Secret Prey

from becoming a duchess. Now she was a rich housewife, but a housewife nevertheless.
    And the things she’d done to get here: She’d married a brutal, drunken lout, because he seemed to have a chance to go the distance. And though she’d come to love him, at least a little, somewhere down in her heart, she knew exactly what he was . . . And she’d turned herself into a selfeffacing beetle of a woman, staying out of sight, out of mind, producing the perfect office parties when they were needed, at which she was never noticed, advising the lout on each and every career move . . . advising against the move to the mortgage company, where he had the title of president, which he’d been so proud of at that time, but now would be fatal . . .
    EARLY IN THE EVENING, WITH WILSON UPSTAIRS drinking and raving, the phone had rung, and a woman named Cecely Olene said, ‘‘There was a police officer just here asking about Wilson. I told him that I didn’t want to discuss my friends behind their backs and would call you and tell you they’d been asking.’’
    ‘‘Well, thank you ,’’Audrey said. ‘‘I can’t imagine what they must think . . .’’
    ‘‘They think he killed Dan Kresge, is what they think,’’ Olene said bluntly. ‘‘And they were also asking about a lot of other people who’ve died in the past. George Arris and Andy Ingall. They said they have evidence. Fingerprints.’’
    ‘‘That’s absurd,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘Wilson can get angry, but he’d never in his life kill anyone. I suspect James Bone is leading them on.’’
    ‘‘Well, I don’t know about that,’’ Olene said. ‘‘In any case, I called you like I said I would. I hope things work out for you.’’
    And she was gone; and given that last sentence, Audrey thought, probably wouldn’t be calling back. Ever. I hope things work out for you .
    Things never just ‘‘work out,’’ Audrey thought. They were worked out. Always. When Audrey lived on the farm with Mom and Pop and Helen, she’d had to take any number of harsh decisions. She took another one now, sad in her heart.
    She moved around downstairs, cleaning up; watched television for a while. Wilson came down once, dripping, raving. She avoided him, hiding in the basement, running the washing machine. By eleven o’clock, he was far gone, along with two of the bottles. She went to the kitchen, poured two inches of vodka into a water tumbler, drank it down, and went upstairs to confront the Whale.
    MCDONALD WAS IN THE OVERSIZED TUB, HIS GUT sticking up through the water level like the top of an apple pie, while the tip of his penis hung offshore of the pie, like a fishing bobber. He was reading a water-spattered copy of Golf Digest ; off to his left, an open bottle of scotch sat on the ledge.
    ‘‘Well?’’ Audrey demanded. ‘‘Are you gonna drink all night?’’
    ‘‘Maybe,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.’’
    ‘‘You’re such a pig,’’ she said, surveying his whale body. ‘‘Little pathetic fucking dick floating around like an acorn. You oughta get a pair of fingernail clippers and snip it off, worthless little wart. What a sap you are . . .’’
    McDonald recoiled from this, astonished. They’d had their fights, but she’d never come on like this. He stared at her in stupefaction; then his face went rapidly from pink to red, and he heaved himself up, a sheet of water rolling out of the tub and onto the floor.
    ‘‘You bitch,’’ he bellowed. ‘‘I’m gonna beat your ass . . .’’
    He was fast on his feet for a fat man, but she was ready for it. She was several steps out into the bedroom, heading for the stairs, before he was out of the tub. Once he was angry enough, she knew, he’d keep coming, and he was angry enough. She ran down the stairs—the alcohol still a warm glow in her stomach, but not yet reaching toward her head—punched her sister’s number on the speed-dial, listened, prayed she’d answer. In any case, Helen had an answering machine, which would do almost as well . . . she could hear McDonald thundering down the stairs, two rings, three—and then Helen: ‘‘Hello?’’
    ‘‘Helen,’’ she screamed. ‘‘Wilson is coming, Wilson—’’
    ‘‘Get the fuck away from there,’’ McDonald shouted. His face was twisted, purple, all the pent-up rage of the day now flowing out toward her. She’d never seen his face like this, not even at the beginning of the