Small Plates (7 page)

It was following one of these episodes, which took one of the younger agents in the office an hour to rectify, that retirement was strongly suggested. Forty years. No gold watch. No testimonial dinner. Squat. Mabel, who'd decided to retire at the same time over the protests of her boss, got a dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses and a cut glass Waterford vase. “Very tasteful,” she'd pronounced.

Yes, she'd been a cute little thing, but as the years went by, only “little” remained. She had always been plagued with allergies, and as a consequence her nose was red, her face pinched, and her eyes watery. She kept tissues stuffed up her sleeves. It drove Mr. Carter crazy to see them sticking out from her cuffs, bits of white—wet with mucus. After Mabel stopped working, she stopped dressing up and replaced the suits and high heels she'd favored with sweats and athletic shoes. “Why not be comfortable?” she said and ridiculed the way he kept his closetful of suits brushed, his wing tips polished. He wore the khakis and plaid sports shirts previously reserved for weekends every day now, but each Sunday he put on one of his suits for church, rotating it to the end of the row when he took it off. Mabel had stopped going to church. “I can talk to God anywhere.” She used the time for her daily power walk. She was constantly urging him to join her and do something other than sit indoors and read. “If not walking, then go to a gym. Anything but vegetate. You don't even have a hobby!”

Mabel's hobby was her garden. She grew flowers and more produce than they could ever eat, crowding the chest freezer in the basement—next to the pails of mushrooms she tended—with lima beans, stewed tomatoes, and other things Mr. Carter disliked eating.

Mr. Carter didn't feel the need of a gym. He weighed the same as he had the day he was married. And he
did
get out of the house. He walked to the library. And sometimes he took the bus and went to one of the museums in Boston. His hobbies were reading, he told Mabel, and art. She would snort at his answer. “You're supposed to produce something with a hobby. Besides, reading doesn't count. Anybody can read.”

Maybe he wouldn't hate her so much if they'd had children, but Mabel hadn't been too keen on the idea, and then when she'd grudgingly given in, they couldn't. “It wasn't meant to be,” she told anyone bold enough to inquire. He supposed he could have divorced her, but he'd been busy at work and their nightly interactions had been brief, limited to a quick dinner before he settled in with his book and she with her seed catalogues. And what would have been the grounds? Drippy nose? Bossiness? Lima beans? More important, “divorced” was not as desirable as “widowed.” Divorced meant something had been wrong with your marriage, that maybe you had done something wrong. It wasn't the image he wanted for himself. And it wasn't true.

Maybe he wouldn't hate her so much if she'd kept working. It was her constant presence that was driving him mad. He'd suggested she think about taking a part-time job, not let her skills go to waste. “Why on earth would I want to go back to work?” she'd said. “I've worked all my life. Now it's my time.” She sounded like a television commercial: “Now It's My Time.” It was after the third repetition of the phrase that he decided to kill her.

It felt good to have a goal. He was happier than he'd been in many years. He was glad now that they hadn't had a family. He wouldn't have been able to deprive children of a mother or grandchildren of a grandmother. And their own families posed no problems. Both his and her parents had died years ago. Mr. Carter was an only child, and Mabel had an older sister living in Canada. The two had never been close and Mabel didn't even know whether the woman was still alive. So there would be no relatives to question the sudden death of a beloved family member.

It would have to be a perfect crime. That went without saying. He would immediately be the prime suspect. It's always the husband. He'd read enough mysteries and true crime books to know that. Well, maybe not always, but usually. There was no point in going through with it if he wasn't going to be able to reap the benefits of being a widower. Much as he disliked living with Mabel, it was preferable to prison. He knew there was a risk, but oh, the rewards!

After the food and the calls tapered off, he saw himself joining one of those grief support groups, basking in the pathos of others like himself. He would go on Elderhostels to Tuscany and Prague—places he had only read about. Places Mabel had never cared to visit. “If you want greasy Italian food, you can get all you want in the North End. Besides, you have to bring your own water and toilet paper. Who needs that?” He would date attractive women with beautifully coifed silver hair. Women who wore scent and took the trouble to apply flawless makeup. He would get subscription tickets for the symphony. His own seats. He would nod to those around him, careful not to be too familiar. He would maintain his aura, his dignity. They would nod back, commenting to one another in low voices about the well-dressed elderly gentleman, retired businessman no doubt—or perhaps an academic. After the concert, he and his lady friend—he liked the sound of that—would have supper at the Brasserie Jo, cosmopolitan places, and when he took her home, she would invite him in for coffee. She'd offer decaf, but he'd smile and say he could handle the real thing. She'd laugh and he would kiss her. He could close his eyes even now and feel the warmth and softness of her skin on his lips. They would go to bed and she would protest that her body was not what it had been when she was young. He would whisper that if anything she must be more beautiful. They would make love. And sleep long and dreamlessly, waking in each other's arms. She would not blow her nose. She would not say they were too old for such nonsense. She would not laugh at Mr. Carter's naked body nor comment that his skin seemed to have grown too large for his bones. She would not move into the guest room and call it hers.

Mr. Carter didn't own a gun or a weapon of any kind, although Mabel kept her clippers and some of her other garden tools razor sharp. But he couldn't shoot her—the police would see through the “I thought she was a burglar” story in a flash—nor could he fake her suicide. There was the whole problem of powder burns. They'd have to be on her hand, not his, and he didn't think he could get Mabel to hold a gun and pull the trigger. Possibly he could drug her and then, using gloves, put the weapon in her hand and maneuver her finger to fire the shot. This might just do the trick, but the gun would of course be traced back to him. He'd have to buy one at a gun shop or from a pawnbroker, since he didn't have any street connections. He supposed he could go into Boston at night and try to purchase one, but he might also get himself mugged or even killed, which would spoil everything.

As for the garden tools, it was highly unlikely that Mabel could be induced to decapitate herself. She could, however, have an accident with her chipper, getting her hand stuck as she fed in leaves and branches, bleeding to death. He filed the notion away for further thought.

After reviewing his options over some weeks, Mr. Carter came to the conclusion that the simpler the method the better. No weapons, poisons, lethal machinery. He'd take Mabel to the mountains and push her off a cliff. Hikers had accidents all the time. Especially novices, which they were. He'd have no trouble convincing her to go. She wanted him to exercise and she wanted him to have a hobby. Hiking would be his new love, and he wasted no time in preparing the groundwork.

“Mabel,” he told her at dinner, one of her more inspired efforts—scrod baked in canned cream of mushroom soup, the current crop of her own mushrooms still in a state of immaturity. “You're right. I do need to get out more, but walking would bore me. I'd rather look at the beauty of nature than rows of houses and passing cars. I'm going to take up hiking.”

He had expected an enthusiastic response, but this was Mabel.

“It's not as easy as you think. You'll need to get proper hiking boots, for a start.”

“Already in my closet. I went to Eastern Mountain Sports this afternoon. And I took out a membership in the Appalachian Mountain Club. I should be getting maps and guides soon. Meanwhile I'll start with some of the little hills around here. If you'd care to join me, I'd be delighted.”

“I'll get some boots.”

He took a large bite of the fish. Whatever firmness of flesh it had possessed in the wild had been destroyed in Mabel's preparation and it was almost as liquid as the sauce. He smacked his lips. His heart was full and he gazed at his wife gratefully. “Wonderful,” he said. “Absolutely wonderful.”

It had been a mild winter, hardly any snow. Global warming, Mr. Carter supposed, but it provided excellent hiking weather, and in the following weeks he and his spouse attempted ever-hardier climbs with frequent day trips to the mountains in New Hampshire. He was surprised to find himself enjoying the exercise, noting the first signs of spring, and gradually adopting Mabel's hunter-gatherer habits. She was a firm disciple of Euell Gibbons, masticating sassafras leaves, pouncing on acorns to grind for bread and muffins, and scooping wintergreen leaves for tea into one of the Ziploc bags she always carried in her rucksack. Knowing she would soon be gone granted him tolerance and the odd moment of affection for his wife. It would all be put to good use when he played the part of the lonely, grieving widower.

When spring began to give way to summer, they tackled the White Mountains. Mr. Carter had studied the AMC guides and maps until he knew every trail, every outcropping, every precipice with the precision of blind fingers over Braille. At last he decided they were ready—his goal: the top of the headwall on the Tuckerman Ravine Trail on Mount Washington. Ever since he'd read in the guide that Mount Washington had claimed more lives than any other peak in North America, the trail had beckoned like Shangri-la, its image a haunting melody during every hike, a coda to his footfalls. He booked a room, twin beds, at an inn in nearby Jackson for five days. It would be their anniversary gift to each other he told Mabel. A sentimental gesture.

Their anniversary fell on Thursday and if luck was with him, so would Mabel. It wouldn't do to arrive and kill her immediately. He would need to establish themselves as an affable—and devoted—couple. Two people enjoying retirement and each other. Two people with a new hobby. Two people who might get into trouble in the mountains.

When the day came, it was perfect. At breakfast some of the other guests remarked on the weather and hastened away to prepare for their own outings. It would seem that the paths would be crowded; not a moment of privacy, but Mr. Carter wasn't worried. He'd checked the conditions carefully. The ski season, which continued well into the spring at this elevation, had ended. School was still in session, so no intrepid Von Trapp–type families to get in the way. And he'd avoided the weekend, which would bring more people to the popular trail. A moment was all he needed, and he was sure he would get it.

“Shall we, my dear?” he asked playfully as his wife finished her stewed prunes.

Soon they were on the trail, a more difficult one than they had attempted before. A challenge. He was positively giddy with joy. The sky was blue. Not a single cloud. The hours passed swiftly and then, unless he was wrong, five more minutes would bring them to the spot he'd selected. A fabulous view. He owed her that at least. They were above the timberline. No trees to grab on the way down.

And it all went according to plan.

“Why don't we stop a moment? The footing's a little tricky here and I want to rest,” he told her. “Besides, it's spectacular.” He swept his arm out, encompassing the surrounding peaks—the Wildcat Range opposite—and the valley, far, far below. Then swept his arm back, neatly knocking her off her small feet and sending her hurtling over the edge, crying, “Watch out!” at the same time for her sake—and the sake of others on the trail out of sight but not earshot.

It was done. He was free.

He was falling.

She had grabbed him by the ankle. She was taking him with her. His fury knew no bounds. Then, nothing.

The next thing he knew he was strapped to a stretcher and a ranger was telling him to lie still, that he'd be all right. “Looks like you broke a leg, but you're a very lucky man.”

“My wife, what about my wife?” Mr. Carter asked.

“She's fine, a bit bruised and shaken up of course. You landed on a small projection thirty feet down. It's a miracle. We lost a hiker from that very spot a year ago. Your wife's just ahead of us. Didn't hit her head the way you did; still, they'll want to check her out at the hospital.”

A second ranger broke in, admonishing him, “I hope you understand you folks could have been killed. Your wife mentioned you've just started climbing. It's treacherous up here, especially with all the loose rock after the snow's melted.” She repeated the other ranger's words: “You're a very lucky man.”

Mr. Carter groaned and let himself slip back into unconsciousness.

He hadn't broken a leg. Just his ankle. His recovery gave him plenty of time to think. Maybe simple hadn't been such a good idea. He'd have to come up with something a bit more complicated than a shove—something a bit more sure. His wife was busy in the garden from morning to night, so there was that to be thankful for. While she was out at the nursery getting more manure, he hobbled to the shed in the backyard and looked at the assortment of things she used to keep weeds and garden pests away. Virtually every preparation carried the skull-and-crossbones logo he'd been conjuring up as he sat indoors reading. Then there was the chipper. It was tucked in a corner with her small rototiller. The good old chipper.

He gazed longingly at the poisons again.
LAST MEAL FOR SLUGS
read one. Last meal for Mabel. But unless he could convince the police she was suicidal, the use of any of these goodies would immediately be traced back to him. He felt like a kid in a candy store with empty pockets. He turned and went back to the house. His ankle was throbbing.