Wait Until Tomorrow

Wait Until Tomorrow

The door slowly closed before him, sliding down from the domed ceiling. The din of the screaming fans, the echo of the brass band blaring God Bless America, the girls screaming “We love you, John,” began to recede. A few scattered pieces of red, white and blue confetti flew under the falling door. Pritchard saluted from the podium, his smiling face and shiny top hat the last things John saw as the door slid shut. A small hiss indicated that the vacuum seal had engaged.

“Goodbye cruel world, see you in three hundred and sixty five days,” he said. He dropped into an overstuffed red velvet chair the size of a throne and spun around, surveying  the room. His ask list, pragmatic at first, had grown until it resembled a rock diva’s concert rider. He looked around the room, mentally checking off the amenities. Full wall screen projection, check. Enormous four-poster and overstuffed sofas, check. Freezers filled with shrimp, lobster and filet mignon, check. Refrigerator filled with Trappist Westvleteren 12, and four cases of Balvenie 12 year Toasted Oak, check. The collected works of Hemingway, Steinbeck and Dickens. The complete Rumpole of the Bailey.  Check and check.

He settled deeper into the red velvet throne before the screen. He propped up his boots and chose a fat Cuban cigar from the box on the end table. He was just lighting it when he heard the noise behind him. He turned and scanned the room. Nothing seemed to have moved. Maybe it was just the foundations settling, or maybe it was his imagination. It was going to be a long year if he jumped at every little thing, starting day one. He began puffing out blue smoke circles and drifted into reminiscence.

Pritchard had approached him while he was serving a short sentence for some trivial burgling. He had caught John’s attention immediately with his opening statement, “Good afternoon, John. I am William Pritchard, representing Eazy Time Custom Shelters Inc. How would you like to earn a quarter of a million dollars?”

“Depends. What do I have to do for it?”

“Live in an apartment prepared for you for a time, with all necessities provided, along with any special requests you may have. The warden has graciously agreed to arrange the transfer. It will be much like your current situation, but infinitely more comfortable. You will be asked to participate in periodic live television broadcasts, and to allow my company to use your name and likeness for a publicity campaign.” He smiled, showing a mile of gleaming white teeth.

“Sounds too easy,” John said. He didn’t trust men who smiled too much, and who offered something for nothing. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch?” Pritchard frowned. “The catch, my friend, is that you’ll trade this cell you’re in for a gilded cage. You’ll serve the remaining year of your sentence in one of our premium bunkers, provided and outfitted by my firm. In addition, you will receive an initial deposit of ten thousand dollars to your account now, and the balance of the quarter of a million at the end of that year. And meanwhile, you will allow us exclusive rights to publicize the story, which we anticipate will immediately impact sales,” he said, flashing another toothy smile.

John rose and turned his back to Pritchard for a moment. He took a drag on his cigarette and said over his shoulder, “Half a million. I’ll do it for half a mil,”

“I can’t possibly agree to that,” Pritchard had said, “the offer is a quarter of a million.”

“Half a million is what I’ll do it for,” he said, ”go back and talk with your cronies, and see if they don’t go for it. How much do you stand to make in sales, anyway? I figure a few million, right? So up the ante a little, and you’ve got a deal.”

He puffed absently at the cigar, smiling at the memory of Pritchard storming out, red-faced, and returning a few days later, contrite and polite, to shake on the deal.

Again the noise behind him startled him from his reverie. He quickly rose and walked around the room, peering into corners, then dropped into the chair and lit another cigar.

 “You’ll have to learn to pace yourself, if you’re going to make those last,” a voice behind him said.

“What the hell!” he said, quickly turning. “Who’s there? How did you get in here?”

“It was easy actually, I just waited until they introduced you back at the pep rally. Nobody was watching the bunker,” the voice continued, slowly moving forward from the shadows at the back of the room.

“I’ll fix that right now,” John said, reaching for the intercom.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” the voice said. “I remember what the paper said, about how you forfeit the whole thing if they open that door even one minute before the year is up.”

The body belonging to the voice walked into the light now; first the hand, attached to a small pistol, then the rest, until a woman in a black dress with vivid red hair smiled down at John. John, looking as though a nightmare had suddenly materialized before him, said “Nora! “

He sat quietly for a moment, his head lowered. “Wasn’t the five grand I sent enough for you? I told you I would catch up on the back support when I get out, in a year.”

“And the alimony.”

“And the alimony. What were you thinking? My God, don’t you know you’re stuck in here for a year? With me, your ‘worthless ex’? And we only have food enough for one person,” he said, the objections coming quickly now that he had recovered from his initial shock.

“Don’t sweat it Johnnie, the papers said you’d have plenty extra just in case, since they don’t want you to die in here, and ruin the publicity stunt. This way, I’ll make sure I get what I’m due,” she said. “I’ll be there when the door opens and the cameras start filming, not in a newsroom somewhere doing the ex-wife’s perspective, or worse yet, somewhere out in the crowd. And if I don’t get what I’m after, the press will get the whole ugly story, about how you continuously cheated on me and abandoned me one night, and how after a couple of months of paying alimony and support, you stopped and just disappeared off the face of the earth. I can’t believe you thought you were going to just waltz in here and enjoy yourself for a year, and pocket half a million.”

“I wasn’t trying to pull anything off, I was trying to pay back what I owed you and the kids, and have some left to live on, while I look for work. It won’t be easy finding legitimate work with my record.”

“Oh no, I’m not waiting for you to make payments while you get to look like the hero, and walk out on me again, only this time with half a million dollars. I want half, up front. “

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll go to jail for murder.”

 “But what good will it do you? You’ll be arrested the minute they open the door, and then you won’t get anything.”

“I’ll be trading one kind of prison for another. And I don’t have anything now. I’m betting you’ll see the advantage of living to spend a quarter of a million versus the alternative.””

“All right, you get half. I was going to give you a hundred anyway.“ He lapsed into silence, then remember something she had said, “Wait, what about the kids?” he asked, “Who’s taking care of them?”

“My sister and Bob took them,” she said.

“Of course, old goody two shoes to the rescue.”

“Make fun of her if you want, but she’s always been there for me, something you have failed at miserably.”

She pulled up a side chair and said “Look at the bright side. You never could cook, so now you have me to handle the cooking. All you have to do is share the supplies and the room with me for a year, and then do what’s right at the end of it.”

He sat abstractedly puffing on the cigar for a while before asking “What’s for dinner?”

Nora opened the refrigerator and freezer, pulled out a couple of steaks and some asparagus, and soon they sat down to their first of many meals in the bunker. After dinner, they had a few drinks and managed to play double solitaire without arguing. Later they crawled into the four-poster, after arguing about John sleeping in the chair, and finally agreeing to partition the bed with a mountain of pillows, like a pair of Puritan teens without a bundling board.

John lay awake while Nora snored. He ran a thousand scenarios through his mind, but none of them seemed destined to get him out of this jam. On the one hand, he knew Nora was not a killer. On the other hand, she was desperate, and desperate people are capable of desperate measures.  He could get rid of her, but how would he dispose of the remains? He didn’t have enough room for her in the freezers. And then, at the end of the year, his ability to enjoy the money would be diminished by being convicted of murder, when they eventually discovered her body. That is, if he were lucky enough to escape the death penalty. No, he would have to seem to live with it, and find a way to get out of it somehow over the course of the year.

The next morning, he was up first. He had intended to allow her to do all the cooking, but his new strategy called for him to sometimes pleasantly surprise her. And today’s surprise was a shrimp omelet and hand squeezed orange juice.  

“Wakey wakey,” he called, gently touching Nora’s shoulder. “Breakfast is served, madam.”

She grumbled a little, but grabbed her robe from the headboard and met him at the table. “That actually looks pretty decent,” she said. “Since when can you cook?”

“Since I did a class with Chef Michel in prison,” he said. “The guy stabbed his wife with a carving knife when he caught her with her boyfriend. He did classes for us to keep from going nuts, I guess.”

“Well, it’s very nice,” Nora said. “Pity you couldn’t have done something like this years ago. It would have helped smooth over a few arguments.”

“Yes, we certainly had our share of them, didn’t we? Remember the time we fought because you said I never take you anywhere, the morning after I took you out to Delmonico’s for a nice dinner and then to the Metropolitan Opera?”

“Yes, I do remember, and you’re still missing the point of that argument. The point is, you have to take me somewhere I want to go, not somewhere you love to go. You knew I didn’t care for opera.”

“As usual, I give,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

The first live broadcast was interesting. They staged it so that John was on screen talking, when Nora appeared from behind a curtained alcove. Pritchard stopped mid-question and stared.

 “John? What’s going on?” he asked.

“This is my ex-wife, Nora. She decided she needed to keep tabs on me while I’m in here,” he said.

Nora pulled up a chair at the console. “He’s kidding, of course, “ she said. “I’m actually here to protect my interests. I didn’t believe he could survive for a year on his own, and I’m depending on him for alimony and support.”

“You know there’s no additional stipend for you, correct Nora?”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ve got that figured out,” John said,

Pritchard looked relieved. “In that case, our audience will love this new twist. Let’s make sure we exploit it. I’d like for Nora to be included in every broadcast.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Nora said, “My schedule is open for the foreseeable future.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Pritchard said. 

And inevitably they settled into a routine. Rise early for breakfast. Live broadcast with Pritchard. Lunch. Then a short nap. Dinner. Alternately watching one of his favorite shows (Poirot, Red Dwarf) or hers (Mrs. Marple, Keeping Up Appearances). Planning the story line for the morning’s broadcast. Quiet time for reading or contemplation. A few drinks. And then bed. At first, they slept. In time, the quick goodnight peck on the cheek turned into occasional intimacy. They never planned or discussed it, but instead allowed it to happen. And they never mentioned it over the early pre-broadcast breakfasts.

One day bled into another and the next, until they found themselves at dinner the night before the opening. Nora had prepared lobster and crème brulee, John’s favorites. After, they sat with drinks and talked of the past and the future.

“That was an excellent dinner, Nora, thank you,” John said, puffing on the last of his store of cigars. “Are you happy or a little sad that the year ends tomorrow?”

Nora smiled. “I never thought I would say it, but I’m actually a little sad. I wouldn’t have minded a few more weeks.”

“Neither would I,” he said. “I’ve been thinking …… I mean, I wonder if we should give it another go, for the kids’ sake?”

“I don’t think so, John,” Nora said. “We managed to survive the time together in here, but it will be different once that door opens. Let’s stick to the original agreement.”

“All right, Nora.” His expression was a mixture of relief and disappointment. “But now it’s time to think about tomorrow. We’ll be bombarded by the press, you know. Pritchard’s exclusive ends tomorrow after our exit interview.”

“I know. I’m not looking forward to it.

“What do you plan to say to the press?” he asked.

“I think you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out,” she smiled at him.

The morning finally arrived. He dressed in his best suit, shaved and combed his hair carefully. He started his favorite playlist, then waited near the door. Nora stood beside him, looking periodically at her watch. “One mniute left,” he said, and bent over to kiss her forehead. She was pointing the small revolver at his chest.

“Now what?” he asked, smiling. “Is this a joke? Are we doing a battling ex picture for the press?”

 “Now I have to see the look on your face when you realize you’ve been cooped up in here for a year with me for nothing.”

“Half of half a million is a lot of nothing,” he said. “don’t be crazy, you don’t want to give up your share. Besides, it wasn’t so bad, was it? It felt as though we could even try again there for a minute, you know it too.”

“At first, I was just playing a part,” Nora said. “But now, I truly regret that it has to end this way. But yes, John, I do want to give up my share,” she said, “in fact, I have to. Because I sold exclusive rights to my story to the Times for three hundred thousand, and created a trust for the children. Just imagine the headline tomorrow, Johnnie, ‘Ex Lives with Bunker Man for a Year, Then Murders Him on Day 365.’ You’ll be even more famous. I’ll be tried for first degree murder, of course. But you know, sympathy will be on my side. I may even be acquitted.”

One of John’s favorites had started playing in the background, from the Jimi Hendrix Experience Axis Bold As Love album. Just as John drifted off, he heard Jimi singing ‘Click bang, what a hang, your daddy just shot poor me, and I hear you say, as I fade away…….we don’t have to wait till tomorrow, hey!’