An Air That Kills

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The last time his wife saw Ron Galloway was on a Saturday evening in the middle of April.

“He seemed in good spirits,” Esther Galloway said later. “Almost as if he was up to something, planning something. More than just a fishing trip to the lodge, I mean. He’s never really enjoyed fishing, he has a morbid fear of water.”

This was true enough, though Galloway wouldn’t have admitted it. He tried desperately hard to be a sport. He fished, played golf and cricket in the summers, curled at the Granite Club in the winters, wore a crew cut, and drove his Cadillac convertible with the top down even in weather which forced him to turn the heater on full blast to keep from freezing to death. Now in his late thirties, he still appeared somewhat lacking in coordination in spite of all the exercise he took, and his round face showed residual traces of teenage acne and adolescent uncertainty.

He was packing a duffel bag when his wife, Esther, came into his bedroom. She was going out for dinner and she had on a new pink taffeta dress trimmed with seed pearls and topped by a white mink stole. Galloway noticed the dress and approved of it, but he made no remark about it. There was no point in spoiling women by paying them compliments.

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