Pity Him Afterwards

The house was still in darkness, except for the hall lights, when he got back to it. He took off his shoes outside and tied the wet laces together, and hung the shoes around his neck. Then he went inside, and carefully locked the door behind him.

He was about to go upstairs when he glanced toward the farther end of the hall, where the kitchen was, and suddenly realized he was very hungry. His appetite was usually not keen, but now a gnawing emptiness had hollowed out his belly, and all at once he was so hungry his hands were shaking.

He moved down the hall and stepped into the dark kitchen. He didn’t turn on the large circular fluorescent light in the ceiling, but did switch on the smaller light over the sink. He opened the refrigerator door and found a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread and a jar of raspberry jam. He sat at the kitchen table and made himself a sandwich, and drank the milk.

He ate two sandwiches and drank the entire quart of milk before the gnawing in his belly went away. Then he sat there a while longer, staring at the opposite wall.

This was where Sondgard/Chax had been sitting. He had sat across the way there, answering the questions. The tape recorder with its syzygetic reels had been placed there, to the right.

Bemused, still gazing thoughtfully into the middle distance, he reached out his left hand and picked up the jar of raspberry jam and turned it upside down. The jam oozed out, plopping onto the kitchen table, falling in slow chunks. His right hand groped for the knife he’d been using — he still didn’t look at what he was doing — and he used it now to scrape the rest of the jam out of the jar and onto the table.

Then he got to his feet. At the sink, he washed the empty milk bottle, and the dish on which he’d made the sandwiches, and the jar the jam had come in. He left all three on the drain-board, and then turned back to the table.

He started to spread the jam on the table. At first he used the knife, spreading it as though he were spreading jam on bread, but after a minute he put the knife down and used his fingers. His hands pushed and spread the jam, and when he was finished he stood back and looked at it. His clothes were still soggy and shapeless, his shoes hung around his neck, his hands were smeared with jam.

The table now looked like a great open wound, red and scabrous. He looked at it, but didn’t seem really to focus on it. His eyes were vague and filmy, as though he were still gazing into the middle distance while thinking of something else.

He pushed his hands into the open wound. His fingers made meaningless streaks and snarls on it, like finger-painting. He waved his hands through the mess for a few minutes, and then suddenly turned away and stepped purposefully to the sink. He washed the knife, then washed his hands, then washed the faucets where he had touched them and streaked jam on them.

Just before turning out the light, he glanced over again at the table. Why had he done that? He looked at it, and it was meaningless.

He switched off the light, and went upstairs.

Sondgard stood with his back to the wall. The Hunchback of Notre Dame stood in front of him, laughing, holding his curved hands up to let Sondgard know he would strangle him. Sondgard said, “Why do you do this?” But the Hunchback’s answer was drowned out by the sudden pealing of the bells. The Hunchback glared upward, suddenly enraged, crying, “Those are my bells!” The pealing stopped, and Sondgard, puzzled, said, “I thought you were a deaf-mute.” And again just as the Hunchback answered, the bells began to peal. “Why, they’re calling me,” thought Sondgard, surprised that anyone should know he was here, and he sat up, and it was the telephone ringing.

He rubbed his head. “A dream,” he mumbled. He’d been dreaming, but he couldn’t remember what. Something about a stone wall.

The phone took a deep breath, and rang again. It was way out in the living room, so he had to get out of bed, kick into slippers, and shuffle out of the bedroom. He crossed the living room and picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” His voice was fuzzy.

It was Joyce Ravenfield, sounding frightened, “Eric, can you get down here? Right away.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten after six.”

He closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead again. He’d been up till two this morning, listening to the tapes of yesterday’s interviews, with no success. “Where are you?” he asked.

“At the office. No, wait, don’t come here. I’m sorry, Eric, I’m a little shaken. Give me a second.”

“Sure.” He was more than willing. He needed a second himself. He dropped down onto the sofa, and tried to think. It was ten after six and Joyce was calling him on the phone.

And sounding completely rattled.

That was wrong. Joyce was never rattled. Joyce was the most efficient woman alive.

If Joyce was rattled—

“What is it?” he asked. He was suddenly wide awake.

“There’s been another one,” she said. “Larry Temple called me.”