An American Dream by Norman Mailer Page A

there were two more squad cars in the street. Our silence continued as we rode up in the elevator, and when we got to the apartment, a few more detectives and a few more police were standing about. There was a joyless odor in the air now somewhat reminiscent of liquid soap. Two of the police were talking to Ruta. She had not combed out her hair. Instead she had done her best to restore it, and she looked too attractive. The skirt and blouse had been changed for a pink-orange silk wrapper.
    But she made up for it by her greeting. “Mr. Rojack, you poor poor man,” she said. “Can I make you some coffee?”
    I nodded. I wanted a drink as well. Perhaps she would have the sense to put something in the cup.
    “All right,” said Roberts, “I’d like to go to the room where this happened.” He gave a nod to one of the other detectives, a big Irishman with white hair, and the two of them followed me. The second detective was very friendly. He gave a wink of commiseration as we sat down.
    “All right, to begin with,” said Roberts, “how long have you and your wife been living here?”
    “She’s been here for six or eight weeks.”
    “But you haven’t?”
    “No, we’ve been separated for a year.”
    “How many years were you married?”
    “Almost nine.”
    “And since you separated, you’ve been seeing her often?”
    “Perhaps once or twice a week. Tonight was the first time I’d been over in two weeks.”
    “Now, on the phone you said this was an accident.”
    “Yes, I think I said it was a frightful accident. I think those were my words.”
    “An accident in fact?”
    “No, Detective. I may as well tell you that it was suicide.”
    “Why did you say it was an accident?”
    “I had some dim hope of protecting my wife’s reputation.”
    “I’m glad you didn’t try to go ahead with that story.”
    “It wasn’t until I hung up that I realized I had in effect told the next thing to a lie. I think that took me out of my shock a little. When I called down to the maid, I decided to tell her the truth.”
    “All right then.” He nodded. “It was a suicide. Your wife
jumped
through the window.” He was doing his best to make the word inoffensive. “Now, let me get it clear. Your wife got up from bed. Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Went to the window and opened it?”
    “No, I’d opened it a few minutes before. She’d been complaining about the heat and asked me to open the window as wide as I could.” I shivered now, for the window was still open, and the room was cold.
    “Forgive me for prying,” said Roberts, “but suicides are nastyunless they’re cleared up quickly. I have some difficult questions to ask you.”
    “Ask what you wish. I don’t think any of this has hit me yet.”
    “Well, then, if you don’t mind, had you been intimate with your wife this evening?”
    “No.”
    “Though there had been some drinking?”
    “Quite a bit.”
    “Was she drunk?”
    “She must have had a lot of liquor in her system. However, she wasn’t drunk. Deborah could hold her liquor very well.”
    “But you had a quarrel, perhaps?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “Please explain.”
    “She was fearfully depressed. She said some ugly things.”
    “You didn’t get angry?”
    “I was used to it.”
    “Would you care to say what she said?”
    “What does a wife ever accuse a husband of? She tells him one way or another that he’s not man enough for her.”
    “Some wives,” said Roberts, “complain that their husband is running around too much.”
    “I had my private life. Deborah had hers. People who come from Deborah’s background don’t feel at ease until their marriage has congealed into a marriage of convenience.”
    “This sounds sort of peaceful,” said Roberts.
    “Obviously, it wasn’t. Deborah suffered from profound depressions. But she kept them to herself. She was a proud woman. I doubt if even her closest friends were aware of the extent of these depressions. When she felt bad,