A Matter of Life and Death

Everett Lindsay once had a dream which he never forgot. He had dreamed that he was walking across a misty park at night. He was aware of weeping willow trees wrapped in fog. He'd been smoking his pipe, and the damp smell of the lush grass mingling with the odor of the smoke had been very pleasant. Apparently he was on a stroll, the kind he often took alone around his home, although the park was unfamiliar. He was enjoying the walk when suddenly he saw a figure emerging from an eddy of mist. It was a man dressed in old clothes, with the flabby, whisker-specked face of a derelict. This man was carrying a gun, and Everett stopped, astonished. The man, wearing no particular expression, raised the gun and just before he fired, Everett thought, I'm going to die and it's utterly meaningless for this man is mad and he's never seen me before and I'm dying because I'm guilty of one simple misdemeanor – being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man had fired, and Everett experienced a gray, painless burst of light and his last thought was, this is what instant death is. Beyond pain.

He woke up, not excited, but puzzled, and he lay awake for a long time thinking about the situation, and he remembered about people who had gone berserk all of a sudden and walked a street with a gun and shot anyone they saw. And it was the most sickening thing Everett had ever contemplated, to be killed senselessly, on a whim, with no reason, either vengeance or gain.

Ever since his dream, he'd halfway expected to someday find that park with the weeping willow trees, but he never did.

The way it actually happened made much more sense.

He came home to his spacious house one autumn evening, opened the front door and looked into the barrel of a gun.

"Close the door, Everett." It was no strange derelict, but George Watson, a man he hadn't seen for at least six years.

He closed the door and, methodical as he was in all things, he put his hat on the rack, took off his scarf and folded it carefully, and hung up his overcoat. To see him do it, one never would have imagined the fright that filled him.

"Gee, it's funny to see you again, Everett."

He turned and faced George.

"George, that's no way to greet an old friend. How about putting the gun down?" He managed a weak grin. "Let me get you a drink."

"I don't drink anymore."

"Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Without liquor, there'd be little chance of people ever being congenial, would there?" He was in a cold sweat now, and not quite aware of what he was saying.

"Where's Eleanor?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Well now, George, do you know, I don't think I'll tell you."

Everett was wondering if this were another dream. If so, where was he sleeping? And what had happened at the office – no, things were too real. This was something to be faced at the end of a busy day. Could it be that he was to die this way?

"What do you want, George? Money? What's it all about?"

He thought, if he wants money or anything that's in the house, he can have it. He won't get far with it. And that damn gun'll be gone.

"I'm going to kill both of you, Everett."

Everett's stomach twisted sickeningly. It was the same nausea he'd known so often as a small boy in school when he'd had to get up to reply to a question he couldn't answer.

"Turn on a light, Everett – it's getting too dark."

There was the halltree. If he reached for the switch and then suddenly threw the halltree down it might confuse George and he might be able to get to him . . . but it was a chance, a dangerous chance – and the lawyer in Everett didn't like chances. If George fired in the right direction Everett might be killed instantly right then, whereas if he waited, something surer might come up.

He switched on the small lamp on the telephone table.

"OK, Everett. You stand over there, other side of the door."

George himself went and sat on the bottom stair, a good 10 feet away. With the light on, Everett had a better picture of the man. His hair was prematurely gray at the sides, he couldn't be more than 35, and he was much thinner. His clothes were unpressed, and hung on him limply. He was no longer the rather plump, ruddy-faced man Everett had known.

"Where've you been, George?"

"I haven't been well, Everett."

I'll bet you haven't, you bastard, Everett thought.

"I've had a lot of trouble, Everett, since I saw you. A lotta people ganged up on me an' ruined my business... I even had to go to court . . . an' on top of all that stuff with Eleanor, it was too much... I hadda nervous breakdown, Everett." He looked at Everett soulfully, as if hoping to enlist his pity.

Then he added, casually, "I was in a hospital for a long time."

So the man was a maniac. And it was like the dream.

"I got it figured that you and Eleanor are pretty much to blame for it all, Everett. It's sorta hard to express, but things'll be a lot better after this is over ... I wanted to wait with her, actually, we were gonna wait here until you came home an' I was going to give you one second to recognize me when you came through the door and then I was going to kill you first and her after. Now it'll be the other way around. I would've liked it the other way, I mean – I'd've liked to have talked to Eleanor, but a fellow can't have all the breaks.

Everett's mind was working feverishly. If George had escaped from this hospital then surely people were looking for him. Maybe if he could stall him enough, they'd catch up with him. And the gun was another possibility – where had George gotten it? And was it loaded? There was a strong possibility it wasn't loaded. He stared at the small gleaming object and wished he had his glasses on. He could see for certain now that it was an automatic, not a revolver – and--

Everett's heart sank suddenly.

"That's my gun--?"

"That's right. I found it in your study." George reached into his breast pocket and produced a small hunting knife. "Thought I'd have to use this when I broke in--" he threw the knife to the floor. "I prefer the gun." He smiled amiably.

"Well, George, I – I don't know what to say." He certainly didn't. "Mind if I smoke?"

"No – but don't move too quickly."

Like a man in slow motion, Everett produced first his cigarettes and then his lighter. "Cigarette?" he offered.

"No, I've cut out smoking, too. I feel a lot better for it."

An insane bubble of laughter rose within Everett, which he quelled with difficulty. The cigarette lit, he leaned back against the wall. His hand was shaking.

"Don't be nervous, Everett. You must've thought I'd get even. I wasn't gonna let you get away with it."

"With what, exactly, George?"

"I really loved her, Everett, and it was going pretty good until you came along. Not that I blame you entirely . . . her fault too . . . she gave in to the sins of the flesh. You were the devil, but she didn't have the – the character – to resist temptation. So she's to blame, too. She could've stopped all this . . . could've married me . . . just – overcome her baser instincts for a few months. Just a few months was all ... God knows / did it ... lotsa nights when we were out together . . . but I respectedher . . ." he shook his head sadly. "She was weak."

Everett tried to laugh. "Good Lord, George, it was more than sex with us ... I mean ... we just... we just liked each other, that's all. These things happen. Hell, I was going with someone else at the time, too, but as soon as I met Eleanor . . ." He realized that George was not listening, and he stopped. He began to sum things up in his mind. Eleanor and her sister and their son Philip had gone to a late matinee. It was 5:30 now, they'd probably gone in a bit before three – they might be coming out just about now. What with the traffic, she probably wouldn't be home for a half-hour at least . . .

All right. Now here was the situation. If ever he needed his sense of logic, the thing that had made his career so solid, he needed it now. This madman was determined to kill them. As soon as that door opened, George was going to start shooting. He would shoot, because Everett knew the gun was loaded. There was the possibility that the safety catch was still on, but he couldn't count on this. George had always been the out-door type, presumably handy with guns, and even in his present condition it wasn't likely that he would forget the safety catch.

All right then. As soon as the door opened, Everett would lunge at George – he'd have nothing to lose then. However, if George continued to stay the distance away he was now, Everett could never reach him before he fired once. Someone might be wounded, Possibly Philip, if not killed.

Then something must be done before the door opened. What? Could he talk George out of it? He looked at George's impassive, unblinking countenance.

"Look here, George, they'll catch you, you know."

"I suppose."

"They'll electrocute you, George."

"No they won't. They'll just put me away again."

Anger filled Everett. He thought, yes, you son of a bitch, how right you are – they'll just put you away, and that'll be that! Impulsively he threw the cigarette onto the floor and crushed it out under his toe. Eleanor will kill me for that, he thought inanely.

He saw the knife then.

It was almost within his reach, but certainly too dangerous to try for now. He filed the knife away for future reference.

He had a thought.

"George, I might as well break the bad news to you now. Eleanor won't be home for quite awhile."

"Why?"

"She's out of town. At her mother's in Buffalo. You going to sit there for a week, George?"

"I can last 12 hours anyhow, Everett."

Well, that one was a draw.

And now, strangely, Everett realized he was no longer so frightened. Like a man doomed to death by an incurable disease, he was beginning to take a calm interest in the world about him ... he appreciated the twilight hush of this hallway in his home, on this chilly autumn evening. He began to realize that he had many nice things, including the wide curving stairs where George sat.

He thought of a normal homecoming at this hour, when the windows of the kitchen would be steamed up with the evening meal, the coziness of fall, how comfortable and pleasant his home and his family were at this time of year.

Now could it be that this was all over for him? Because of George Watson? Who had seemed so harmless and laughable when he first knew him? It was an impossible thought, and he knew suddenly that he couldn't let it happen. He looked at George now, and a certain professional pride welled up in him. Here is the greatest challenge of your career, my friend, he told himself. A matter of life and death. You are going to talk this man out of it.

"George, why are you really doing it?"

The abrupt coldness of his tone made George look up, rather startled.

"I told you, Everett."

"You told me no such thing. You told me some cock-and-bull story about her being the woman you loved, and about how she must pay for shunning you. Isn't that true?"

George was very suspicious. His hand tensed on the gun. But Everett's imagination was at work, and caution was beyond him now.

"She fell out of love with you, is that it?"

George just started at him.

"Is that it?"

Things hung on the brink, and then George was into it. His hand relaxed on the gun and he yelled, "You tempted her! She was weak!"

"That's exactly what I said. She fell out of love with you, right?"

"Yes . . . "

"This would mean that she must have been in love with you to begin with, right?"

"She loved me, yes – I know she did!"

"And you loved her – above everything?" This was a crucial point. He watched George's face – and there was suddenly a sadness in George's eyes and he knew the man wasn't completely insane and that he could win.

"I loved her, Everett."

Now here it was, and barring George's lapsing into completely irresponsible action, it would turn the trick.

"Then why in God's name didn't you do the right thing by her and save her from me?"

George's head snapped up and he looked at Everett, with astonishment showing on his face.

"What do you mean?"

Now the important thing was that he mustn't give George time to think. "If you loved her so well why didn't you say 'Never mind Eleanor, I'll marry you despite it all – you don't have to marry him – you sinned but you're young and there's no reason why you have to pay

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Life and death

(continued from page 48)

for it at all your life by living with a man you hate!

George was swept along. "I don't understand – who did she hate?"

"Me! You must have known! Don't try to pretend she didn't tell you! But there she was, going to have a child! My child! And you wouldn't forgive her! Don't you remember the night she came to you and begged you to marry her, but you wouldn't? You were so full of jealousy that you doomed her to life with a man she didn't love!" A pause, and a new insinuating tone. "Or have you forgotten all this in the hospital, George. I guess maybe you have – forgotten your part in this whole damned mess. It must be easy to forget things when you're in a hospital and sick, easy enough to forget the lives you've ruined – not only hers, but mine!"

Now Everett made the greatest gamble of his life. He took one step forward. And nothing happened. George just watched his face, waiting for more.

"What do you think my life has been, because I spent one night with a woman I only had a casual interest in? Neither one of us will have any kind of life because of that one night! I gave up the woman I really loved, and Eleanor gave up the man she really loved! Yes, George, so help me. So the final irony of all this, George, is that tonight you'll be doing us a favor." Everett's face twisted with a sardonic smile. "Because the nicest thing that could happen to us would be your pulling that trigger! Our life is a living hell in any case!"

His voice echoed throughout the house. George's eyes were wide, his expression that of a person struck dumb, and his brain struggled with these incredible thoughts, shouted so wildly, with such fervor that it was impossible to doubt their truth.

Everett bent down and neatly scooped up the knife and threw himself onto George. He thrust him back against the steps and his head thudded against the edge of one. Everett put the knife to his throat, his other hand going to the wrist of the hand that held the gun.

"Nothing will happen to me if I kill you, George. You know that. Now I'll plunge it right into your throat if you don't drop the gun."

George dropped the gun.

Carefully, Everett felt for it. His hand closed around it finally, and he stood up quickly.

And suddenly the whole thing was a farce.

It was his son Philip's gun.

A toy.

George sat up, rubbing his head. He said, "I don't remember that. I don't remember that at all, Everett, I mean her coming to me like that ...but I really haven't been well, Everett... did it really happen like that? Really?"

Everett just stared at him.

And there was a trace of a shy smile on George's face. "Did she really love me...?"

Everett leaned against the door. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. He realized he was drained, that he had never sweated more in his life.

And looking into George's face, he suddenly thought how odd all this was, and wondered if he'd ever had the right to interfere with George and Eleanor in the first place. But then that was foolish – Everett knew himself to be the better man, he always had been, and had certainly proved it again tonight – and by rights he should let George know that because George had put him through hell...

But instead he said, "Yes, George.

She really loved you."

And he picked up the telephone.

the madman had a gun, the sane man only his sanity