She did as he asked. It was the thought of two hundred thousand dollars in cash that kept her in the room. She found she could actually see it: bills stuffed into a padded brown envelope. Or perhaps it would take two envelopes to hold that much.
I suppose it would depend on the denomination of the bills, she thought.
"Let me talk for a bit," he said. "I haven't really done much of that, have I? Mostly I've been listening. It's your turn to listen now, Nora. Will you do that?"
"I suppose." She was curious. She supposed anybody would be. "Who do you want me to kill?"
It was a joke, but as soon as it was out of her mouth, she was afraid it might be true. Because it didn't sound like a joke. No more than the eyes in his long sheep's face looked like sheep's eyes.
To her relief, Winnie laughed. Then he said, "Not murder, my dear. We won't need to go that far."
*
He talked then, as he never had before. To anyone, probably.
"I grew up in a wealthy home on Long Island--my father was successful in the stock market. It was a religious home, and when I told my parents I felt called to the ministry, there was no puffing and blowing about the family business. On the contrary, they were delighted. Mother, especially. Most mothers are happy, I think, when their sons discover a vocation-with-a-capital-V.
"I went to seminary in upstate New York, after which I was assigned--as associate pastor--to a church in Idaho. I wanted for nothing. Presbyterians take no vow of poverty, and my parents made sure I never had to live as though I had. My father survived my mother by only five years, and when he passed on, I inherited a great deal of money, mostly in bonds and solid stocks. Over the years since, I have converted a small percentage of that to cash, a bit at a time. Not a nest egg, because I've never needed one, but what I'd call a wish egg. It's in a Manhattan safe deposit box, and it's that cash that I'm offering you, Nora. It may actually be closer to two hundred and forty thousand, but we'll agree, shall we, not to quibble over a dollar here and a dollar there?
"I wandered a few years in the hinterlands before coming back to Brooklyn and Second Presbo. After five years as an associate, I became the senior pastor. I served as such, without blemish, until two thousand six. My life has been one--I say it with neither pride nor shame--of unremarkable service. I have led my church in helping the poor, both in countries far from here and in this community. The local AA drop-in center was my idea, and it's helped hundreds of suffering addicts and alcoholics. I've comforted the sick and buried the dead. More cheerfully, I've presided over more than a thousand weddings, and inaugurated a scholarship fund that has sent many boys and girls to colleges they could not otherwise have afforded. One of our scholarship girls won a National Book Award in nineteen ninety-nine.
"And my only regret is this: in all my years, I have never committed one of the sins about which I have spent a lifetime warning my various flocks. I am not a lustful man, and since I've never been married, I never had so much as the opportunity to commit adultery. I'm not gluttonous by nature, and although I like nice things, I've never been greedy or covetous. Why would I be, when my father left me fifteen million dollars? I've worked hard, kept my temper, envy no one--except perhaps Mother Teresa--and have little pride of possessions or position.
"I'm not claiming I'm without sin. Not at all. Those who can say (and I suppose there are a few) that they have never sinned in deed or word can hardly say they've never sinned in thought, can they? The church covers every loophole. We hold out heaven, then make people understand they have no hope of achieving it without our help . . . because no one is without sin, and the wages of sin are death.
"I suppose this makes me sound like an unbeliever, but raised as I was, unbelief is as impossible for me as levitation. Yet I understand the cozening nature of the bargain, and the psychological tricks believers use to ensure the prosperity of those beliefs. The pope's fancy hat was not conferred on him by God, but by men and women paying theological blackmail money.
"I can see you fidgeting, so I'll come to the point. I want to commit a major sin before I die. A sin not of thought or word but of deed. This was on my mind--increasingly on my mind--before my stroke, but I thought it a frenzy that would pass. Now I see that it will not, because the idea has been with me more than ever during the last three years. But how great a sin can an old man stuck in a wheelchair commit, I asked myself? Surely not one very great, at least without being caught, and I would prefer not to be caught. Such grave matters as sin and forgiveness should remain between man and God.
"Listening to you talk about your husband's book and your financial situation, it occurred to me that I could sin by proxy. In fact, I could double my sin quotient, as it were, by making you my accessory."
She spoke from a dry mouth. "I believe in wrongdoing, Winnie, but I don't believe in sin."
He smiled. It was a benevolent smile. Also unpleasant: sheep lips, wolf teeth. "That's fine. But sin believes in you."
"I understand you think so . . . so why? It's perverse!"
His smile widened. "Yes! That's why! I want to know what it's like to do something entirely against my nature. To need forgiveness for the act and more than the act. Do you know what doubles sin, Nora?"
"No. I don't go to church."
"What doubles sin is saying to yourself, I will do this because I know I can pray for forgiveness once it's done. To say to yourself that you can have your cake and eat it, too. I want to know what being that deep in sin is like. I don't want to wallow; I want to dive in over my head."
"And take me with you!" She said it with real indignation.
"Ah, but you don't believe in sin, Nora. You just said so. From your standpoint, all I want is for you to get a little dirty. And risk arrest, I suppose, although the risk should be minor. For these things I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars. Over two hundred thousand."
Her face and hands felt numb, as if she had just come in from a long walk in the cold. She would not do it, of course. What she would do was walk out of this house and get some fresh air. She wouldn't quit, or at least not immediately, because she needed the job, but she would walk out. And if he fired her for deserting her post, let him. But first, she wanted to hear the rest. She wouldn't admit to herself that she was tempted, but curious? Yes, that much she would own.
"What is it you want me to do?"
*
Chad had lit another cigarette. She motioned with her fingers. "Give me a drag on that."
"Norrie, you haven't smoked a cigarette in five--"
"Give me a drag, I said."
He passed the cigarette to her. She dragged deep, coughed the smoke out. Then she told him.
*
That night she lay awake late, into the small hours, quite sure he was sleeping, and why not? The decision had been made. She would tell Winnie no and never mention the idea again. Decision made; sleep follows.
Still, she wasn't entirely surprised when he turned to her and said, "I can't stop thinking about it."
Nor could Nora. "I'd do it, you know. For us. If . . ."
Now they were face-to-face, inches apart. Close enough to taste each other's breath. It was two o'clock in the morning.
The hour of conspiracy if there ever was one, she thought.
"If?"
"If I didn't think it would taint our lives. Some stains don't come out."
"It's a moot question, Nor. We've decided. You play Sarah Palin and tell him thanks but no thanks for that bridge to nowhere. I'll find a way to finish the book without his weird idea of a grant-in-aid."
"When? On your next unpaid leave? I don't think so."
"It's decided. He's a crazy old man. The end." He rolled away from her.
Silence descended. Upstairs, Mrs. Reston--whose picture belonged in the dictionary next to insomnia--walked back and forth. Somewhere, maybe in deepest darkest Gowanus, a siren wailed.
Fifteen minutes went by before Chad spoke to the end table and the digital clock, which now rea
d 2:17A. "Also, we'd have to trust him for the money, and you can't trust a man whose one remaining ambition in life is to commit a sin."
"But I do trust him," she said. "It's myself I don't trust. Go to sleep, Chad. This subject is closed."
"Right," he said. "Gotcha."
The clock read 2:26A when she said, "It could be done. I'm sure of that much. I could change my hair color. Wear a hat. Dark glasses, of course. Which would mean it would have to be a sunny day. And there would have to be an escape route."
"Are you seriously--"
"I don't know! Two hundred thousand dollars! I'd have to work almost three years to make that much money, and after the government and the banks wet their beaks, there'd be next to nothing left. We know how that works."
She was quiet for awhile, looking at the ceiling above which Mrs. Reston trod her slow miles.
"And the insurance!" she burst out. "Do you know what we have for insurance? Nothing!"
"We have insurance."
"Okay, next to nothing. What if you got hit by a car? What if I turned up with an ovarian cyst?"
"Our coverage is okay."
"That's what everyone says, but what everyone knows is they fuck you at the drive-through! With this, we could be sure. That's what I keep thinking about. We . . . could . . . be . . . sure!"
"Two hundred thousand dollars makes my financial hopes for the book seem kind of small, though, don't you think? Why even bother?"
"Because this would be a onetime thing. And the book would be clean."
"Clean? You think this would make the book clean?" He rolled over and faced her. Part of him had grown hard, so perhaps part of this was about sex. On their end of the bargain, at least.
"Do you think I'll ever get another job like the one with Winnie?" She was angry, although with him or herself she couldn't tell. Nor did she care. "I'll be thirty-six in December. You'll take me to dinner for my birthday and a week later I'll get my real present: a past due notice for the last car loan payment."
"Are you blaming me for--?"
"No. I'm not even blaming the system that keeps us and everyone like us treading water. Blame is counterproductive. And I told Winnie the truth: I don't believe in sin. But I also don't want to go to jail." She felt tears growing in her eyes. "I don't want to hurt anyone, either. Especially not--"
"You're not going to."
He started to turn over, but she grabbed his shoulder.
"If we did it--if I did it--we could never talk about it afterward. Not one single time."
"No."
She reached for him. In marriages, deals were sealed with more than a handshake. This they both knew.
*
The clock said 2:58A and he was drifting to sleep when she said, "Do you know anyone with a video camera? Because he wants--"
"Yes," he said. "Charlie Green."
After that, silence. Except for Mrs. Reston, walking slowly back and forth above them. Nora had an image--half a dream--of Mrs. Reston with a pedometer attached to the waistband of her pajama pants. Mrs. Reston patiently walking off all those miles between her and dawn.
Nora fell asleep.
*
The next day, in Winnie's study.
"Well?" he said.
Her mother had never been a churchgoer, but Nora had attended Vacation Bible School every summer, and had enjoyed it. There were games and songs and flannelboard stories. She found herself remembering one of the stories now. She hadn't thought of it in years.
"I wouldn't have to really hurt the . . . you know, the person . . . to get the money?" she said. "I want to be very clear about that."
"No, but I expect to see blood flow. Let me be clear about that. I want you to use your fist, but a cut lip or bloody nose will be quite sufficient."
In one VBS story, the teacher put a mountain on the flannelboard. Then Jesus and a guy with horns. The teacher said the devil had taken Jesus up on top of a mountain and showed him all the cities of the earth. You can have everything in those cities, the devil had said. Every treasure. All you have to do is fall down and worship me. But Jesus was a stand-up guy. He'd said Get thee behind me, Satan.
"Well?" he asked again.
"Sin," she mused. "That's what's on your mind."
"Sin for its own sake. Deliberately planned and executed. Do you find the idea exciting?"
"No," she said, looking up at the frowning bookshelves.
Winnie let some time pass, then said for the third time: "Well?"
"If I got caught, would I still get the money?"
"If you lived up to your part of the agreement--and didn't implicate me, of course--you certainly would. And even if you were caught, the very worst to come of it would be probation."
"Plus court-ordered psychiatric evaluation," she said. "Which I probably need for even considering this."
Winnie said: "If you continue the way you are, dear, you'll need a marriage counselor, at the very least. In my time in the ministry, I counseled many partners, and while money worries weren't always the root cause of their problems, that's what it was in most cases. And that's all it was."
"Thank you for the benefit of your experience, Winnie."
He said nothing to this.
"You're crazy, you know."
He still said nothing.
She looked at the books some more. Most of them were on religion. Finally she turned her eyes back to his. "If I do this and you fuck me, I'll make you sorry."
He showed no discomfiture at her choice of language. "I'll honor my commitment. You may be sure of that."
"You speak almost perfectly now. Not even a lisp, unless you're tired."
He shrugged. "Being with me has trained your ear. It's like learning to understand a new language, I suppose."
She returned her eyes to the books. One of them was called The Problem of Good and Evil. Another was titled The Basis of Morality. That was a thick one. In the hall, an old Regulator clock was ticking steadily. Finally he said it again: "Well?"
"Isn't just putting this in front of me sin enough to satisfy you? You're tempting us both, and we're both considering the temptation. Isn't that enough?"
"It's sin in thought and word only. That will not satisfy my curiosity."
The Regulator ticked. Without looking at him, she said: "If you say well again, I'll walk out of here."
He didn't say well or anything else. She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. The most appalling thing: part of her was still curious. Not about what he wanted, that cat was out of the bag, but about what she wanted.
At last she looked up and gave her answer.
"Excellent," he said.
*
With the decision made, neither of them wanted the actual act hanging over their heads; it cast too big a shadow. They chose Forest Park in Queens. Chad borrowed Charlie Green's video camera and learned how to use it. They went to the park twice beforehand (on rainy days when it was mostly empty), and Chad video'd the area they decided on. They had a lot of sex during that period--nervous sex, fumbling sex, the kind teenagers have in the backseat of a car, but usually good sex. Hot, at least. Nora found her other major appetites dwindling. In the ten days between her agreement and the morning when she executed her part of the bargain, she lost nine pounds. Chad said she was starting to look like a college kid again.
*
On a sunny day in early October, Chad parked their old Ford on Jewel Avenue. Nora sat beside him, her hair dyed red and hanging to her shoulders, looking very un-Nora-like in a long skirt and an ugly brown smock top. She was wearing sunglasses and a Mets cap. She seemed calm enough, but when he reached out to touch her, she shied away.
"Nor, c'mon--"
"Have you got cab fare?"
"Yes."
"And a bag to put the videocam in?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then give me the car keys. I'll see you back at the apartment."
"Are you sure you'll be able to drive? Because the reaction to somethin
g like this--"
"I'll be fine. Give me the keys. Wait here fifteen minutes. If there's something wrong . . . if anything even feels wrong . . . I'll come back. If I don't, you go to the spot we picked out. Do you remember it?"
"Of course I remember it!"
She smiled--showed her teeth and dimples, at least. "That's the spirit," she said, and was gone.
It was an excruciatingly long fifteen minutes, but Chad waited through every one of them. Kids, all of them wearing clamshell helmets, pooted past on bikes. Women strolled in pairs, many with shopping bags. He saw an old lady laboriously crossing the avenue, and for one surreal moment he thought it was Mrs. Reston, but when she passed by, he saw that it wasn't. This woman was much older than Mrs. Reston.
When the fifteen minutes were almost up, it occurred to him--in a sane and rational way--that he could put a stop to this by driving away. In the park, Nora would look around and not see him. She would be the one to take the cab back to Brooklyn. And when she got there, she would thank him. She would say, You saved me from myself.
After that? Take a month off. No substitute teaching. He would turn all his resources to finishing the book. Throw his cap over the windmill.
Instead, he got out and walked to the park with Charlie Green's video camera in his hand. The paper bag that would hold it afterward was stuffed in the pocket of his windbreaker. He checked three times to make sure the camera's green power lamp was glowing. How terrible it would be to go through all this and discover he'd never turned on the camera. Or that he'd left the lens cap on.
He checked that again too.
Nora was sitting on a park bench. When she saw him, she brushed her hair back from the left side of her face. That was the signal. It was on.
Behind her was a playground--swings, a push merry-go-round, teeter-totters, bouncy horses on springs, that sort of thing. At this hour, there were only a few kids playing. The moms were in a group on the far side, talking and laughing, not really paying much attention to the kids.
Nora got up from the bench.
Two hundred thousand dollars, he thought, and raised the camera to his eye. Now that it was on, he felt calm.