The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

That was the best. The worst came half an hour later, when I turned to her and for a moment thought she was dead. It was the way she was sleeping, with her head cocked over on her shoulder and her mouth open and her hair kind of sticking to the window. She was young, we both were, but the idea of sudden death had a hideous possibility in Ellen’s case.

‘They used to call your condition “barren,” Mrs Franklin,’ the doctor said when he gave us the bad news, ‘but in this case, your inability to conceive could be a blessing. Pregnancy puts a strain on the heart, and thanks to a disease that was badly treated when you were a child, yours isn’t strong. If you did happen to conceive, you’d be in bed for the last four months of the pregnancy, and even then the outcome would be dicey.’

She wasn’t pregnant when we left on that trip, and her last checkup had been fine, but the climb up to cruising altitude had been plenty rough … and she didn’t look like she was breathing.

Then she opened her eyes. I settled back into my aisle seat, letting out a long and shaky breath.

She looked at me, puzzled. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. The way you were sleeping, that’s all.’

She wiped at her chin. ‘Oh God, did I drool?’

‘No.’ I laughed. ‘But for a minute there you looked … well, dead.’

She laughed too. ‘And if I was, you’d ship the body back to New York, I suppose, and take up with some Bahama Mama.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d take you, anyway.’

‘What?’

‘Because I wouldn’t accept it. No way would I.’

‘You’d have to after a few days. I’d get all smelly.’

She was smiling. She thought it was still a game, because she hadn’t really understood what the doctor was telling her that day. She hadn’t – as the saying goes – taken it all the way to the heartwood. And she didn’t know how she’d looked, with the sun shining on her winter-pale cheeks and smudged eyelids and slack mouth. But I’d seen, and I’d taken it to the heartwood. She was my heart, and I guard what’s there. Nobody takes it away from me.

‘You wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I’d keep you alive.’

‘Really? How? Necromancy?’

‘By refusing to give up. And by using an adman’s most valuable asset.’

‘Which is what, Mr Fasprin?’

‘Imagination. Now can we talk about something more pleasant?’

The call I’ve been expecting comes around three thirty. It’s not Carlo. It’s Berk Ostrow, the building super. He wants to know what time I’m going to be home, because the rat everybody’s been smelling isn’t in 5-C, it’s in our apartment. Ostrow says the exterminators have to leave by four to get to another job, but that isn’t the important thing. What’s important is fixing what’s wrong in there and by the way, Carlo says no one’s seen your wife in over a week. Just you and the dog.

I explain about my deficient sense of smell, and Ellen’s bronchitis. In her current condition, I say, she wouldn’t know the drapes were on fire until the smoke detector went off. I’m sure Lady smells it, I tell him, but to a dog, the stench of a decaying rat probably smells like Chanel No. 5.

‘I get all that, Mr Franklin, but I still need to get in there to see what’s what. And the exterminators will have to be called back. I think you’re probably going to be on the hook for their bill, which is apt to be quite high. I could let myself in with the passkey, but I’d really be more comfortable if you were—’

‘Yes, I’d be more comfortable, too. Not to mention my wife.’

‘I tried calling her, but she didn’t answer the phone.’ I can hear suspicion in his voice now. I’ve explained everything, advertising men are good at that, but the convincing effect only lasts for sixty seconds or so. That’s why you keep hearing the same ads and slogans over and over again: A little dab’ll do ya. Save time, save money. Pepsi, for those who think young. I’m lovin’ it. Breakfast of champions. It’s like driving a nail. Driving it right into the heartwood.

‘She’s probably got the phone on mute. Plus, the medication the doctor gave her makes her sleep quite heavily.’

‘What time will you be home, Mr Franklin? I can stay until seven; after that there’s only Alfredo.’ The disparaging note in his voice suggests I’d be better off dealing with a street weirdo.

Never, I think. I’ll never be home. In fact, I was never there in the first place. Ellen and I enjoyed the Bahamas so much we moved to Cable Beach, and I took a job with a little firm in Nassau. I shout Cruise Ship Specials (‘The Ride is the Destination!’), Stereo Blowout Sales (‘Don’t Just Hear It Better, Hear It Cheaper!’), and supermarket openings (‘Save Under the Palms!’). All this New York stuff has just been a lucid dream, one I can escape at any time.

‘Mr Franklin? Are you there?’

‘Sure. Just thinking. I’ve got one meeting I absolutely can’t miss, but why don’t you meet me in the apartment around six?’

‘How about in the lobby, Mr Franklin? We can go up together.’ In other words, I’m not giving you a head start, Mr Advertising Genius who maybe killed his wife.