much. And it’ll be over before you know it.’ A pause. ‘You’re not angry with me, are you, Dorrie?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll see, it’ll all be for the best.’

‘I know. I’m sorry I was stubborn.’

‘That’s all right, baby. Don’t apologize.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’

There was silence for a moment and then she said. ‘Well, goodnight.’

‘Goodbye, Dorothy,’ he said.