Chapter One

   FIRST there was the pain. It had come without warning one evening as a burning sensation between his shoulder blades. At the time Chris Anders was sitting quietly at home, reading (of all things) the New Testament. Within a few days a hard, preoccupying knot of soreness had developed on his upper spine.

   Then there was the state of the world. It was as if someone had sat on the panic button. Peking radio broadcasts were hourly screaming fresh warnings of imminent thermonuclear disaster. Congress had been called into special session. It seemed to Chris that this was it.

   Then there was the almost hopeless situation at home. As he buttoned his shirt that Saturday morning, he tried once again to analyse what had happened to his family, and gave up. Staring into the mirror, Chris realized that the corners of his mouth had flattened into something bleak, and his nostrils had turned white. He slipped into his jacket and descended the narrow carpeted staircase. As he passed the living room he looked in on his younger sons, Jeffrey and Dana, gnawing potato crisps in front of the television

Page 11

set. They were, it appeared, well locked into the vagaries of a space-monster programme.

   He paused a moment as if to speak, then changed his mind, went to the front closet and took out a coat. Mentally he checked over the rest of the family. Jerry? He had been invited to go surfing over the week-end. There had been a row about it, during which the generation gap had widened by a decade or so. Dean? Trouble there, too; he was going to a peace rally at the municipal park. Chris had tried to put his foot down, and terrible words had been spoken.

   At the front door he heard the sound of water running outside; that would be Eileen and her shrubs. He noticed the shine on his knuckles as he turned the knob and stepped out on the little front porch. The door banged; he saw Eileen turn, drop the hose, wipe her hands on her slacks, and approach him.

   ''So,'' she said.

   ''Yup.''

   ''Did the boys see you?''

   ''Nope.''

   ''I have the privilege of telling them, is that it?''

   ''Ee-yup.''

   Eileen reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. ''For nineteen years every rotten job in this house has been dropped into my lap. Now this.''

   ''Would you believe it if I told you that I invited each one of the boys individually to come on a trip with me, and they all turned me down? Jerry and Dean as much as told me we had nothing to say to

Page 12

each other. The young ones didn't want to miss their programmes.''

   ''I believe it.''

   ''I even tried to talk to them again last night—"

   ''In the middle of a ball game. What did you expect? You spend your life on the road selling computers, then come home and expect children who hardly know you to act like little tin soldiers.''

   Chris bit his lip. ''I don't know what's happened to this house. It used to be great around here until a couple of years ago. Then all of a sudden things just fell apart.''

   ''You don't know what happened? You want me to tell you?''

   Chris ignored her and looked over at his new yellow Mustang, the one status symbol that had got through to his heart. ''I know,'' he said slowly, ''that nothing I ask people to do around here ever gets done. Nothing. Look at that car in the driveway. Mud smeared all over it. That's the story of my life. I asked Jerry to wash it, but would he do it? I asked you to iron my shirts and sew a button on my coat and clear out that upstairs closet. I asked if we could have Sally and Tom over last night. What do I get? More water on the shrubs.''

   ''Really, you're being rather petty, aren't you?'' Eileen snapped back. ''Let me remind you of a thing or two that might explain what's happened, or hasn't happened. Like last Sunday night. . . .''

   Chris reached inside the door and brought out a set of matching luggage. ''Skip it,'' he said. ''Go tell it to your marriage guidance counsellor. He'll mix you

Page 13

a drink and put his hand on your knee and inform you intelligently what a lemon you've got.''

   ''Don't talk about him that way. You can't blame him.''

   ''No, I'll just blame me. It's simpler. The reason you moved out of my room and decided not to be a wife to me any more is that I'm me.''

   ''Chris, it's not my fault that you've let your life get to be such a mess. The more computers you sell, the worse things seem to be around here. No woman can stand the kind of treatment you've been giving me. I've done some wrong things, but— ''

   ''Oh, let's not get coy—''

   ''What's the use? Won't you ever grow up?''

   He tossed his luggage into the boot of the Mustang and slammed the lid, wincing as he straightened up. The pain in his back was getting fierce. ''If I do grow up,'' he said, "I'll write.'' He patted the newspaper in his pocket. ''Hear about the war we're in?''

   ''The radio was on while I was trying to sleep. But I'm a little more concerned about the war in this household. Do you realize what you're doing to me? Just what do you think I'm going to tell the boys? And what do I use for money to feed them?''

   ''It's all worked out in the envelope I left upstairs on the bed. Tom knows the set-up. He was coming with me until he changed his mind. I asked him to look after you and the kids. You can check with him about details.''

   ''Does this mean you're walking out for good?''

   ''Maybe—Maybe not. Strange as it may seem, maybe

Page 14

what I'm trying to do is salvage this marriage. Go away for a while and give you a chance to see what it's like without having old Anders around. Give those foul-mouthed kids a little shock treatment, too. Maybe they'll begin to appreciate their father and decide to shape up. Maybe I can find somebody who'll know what's wrong with my back. Doc Fletcher's certainly a washout.''

   ''You won't solve your problems, Chris, by running away from them.''

   ''Oh, I left you pretty well fixed,'' he said by way of answer. ''You can hire a lawyer if you want. He'll promise you a real nice settlement. I've made top salesman in the district for eight months straight, so I should be fair game.''

   Eileen sat down on the front steps. ''Congratulations,'' she said. ''What do I say when people start calling up from the office?''

   ''You can tell them anything you like. I arranged for a leave. Say I've been brainwashed by some religious nut.'' Chris slipped painfully into the leather bucket seat. ''The girls at the garden club won't have to be told anything,'' he added. ''When they hear I've split they'll just say, 'Poor old Chris, going through another of his phases.' ''

   ''I'll say nothing of the kind. If anyone asks I'll simply tell them that you walked out on your obligations. You couldn't stand the sight of what you'd created, so you abandoned it.''

   ''Fair enough,'' said Chris, turning the key in the ignition.

Page 15

   Eileen got to her feet. ''Where do you think you're going?" she asked acidly.

   ''Who knows?'' he said. ''We've looked for help in all the usual places. Now I'm going to start looking in some of the unusual places. Want to come along?''

   ''You're being funny.''

   Chris backed the little car along the concrete driveway into the street. As he pulled ahead he took another look at his wife. She was standing by the irises, hose in hand, cigarette in mouth. There was a brief, inscrutable exchange of glances. As he rounded the corner he saw her carrying the hose toward a peony bush, adjusting the spray.

Chapter Two  ||  Table of Contents