Die a Little Longer

After her emotional orgy, this anticlimax jolted her nearly as much as if she had found him waiting with a raised axe, and when he glanced up with his usual disinterest, she felt her face flame red with shame at her suspicions. Immediately his eyes lost their blankness to become alert. He rose slowly, and she fancied his mouth corners began a sullen droop.

At once her fears rushed back ten-fold. I can’t let him know I suspect, she told herself, knowing as she silently repeated it her blush was fading to a dull pallor. I can’t let him know I suspect.

For the first time since his arrival she had his full attention. From slightly narrowed eyes he examined her face intently, seeming to search beyond the surface for her inner thoughts.

Brightly, and she hoped not too wildly, she said, “You’ve finished ever so many! I’ll pack while you wrap.”

She began placing the dishes he had wrapped in a barrel and stuffing newspapers’ around them. She was conscious that he made no move to resume wrapping, instead continuing to watch her from strangely alert eyes, but she kept her own gaze concentrated on her work, hoping ostrich-like this would somehow conceal her paleness.

Eventually he stooped and again began wrapping dishes. But his former air of inattention had evaporated. During the next hour and a half she was acutely aware of his silent examination, and tension grew in her until she worked like an automaton, hardly conscious of what she was doing because of her fear of the man at her side. Not once during this time did she speak.

Then four of the barrels were filled and there were no more dishes to pack. All excuse for silence was gone.

Attempting a smile that failed, she looked past his shoulder instead of at his face and said in too high a voice, “The rest of the dishes are still in the kitchen cabinet. Let’s stop for lunch.”

Not awaiting reply, she went into the house, forcing herself to move without hurry. Supporting herself against the kitchen sink, she closed her eyes and let a controlled tremor loosen the tight muscles of her body.

Another minute and she would have screamed, she thought. She must get a grip on her emotions and think of her guest as George Steuben instead of as a maniac. He probably was Mr. Steuben, she mentally added, without conviction.

She brought herself to steadiness by conceiving of her situation as a struggle between two different parts of her. The maniac, if he were a maniac, was not her danger. Her own fear was the enemy, and the courage to conceal it her only defense. Insane or not, he meant her no harm, of that her mind, if not her emotions, was convinced. Her sole danger was inciting his anger by disclosing to him her unreasoning fear.

He remained on the porch while she prepared lunch, and by the time she had cut up and fried the chicken, she had calmed to the point where she was able to call in a firm voice, “Lunch is ready, Mr. Steuben.”

When he came into the kitchen she was even able to manage a hostesslike apology for the meal.

“I’m afraid it’s a camping-out sort of thing,” she said. “But I wasn’t expecting a guest.”

They ate with their plates on their laps, seated on boxes which she had him bring from the front room. During lunch she exercised her new-found self-control by chatting casually about the house and about Tom’s new job in Kingston. At first she found herself speaking too rapidly, and as he listened without comment, there grew in her a horrible feeling that she must continue chattering forever because he would grow violent the moment she stopped. But when his alertness gradually faded to inattention, her confidence grew, and by the time lunch was over her fear had subsided to a mild uneasiness.

She decided her guest actually was Mr. Steuben, and being alone so much recently had oversharpened her imagination.

After she had washed the dishes and he had wiped, they went back to work. And as practice improved the part she was playing, no one would have suspected that beneath her occasional matter-of-fact remarks lay the embers of hysteria.

Once when his hand accidentally touched hers, she jerked away so suddenly he flushed and his mouth corners drooped. But even this she was able to counteract with gay chatter, and neither mentioned the contact.

By two o’clock the last barrel was filled and there was nothing more to do but wait for the arrival of the truck in the morning. Her battle was nearly won, for Tom would phone at any time now, and she meant to ask him to come for her immediately. She n o longer had any intention of spending the night in the house, even though her guest probably was merely the new owner.

As they both relaxed on the porch steps with cigarettes, the phone began to ring. Maida cocked her head to listen, counting three short and two long.

“That’s us,” she said, rising. “Probably Tom to tell me not to forget the slippers he left.”