The Broken Window

minutes had passed before he got into the double-parked van and left.
    What had he been doing in the apartment building all that time? Checking out—
    “Hey, Earth to Alice . . .”
    “Sorry.” She laughed, continued to the couch, then sat next to Arthur, their knees brushing. Thoughts of the deliveryman vanished. They touched glasses, these two people who were compatible in all-important areas—politics (they contributed virtually the same amount to the Dems and gave money during NPR pledge drives), movies, food, traveling. They were both lapsed Protestants.
    When their knees touched again, his rubbed seductively. Then Arthur smiled and asked, “Oh, that painting you bought, the Prescott? Did you get it?”
    Her eyes shone as she nodded. “Yep. I now own a Harvey Prescott.”
    Alice Sanderson was not a wealthy woman by Manhattan standards but she’d invested well and indulgedher true passion. She’d followed the career of Prescott, a painter from Oregon who specialized in photorealistic works of families—not existing people but ones he himself made up. Some traditional, some not so—single parent, mixed race or gay. Virtually none of his paintings were on the market in her price range but she was on the mailing lists of the galleries that occasionally sold his work. Last month she’d learned from one out west that a small early canvas might be coming available for $150,000. Sure enough, the owner decided to sell and she’d dipped into her investment account to come up with the cash.
    That was the delivery she’d received today. But the pleasure of owning the piece now diminished again with a flare-up of concern about the driver. She recalled his smell, his lascivious eyes. Alice rose, on the pretense of opening the curtains wider, and looked outside. No delivery trucks, no skinheads standing on the street corner and staring up at her apartment. She thought about closing and locking the window, but that seemed too paranoid and would require an explanation.
    She returned to Arthur, glanced at her walls and told him she wasn’t sure where to hang the painting in her small apartment. A brief fantasy played out: Arthur’s staying over one Saturday night and on Sunday, after brunch, helping her find the perfect place for the canvas.
    Her voice was filled with pleasure and pride as she said, “You want to see it?”
    “You bet.”
    They rose and she walked toward the bedroom, believing that she heard footsteps in the corridor outside.All the other tenants should have been at work, this time of day.
    Could it be the deliveryman?
    Well, at least she wasn’t alone.
    They got to the bedroom door.
    Which was when the black widow struck.
    With a jolt Alice now understood what had been bothering her, and it had nothing to do with the deliveryman. No, it was about Arthur . When they’d spoken yesterday he’d asked when the Prescott would be arriving.
    She’d told him she was getting a painting but had never mentioned the artist’s name. Slowing now, at the bedroom door. Her hands were sweating. If he’d learned of the painting without her telling him, then maybe he’d found other facts about her life. What if all of the many things they had in common were lies? What if he’d known about her love of the Spanish wine ahead of time? What if he’d been at the tasting just to get close to her? All the restaurants they knew, the travel, the TV shows . . .
    My God, here she was leading a man she’d known for only a few weeks into her bedroom. All her defenses down . . .
    Breathing hard now . . . Shivering.
    “Oh, the painting,” he whispered, looking past her. “It’s beautiful.”
    And, hearing his calm, pleasant voice, Alice laughed to herself. Are you crazy? She must have mentioned Prescott’s name to Arthur. She tucked the uneasiness away. Calm down. You’ve been living alone too long. Remember his smiles, his joking. He thinks the way you think.
    Relax.
    A faint laugh. Alice stared at the two-by-two-foot canvas, the muted colors, a half dozen people at a dinner table looking out, some amused, some pensive, some troubled.
    “Incredible,” he said.
    “The composition is wonderful but it’s their expressions that he captures so perfectly. Don’t you think?” Alice turned to him.
    Her smile vanished. “What’s that, Arthur? What are you doing?” He’d put on beige cloth gloves and was reaching into his pocket. And then she looked into his eyes, which had hardened into dark