The War of the Roses

Closing his eyes, he waited. Physical danger had never been a part of his reality. Aside from the time of his false heart attack, he had never felt on the edge of impending death. He couldn't get himself to believe that he could escape twice, nor could his mind grasp the idea that Barbara was capable of such an act. Something had, indeed, changed inside her. Snapped. If he survived this, he decided, he would move out. Run as far away from her as possible. The temperature continued to drop and his panic slowly subsided. His strength was still spent. He rose to his knees, then fell back again, but the evaporation process had begun to cool him. Then his mind went blank and a profound drowsiness came over him.

When he awoke, he was cool and strong enough to stand. He tapped the door with the heel of his hand. The sounding showed him where she had placed the wedge. He saw his earlier mistake. He had put the pressure of his body on the center of the door. Bracing himself, his hands gripped the two-by-fours that held the bench overhang, and he smashed with his heels just below the point where she had obviously placed the wedge. He felt the door give with a squeak. A few repeated blows pushed open the door and he heard the chisel drop to the floor. Still shaky, he staggered to the shower and turned on the cold water.

By the time he had toweled himself off he felt somewhat better physically, although his lungs still hurt. His first reaction was to bound up the stairs, break down her door, and pummel her with his fists. Worse - he wanted to kill her. He craved her destruction with a force so compelling that he feared to go upstairs.

His mind was not functioning clearly. Naked, he moved up the stairs, holding the chisel as a dagger. He proceeded stealthily, like a stalking killer. He was sure he needed something to kill, if not her, something of hers. Hers alone. Passing the sun-room, now bathed in the light of a full moon, he breathed in the aroma of the plants — her African violets, her Boston ferns - and the memory of his murdered orchids crystallized his sense of mission.

With the cutting edge of the chisel, he slit the stems, pulling them out of the pots and then putting them in a neat pile on a nearby throw rug. Still, he did not feel his urge placated. He carried them in his arms, as if they were dead bodies, into the kitchen and lay them beside the sink. He took the largest stock pot he could find and stuffed them into it, then filled it with water and put it on the stove over a low flame. Death by stabbing; death by drowning; death by boiling. The act was, he knew, poindess. Mad. But he felt better for it. He went upstairs to bed and fell asleep instantly.

'She tried to kill me, Goldstein. Pure and simple.' He was still weak and when he breathed too deeply his lungs hurt. He had not the strength to take his usual walk to the office and had flagged down a cab on Connecticut Avenue.

'It sounds like an Agatha Christie method. How did she get so clever?' Goldstein had turned pale at the revelation puffing up thick clouds of cigar smoke.

'I'll admit that she's clever - and pretty handy too. I taught her an awful lot about mechanical things. She had put the wedge in just right.' Despite himself, he felt an odd sense of admiration. He had created a monster.

'But you did get out. She must have known that you wouldn't have let yourself fry.' He brushed away the smoke with his stubby hands, as if the gesture also cleared his mind. Tm not condoning it. But to ascribe to her a deliberate intention to murder you sounds bizarre.'

'It was bizarre, Goldstein.' Oliver clenched both fists and banged on Goldstein's desk. 'This whole thing is bizarre.' The violence of his act starded Goldstein, who resumed his usual all-knowing pose.

'You mustn't give in to it, Rose. You want me to press an attempted murder charge. You need some proof that isn't circumstantial. You bring the police in on domestic matters, they laugh.'

'It's not funny.'

'To you it's not funny. To me it's not funny. To the police it becomes funny. And funny becomes ludicrous. And ludicrous becomes ridiculous. Besides, I'm not a criminal lawyer.'

Oliver stood up and paced about the office, then, feeling the pressure in his lungs again, he sat down.

'I know she wanted to murder me. Nothing you say, Goldstein, will convince me otherwise. She has simply reached a new threshold of hatred.'

'And you?' Goldstein said shrewdly.

'If only you weren't so ... so rabbinical, so superior, like you know all the secrets of the human heart.'

'You didn't answer my question,' Goldstein said, as if he were debating with God.