Seed on the Wind

At the sound of the door closing behind Martha she suddenly turned over and sat up. The dizziness was all gone. It was all quite clear; it would be the simplest thing in the world. Her father’s loaded revolver was of course in the drawer of the desk in his bedroom, where it had been kept as long as she could remember; as a child she had often opened the drawer a crack and shudderingly peeked at it, not daring to touch it. To get it now, unseen, would be easy, with Martha and her mother both downstairs. Then under her pillow. In the evening he would come to her room as usual, right after dinner. Maybe he wouldn’t. Tomorrow evening then, or the next, or the next; he would come; she could wait. The revolver held six bullets, and all it needed was to pull the trigger. She would wait till he was quite close, the closer the better, even so she could touch him with it. Then she would get back into bed and lie there peacefully, and when people came she wouldn’t bother to say a word. She would never say anything to anybody again. If Pete came she wouldn’t speak to him even; she’d just twist up her mouth the way he did and he would hump up his shoulders and peer at her and she would know it was all right.

At the same time, without words, her mind was making its practical decisions. To carry them out she needed all the strength she could muster; the fragrance of the coffee floating over from the tray started that. She could see the little clock on the bureau but wasn’t sure it had been wound, so she got out of bed and went to get her wristwatch which she had wound herself when she undressed the afternoon before. Not twenty-four hours ago; that was hard to believe. Somewhat less in fact, for the watch said twenty past twelve. She had a full hour; the afternoon train was at one-thirty. She put on her dressing-gown and carried the tray to the bed, and efficiently and deliberately went through the fruit and toast and eggs and coffee to the last drop and crumb. All the time she felt herself tremulous inside, but her hands were perfectly steady; the swallowing was difficult and required some determination. Then she put the tray back on the table and went to the head of the stairs and called her mother, and at once heard her pattering footsteps.

Mrs. Winter entered the room hesitantly, stopping just inside the door, and looking at Lora and the empty tray tried to smile. Lora gazed at her in contemptuous astonishment. It was incredible, but there was no doubt about it; pathetically and idiotically she was trying to disarm her daughter with a smile.

“How much money have you got?” Lora said.

The attempted smile disappeared for faint amazement.

“Why — I don’t know—”

“I need all I can get. I’m going away. I have to leave in half an hour, to take the one-thirty train. Have you got as much as a hundred dollars?”

Her mother’s mouth opened, and closed again. Opened by Lora’s words, and closed by the look on Lora’s face.

“You can’t go like this,” she said. “It will kill you.”

“Please,” Lora said. “Listen, if you ever did anything... Go and see how much money you’ve got. In that jar in the attic, I know.”

Her mother looked startled. “How did you know—”

“I know lots of things. Hurry up.”

“Child, you can’t go—”

Lora interrupted her, suddenly blazing:

“Can’t you see it’s silly to talk?”

Her mother turned and went without a word, and Lora took off her dressing-gown and nightgown and started to dress. She wouldn’t stop to pack a bag; she wanted nothing from there; she would like to leave that house naked if it could be done. Anyway, she didn’t want to be encumbered with a bag — and she might never need one. She hated everything in that room; she loathed the smell of it. God, what an unspeakable and unforgivable fool — but she shook her head and set her teeth together against that useless indulgence. Later would do for that.

Her mother came in panting a little, her eyes gleaming. She had a little over a hundred dollars, and she had got twenty more from Martha. Lora took it, a large roll of ones and fives and tens, and stuffed it into her purse. That was it. Money. Then she sent her mother down to phone for a taxicab.

When she got downstairs, steadying herself by the rail on one side and her mother on the other, Martha was there, crying as though her heart would break. She threw her arms around Lora and implored her not to go; she would die, she was sure to die. Mrs. Winter, her thin little body erect and only her glittering eyes betraying her excitement, said nothing. Once more upstairs she had tried to protest; now she was silent, but kissed her daughter on the cheek and buttoned her coat collar for her.

“Don’t come out, I’ll get to the taxi all right,” Lora said.