face. No longer thinking about getting the vacuum. Thinking her daughter had gone off the deep end. Saying, “Elisabeth, you can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“You can’t be.”
“I am.”
“You think your husband is Dart Man? too far.
“He could be. He might be.” Elisabeth, nodding her head.
“Where would you get such an idea?”
“Well, listen. First”—Elisabeth, ticking the following off on herfingers—“they say he must be smart to be getting away with it. Richard’s really smart. They say it’s probably someone with no prior record. Richard has no prior record. They say it’s probably someone with no impulses to violent crime. I don’t think Richard has any impulses to violent crime. They think it’s someone just seeking attention. Richard likes attention. He has attacked only on Mondays and Thursdays for some reason. They don’t know why. What days does Richard ride his bike downtown? Mondays and Thursdays! What kind of bike does Dart Man ride? He’s been seen on what’s described as a red mountain bike. What kind does Richard have? A red mountain bike!” Spitting this last bit out with emphasis. Then regrouping for even more: “And here’s the real clincher. What does Richard love doing? Playing darts! Remember back in the days when he actually had a life outside of work? What did he do? He played darts! Remember? He loved darts! Remember how good he was?”
Ann, standing there staring at her daughter, her forty-four-year-old, successful, businesswoman daughter. Looking for signs on her broad, pale face that she was joking. Maybe a twinkle in her green eyes? A smirk on her thin lips? Waiting for Elisabeth to break into a smile. But it never came. Elisabeth was in earnest. Ann wasn’t sure where to begin. Preschoolers were so much less complicated.
“Okay, Lizzie, a reality check here, please. Your husband’s not Dart Man. He’s a lawyer, a successful lawyer in a big firm, a partner. Hardly the type to be wanted by the police for anything, much less shooting darts at women.”
Elisabeth, nodding but not convinced. “I know. It does seem hard to believe, but you never know. Isn’t it possible that a totally stressed-out, pushed-to-the-edge man could end up committing this kind of act? You hear stories all the time about people suddenly snapping. And what do these people do when they snap? Something they’re good at. Darts. He played at Yale. He was on the team!” Elisabeth, all worked up, her voice picking up speed and intensity. “You hear stories about women findingout all kinds of outrageous things about their husbands all the time. There are stories like this in the paper just about every day.”
“Yes, but you’re not one of them. You’re not going to find this out about your husband.” Looking long and hard at her daughter. “You need to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll probably laugh at yourself in the morning.”
Elisabeth, nodding, hoping her mother was right. Hurrying into the playroom to gather the boys. Get them home. Josh and David still had their piano practice, an hour each. And Michael had a European History final plus math and chemistry and other year-end finals and state Regents exams in a week. He couldn’t afford any more subpar grades. He should be home studying. Elisabeth, imagining that it was going to be a struggle to get him out of his iPod stupor and into his textbook. Thinking back with longing to the time when he was the most cooperative of all her boys, to the days when her word was everything. What had happened? When? No answer.
Checking her watch, telling them to hustle. Worrying about later tonight when Richard got home from work. What if she couldn’t look her gynecologist T close at him? What if all she could see were darts?
Pushing the image aside. “Come on, boys.” Shaking her keys, surveying the room for any of their things. “Let’s get a move on.”
Yawning. Then noticing the overseas envelope. Picking it
“I am.”
“You can’t be.”
“I am.”
“You think your husband is Dart Man? too far.
“He could be. He might be.” Elisabeth, nodding her head.
“Where would you get such an idea?”
“Well, listen. First”—Elisabeth, ticking the following off on herfingers—“they say he must be smart to be getting away with it. Richard’s really smart. They say it’s probably someone with no prior record. Richard has no prior record. They say it’s probably someone with no impulses to violent crime. I don’t think Richard has any impulses to violent crime. They think it’s someone just seeking attention. Richard likes attention. He has attacked only on Mondays and Thursdays for some reason. They don’t know why. What days does Richard ride his bike downtown? Mondays and Thursdays! What kind of bike does Dart Man ride? He’s been seen on what’s described as a red mountain bike. What kind does Richard have? A red mountain bike!” Spitting this last bit out with emphasis. Then regrouping for even more: “And here’s the real clincher. What does Richard love doing? Playing darts! Remember back in the days when he actually had a life outside of work? What did he do? He played darts! Remember? He loved darts! Remember how good he was?”
Ann, standing there staring at her daughter, her forty-four-year-old, successful, businesswoman daughter. Looking for signs on her broad, pale face that she was joking. Maybe a twinkle in her green eyes? A smirk on her thin lips? Waiting for Elisabeth to break into a smile. But it never came. Elisabeth was in earnest. Ann wasn’t sure where to begin. Preschoolers were so much less complicated.
“Okay, Lizzie, a reality check here, please. Your husband’s not Dart Man. He’s a lawyer, a successful lawyer in a big firm, a partner. Hardly the type to be wanted by the police for anything, much less shooting darts at women.”
Elisabeth, nodding but not convinced. “I know. It does seem hard to believe, but you never know. Isn’t it possible that a totally stressed-out, pushed-to-the-edge man could end up committing this kind of act? You hear stories all the time about people suddenly snapping. And what do these people do when they snap? Something they’re good at. Darts. He played at Yale. He was on the team!” Elisabeth, all worked up, her voice picking up speed and intensity. “You hear stories about women findingout all kinds of outrageous things about their husbands all the time. There are stories like this in the paper just about every day.”
“Yes, but you’re not one of them. You’re not going to find this out about your husband.” Looking long and hard at her daughter. “You need to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll probably laugh at yourself in the morning.”
Elisabeth, nodding, hoping her mother was right. Hurrying into the playroom to gather the boys. Get them home. Josh and David still had their piano practice, an hour each. And Michael had a European History final plus math and chemistry and other year-end finals and state Regents exams in a week. He couldn’t afford any more subpar grades. He should be home studying. Elisabeth, imagining that it was going to be a struggle to get him out of his iPod stupor and into his textbook. Thinking back with longing to the time when he was the most cooperative of all her boys, to the days when her word was everything. What had happened? When? No answer.
Checking her watch, telling them to hustle. Worrying about later tonight when Richard got home from work. What if she couldn’t look her gynecologist T close at him? What if all she could see were darts?
Pushing the image aside. “Come on, boys.” Shaking her keys, surveying the room for any of their things. “Let’s get a move on.”
Yawning. Then noticing the overseas envelope. Picking it
Similar Books
