Die a Little Longer

While he was gone, she began wrapping some more cups, and in about five minutes she heard the hen squawking at the side of the house. The squawking continued, shrill and terrified, for so long it began to get on her nerves. Why doesn’t he kill it? she thought, and then wondered if perhaps he had never killed a chicken and did not know how.

Setting down the cup she was wrapping, she hurried around the side of the house. Her visitor was seated on the chopping block with the fryer’s legs clamped between his knees, one hand expertly holding the bird motionless by pinning its wings together. With the other hand he was methodically plucking it.

For a moment she stared at the scene in incredulous horror. Then she grasped the bird by the throat, jerked it from him and twisted its neck with one experienced flip.

“That’s the crudest thing I’ve ever seen done!” she snapped at him furiously.

His face darkened, causing a large vein to bulge in his forehead. Almost sullenly he said, “A live-plucked chicken is more tender.”

“I prefer to chance the toughness! And I don’t believe it anyway!”

He rose from the chopping block and stood before her with his nostrils flared and the large vein beating in his forehead. She realized he was angry, but he was no more angry than she. Brusquely she turned her back and started toward the house with the chicken.

She heard him take two steps behind her, and his breath made a hissing sound as it expelled between clenched teeth. Then there was a swish, and the sigh of an axe crunching into solid wood. She glanced back to see he had released some of his anger by burying the axe blade so deeply in the chopping block, he was having difficulty wrenching it loose.

In the kitchen she decapitated the bird and let it drain in the sink. While it was draining she heard the axe strike the chopping block twice more and was rather startled at his childish display of temper.

He’s acting like a maniac, she thought indignantly.

Maniac! When the frightening thought jumped into her mind, irritation gushed away as though someone had pulled a plug. Could her guest be...

Of course not, she told herself immediately — hadn’t he identified himself? But she was nevertheless frightened. Certainly he was peculiar. His vagueness and inattention, for example. Were insane persons vague? And his plucking a live chicken. Would any sane person so senselessly cause pain? Of course it was really no more cruel than boiling lobster alive, except lobsters were unable to squawk.

She was being silly, she decided. Her guest could not possibly be the escaped maniac masquerading as Mr. Steuben, for how could he have known she was expecting a Mr. Steuben? She thought back to when he had introduced himself.

The sharp edge of panic touched her. He had not introduced himself! She had simply assumed he was Mr. Steuben and called him by name. Her mind rushed back over each incident since he had arrived, examining it through a crystal of fear. In no instance could she remember his volunteering any information which might indicate he had ever even heard of George Steuben.

She tried to drown growing fright by forcing her thoughts to rebut her suspicions. He spoke as though educated, much as she imagined a professional writer would speak. And even in the improbable event of his being the escaped maniac, Mr. Rawlin had said he was dangerous only if angered.

But he was angry! She began to tremble as she realized there had been silence in the yard for some minutes. At that moment he appeared at the kitchen door, his face pale and his eyes avoiding hers.

“Anything I can do?” he asked quietly.

Unreasoning fear diffused through her body. “No thanks,” she managed to say.

For a time he stood motionless, his eyes still averted, then walked away and she saw him round the corner toward the front porch.

Why, he’s ashamed of showing anger! she thought with relief. He must he George Steuben.

And even if he were the escaped lunatic, she told herself, there was no danger if she did not rouse him again. Surely if he intended any harm, the chicken incident would have made him act. If she showed no change in her attitude, she could safely get by until Tom phoned, as he did every afternoon. She wished there were some way to reach Tom immediately, but knew he would be visiting prospects.

She could hear no sound from the front of the house, and the silence began to panic her again. She dreaded leaving the sanctuary of the kitchen, but dreaded even more not knowing what her guest was doing. She waited uncertainly until she thought her delay might cause him to come looking for her, and the thought added to her panic. Finally, like a person taking a cold plunge, she steeled her mind and nearly ran through the house to the front porch.

He was quietly wrapping dishes.