mcbain, ed [aka evan hunter] - [ss] the couple next door [v1 0]

8/14/2019 McBain, Ed [aka Evan Hunter] - [SS] The Couple Next Door [v1 0]

1/6

The Couple Next Door

By Ed McBain [aka Evan Hunter]Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

* * * *

The closet was a big walk-in, far more storage space than we needed onsuch a short Caribbean vacation. After wed folded our beachwear intothree dresser drawers, there was little else to hangKaras two cocktaildresses, my own lightweight Navy blue blazer and gray slacks. We would

be here for only five days, a brief respite from New Yorks brutalFebruary.

Honey? the voice in the closet said. Come take a look at this!

Kara and I had come up from the beach at a quarter past four, andwere napping before dinner time. The voice sounded so immediate Ithought it was actually in the room with us. It was a male voice, youngand obviously impressed by whatever it was he was asking Honey tocome see. Startled out of a light sleep, it took me a moment to realize thatthe voice was coming from our closet, and another moment tocomprehend that it was coming from beyond the closet wall.

Someones at the door, Kara mumbled.

No, hes in the closet, I said.

Mm, funny, she said.

We were both awakened an hour later by the sound of femalemoans, male groans, genderless gutter talk and heavy breathing. Kara satup in a flash, directing a green-eyed laser beam at the closet, from beyondwhich the sounds of sexual engagement were emanating. Only once

before in our twelve years of married life had we overheard a man and awoman making love in another room. That was in the Connaught Hotel inLondon, at two A.M. on a moonlit night in May, the windows wide open,the tumultuous tossings and passionate cries of pleasure rising from

across the courtyard. Oddly, when it was all over and the night was onceagain still, the woman kept repeating over and over again, like the


2/6

heroine in a Victorian novel, You, sir, are a blackguard, an epithet thatreduced us both to helpless muffled laughter.

Here in the tropics, there was the sound of the ocean rushing the

beach beyond our shuttered windows, and the whisper of palm fronds onthe moonlit balmy night, and once again the same cries of passion spillingfrom the closet and across the room to where we lay listening, captive inour own bed.

We learned the next day that the object of attraction in the closetnext door was an enormous tropical spider. From what we could overhear,and we overheard all, this was a truly extraordinary bug.

God, hes gigantic, sweetie!Just dont get too close, honey.

Look at all those colors!

Is that green or blue?

Green and blue.

Some red, too.

Do you think hes poisonous?

I dont think so, honey.

What shall we do with him?

What do you mean?

Well . . . should we spray him or something?

I dont think hell hurt us.

But lets hang our things away from that corner, okay?

At which point, I swear to God, they both began clapping their hands and singing Eansie-Beansie Spider.

* * * *


3/6

It wasnt as if either of us had secret lovers. There was no one else. Neither had we outgrown each other, as the clich would have it. Iman oboe player. I do sit-in work with whichever symphony orchestra has a

musician out sick or otherwise unable to meet a performance date. Thatwinter, I was playing on and off with the Philharmonic, but such work israre, believe me. I usually play with far less distinguished orchestras hereand there around the city. If you have occasion to look me up in a

program sometime, Im Richard Haig. I sit there in the woodwindssection, a pleasant-looking man in a black suit, in no way outstanding. Ionce played a Galway concert. That was truly exciting.

I dont know if youre familiar with very many childrens book

illustrators. I happen to know quite a few of them because thats whatKara does for a living. Theyre a particularly gentle breed, most of themwith children of their own, though Kara and I havent been blessed in thatrespect. Shes thirty-seven years old, my wife, to my forty-two, a quite

beautiful, soft-spoken blonde with a keen sense of humor and a lovelysmile, particularly radiant now that shed begun to tan. Perhaps the mostflamboyant thing about her is her name. Cara, of course, means dear inItalian, but Karas mother tacked a Teutonic K onto it, giving it a post-modernist twist that singled her out from every other little girl growingup in the sixties.

What Im trying to say is that neither of us had progressed very far beyond the other in our twelve years of marriage. I had not achievedanything more important than Kara had. She had no real reason to feelthreatened by me. She was happy with what she did, and had won norecognition that might have caused me to feel envious or resentful. Therewas no competition between us. We were equal partners, perfectlycontent with the people we were.

Thats not what was wrong with our marriage.

I dont know what was wrong with it.

* * * *

While Kara took long, solitary walks on the beach, I tried to determinewhich of the hotel guests were the two in the room next door. They wereyoung, yes, or at least their voices sounded youthful. They were

energetic, too, undeniably so. In addition to their clockwork afternoonmatinees, Kara and I were treated to audio performances at midnight, and


4/6

highly vocal encores just before breakfast. I figured they had to behoneymooners. But then, something Sweetie saidhe was the male changed my mind about that.

They were talking about a sweater they were searching for in thecloset; the nights here in the tropics tended to get a bit chilly. Sweetie wastrying to remember where theyd purchased it. It was clear that theyd

been together on vacation someplace. Had it been Bali? South America?My interest was piqued. Kara and I had been to these places as well. ThenSweetie said, I remember.

Where? Honey asked.

Our fifth anniversary, Sweetie said.No, you bought me a coral necklace.

This wasnt a gift. We were just walking along ...

Paris!

The little shop on the Llle de la Cite.

I remember, she said.

Do you remember the Christmas Eve mass at Saint Suplice?

Yes, sweetie, I remember.

Not honeymooners then. Nor as young as Id first surmised.Married for at least five years, perhaps longer. World travelers; from thesound of them. No clue as to what either of them did for a living. No clueas to whether or not there were children in the marriage. The onlyintimation I had of Honeys physical appearance was supplied by Sweetieone evening. Again, their voices came from the other side of the thincloset wall, floating into my unintentionally receptive ears. Or perhaps,like an amateur detective on the track of something big, I had became adeliberate listener, fascinated now by this couple who seemed so verymuch in love.

Wear the blue, he suggested. Its better with your hair.

Especially now. And a pause. You look so beautiful in blue.


5/6


6/6

Once, on La Costa Brava, I forget when, it must have been five or six years ago, Kara and I returned to the hotel after a midnight Spanishdinner and swept onto the dance floor like professional flamenco dancers.Everyone applauded.

Kara? I said. Would you care to dance?

Thanks, Richard, no, she said. The sun really knocked me outtoday.

I watched the couples swirling by.

In a little while, we went up to our room.

* * * *

At two in the morning, I was awakened again by Honey and Sweetie. Ilay still and silent in the dark, listening to their whispered words of loveand shouted cries of passion.

Our short vacation ended the next day.

We checked out without ever seeing the couple next door.

On the plane home, Kara made tentative sketches for the new book shed accepted, and I finished reading the biography Id started. I musthave napped. The captains voice woke me up. I elevated my seat andturned to where Kara was still asleep. I touched her shoulder.

Kara? I said. Were approaching Kennedy.

Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me blankly.

And suddenly I knew who they were.

The couple next door.

They were us.

Long ago.

* * * *

mcbain, ed [aka evan hunter] - [ss] the couple next door [v1 0]

Documents