Tales for a Stormy Night (4 page)

The day was close and damp, and the flies clung to the screens. There was a dull stillness in the atmosphere. By late afternoon the clouds rolled heavier, mulling about one another like dough in a pan. While she was peeling potatoes for supper, Frank drove in. He unhitched the horse but left him in the harness, and set about immediately building frames along the rows of flowers. He was expecting a storm. She looked at the clock. It was almost time for Gerald.

She went out on the front porch and watched for the bus. There was a haze in the sweep of land between her and the highway, and the traffic through it seemed to float thickly, slowly. The bus glided toward the intersection and past it without stopping. She felt a sudden anger. Her whole day had been strung up to this peak. Since he had not called, it meant merely he had missed the bus. The next one was in two hours. She crossed the yard to the fence. You’re starting up again, Sarah, she warned herself, and took no heed of the warning.

Frank looked up from his work. “You’d better fasten the house,” he said. “There’s a fine blow coming.”

“Frank, if you’re in a hurry, I’ll give you something to eat.”

“That’d be a great kindness. I may have to go back to the stand at a gallop.”

He was at the kitchen table, shoveling in the food without a word, when the heavy sky lightened. He went to the window. “By the glory, it may blow over.” He looked around at her. “Your old boy missed the bus, did he?”

“He must have.”

Frank looked out again. “I do like a good blow. Even if it impoverished me, there’s nothing in the world like a storm.”

An automobile horn sounded on the road. It occurred to Sarah that on a couple of occasions Gerald had received a ride from the city. The car passed, but watching its dust she was left with a feeling of suspended urgency. Joyce was chatting now. He had tilted back in the chair and for the first time since she had known him, he was rambling on about weather, vegetables, and the price of eggs. She found it more disconcerting than his bursts of intimate comment, and she hung from one sentence to the next waiting for the end of it. Finally she passed in back of his chair and touched her fingers briefly to his neck.

“You need a haircut, Frank.”

He sat bolt upright. “I never notice it till I have to scratch. Could I have a drop more coffee?”

She filled his cup, aware of his eyes on her. “Last night was something I’ll never forget—that ride,” she said.

“And something else last night, do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Would you give me another now to match it if I was to ask?”

“No.”

“What if I took it without asking?”

“I don’t think I’d like it, Frank.”

He pushed away from the table, slopping the coffee into the saucer. “Then what are you tempting me for?”

“You’ve a funny notion of temptations,” she flared up, knowing the anger was against herself.

Joyce spread his dirt-grimed fingers on the table. “Sarah, do you know what you want?”

The tears were gathering. She fought them back. “Yes, I know what I want!” she cried.

Joyce shook his head. “He’s got you by the heart, hasn’t he, Sarah?”

“My heart’s my own!” She flung her head up.

Joyce slapped his hand on the table. “Ho! Look at the spark of the woman! That’d scorch a man if there was a stick in him for kindling.” He moistened his lips and in spite of herself Sarah took a step backwards. “I’ll not chase you, Sarah. Never fear that. My chasing days are over. I’ll neither chase nor run, but I’ll stand my ground for what’s coming to me.” He jerked his head toward the window. “That was only a lull in the wind. There’s a big blow coming now for certain.”

She watched the first drops of rain splash on the glass. “Gerald’s going to get drenched in it.”

“Maybe it’ll drown him,” Joyce said, grinning from the door. “Thanks for the supper.”

Let it come on hail, thunder, and lightning. Blow the roof from the house and tumble the chimney. I’d go out from it then and never turn back. When an old man can laugh at your trying to cuckold a husband, and the husband asking it, begging it, shame on you. She went through the house clamping the locks on the windows. More pleasure putting the broom through them.

An early darkness folded into the storm, and the walls of rain bleared the highway lights. There was an ugly yellow tinge to the water from the dust swirled into it. The wind sluiced down the chimney, spitting bits of soot on the living-room floor. She spread newspapers to catch it. A sudden blow, it would soon be spent. She went to the hall clock. The bus was due in ten minutes. What matter? A quick supper, a good book, and a long sleep. The wily old imp was right. A prophet needing a haircut.

The lights flickered off for a moment, then on again. Let them go out, Sarah. What’s left for you, you can see by candlelight. She went to the basement and brought up the kerosene lamp and then got a flashlight from the pantry. As she returned to the living-room, a fresh gust of wind sent the newspapers out of the grate like scud. The lights flickered again. A sound drew her to the hall. She thought the wind might be muffling the ring of the telephone. When she got there, the clock was striking. The bus was now twenty minutes late. There was something about the look of the phone that convinced her the line was dead. It was unnerving to find it in order. Imagination, she murmured. Everything was going perverse to her expectations. And then, annoyed with herself, she grew angry with Gerald again. This was insult. Insult on top of indifference.

She followed a thumping noise upstairs. It was on the outside of the house. She turned off the light and pressed her face against the window. A giant maple tree was rocking and churning, one branch thudding against the house. There was not even a blur of light from the highway now. Blacked out. While she watched, a pinpoint of light shaped before her. It grew larger, weaving a little. A flashlight, she thought, and wondered if Gerald had one. Then she recognized the motion: a lantern on a wagon. Frank was returning.

When she touched the light switch there was no response. Groping her way to the hall she saw that all the lights were out now. Step by step she made her way downstairs. A dankness had washed in through the chimney, stale and sickening. She lit the lamp and carried it to the kitchen. From the window there, she saw Frank’s lantern bobbing as he led the horse into the barn. She could not see man or horse, only the fading of the light until it disappeared inside. When it reappeared she lifted her kerosene lamp, a greeting to him. This time he came around the fence. She held the door against the wind.

“I’ve no time now, Sarah. I’ve work to do,” he shouted. “He didn’t come, did he?”

“No!”

“Is the phone working?”

She nodded that it was and waved him close to her. “Did the bus come through?”

“It’s come and gone. Close the door or you’ll have the house in a shambles.” He waved his lantern and was gone.

She put the pot roast she had prepared for Gerald in the refrigerator and set the perishables close to the freezing unit. She wound the clock and put away the dishes. Anything to keep busy. She washed the kitchen floor that had been washed only the day before. The lantern across the way swung on a hook at the barn, sometimes moving toward the ground and back as Joyce examined the frames he was reinforcing.

Finally she returned to the living-room. She sat for a long time in Gerald’s chair, watching the pattern of smoke in the lamp-chimney. Not even a dog or cat to keep her company. Not even a laughing piece of delft to look out at her from the mantelpiece; only the cold-eyed forebears, whom she could not remember, staring down at her from the gilt frames, their eyes fixed upon her, the last and the least of them who would leave after her—nothing.

It was not to be endured. She lunged out of the chair. In the hall she climbed to the first landing where she could see Joyce’s yard. He was through work now, the lantern hanging from the porch although the house was darkened. It was the only light anywhere, and swayed in the wind like a will-o’-the-wisp.

She bounded down the stairs and caught up her raincoat. Taking the flashlight she went out into the storm. She made her way around the fence, sometimes pushing into the wind, sometimes resting against it. Joyce met her in his driveway. He had been waiting, she thought, testing his nerves against her own, expecting her. Without a word, he caught her hand and led her to his back steps and into the house. “I’ve an oil lamp,” he said then. “Hold your light there till I fix it.”

She watched his wet face in the half-light. His mouth was lined with malicious humor, and his eyes as he squinted at the first flame of the wick were fierce, as fierce as the storm, and as strange to her. When the light flared up, she followed its reaches over the dirty wall, the faded calendar, the gaping cupboards, the electric cord hanging from a naked bulb over the sink to the back door. There were dishes stacked on the table where they no doubt stood from one meal to the next. The curtains were stiff with dirt, three years of it. Only then did she take a full glimpse of the folly that had brought her here.

“I just ran over for a minute, Frank…”

“A minute or the night, sit there, Sarah, and let me get out of these clothes.”

She took the chair he motioned her into, and watched him fling his coat into the corner. Nor could she take her eyes from him as he sat down and removed his boots and socks. Each motion fascinated her separately, fascinated and revolted her. He wiped between his toes with the socks. He went barefoot toward the front of the house. In the doorway he paused, becoming a giant in the weird light.

“Put us up a pot of coffee, dear woman. The makings are there on the stove.”

“I must go home. Gerald…”

“To hell with Gerald,” he interrupted. “He’s snug for the night, wherever he is. Maybe he won’t come back to you at all. It’s happened before, you know, men vanishing from women they don’t know the worth of.”

Alone, she sat stiff and erect at the table. He was just talking, poisoning her mind against Gerald. How should she get out of here? Run like a frightened doe and never face him again? No, Sarah. Stay for the bitter coffee. Scald the giddiness out of you once and for all. But on top of the resolve came the wish that Gerald might somehow appear at the door and take her home. Dear, gentle Gerald.

She got up and went to the sink to draw the water for coffee. A row of medicine bottles stood on the windowsill, crusted with dust. Household remedies. She leaned close and examined a faded label: “Mrs. Joyce—take immediately upon need.”

She turned from the window. A rocker stood in the corner of the room. In the old days the sick woman had sat in it on the back porch, rocking, and speaking to no one. The stale sickness of her was still about the house, Sarah thought. What did she know of people like this?

He was threshing around upstairs like a penned bull. His muddy boots lay where he had taken them off, a pool of water gathering about them. Again she looked at the windowsill. No May wine there. Suddenly she remembered Dr. Philips’s words: “Lived on stimulants for years.” She could almost see the sour woman, even to her gasping for breath…“Take immediately.”

Fix the coffee, Sarah. What kind of teasing is this? Teasing the dead from her grave before you. Teasing. Something in the thought disturbed her further…an association: Joyce watching her reach for the preserves last night, grinning at her. “Try it again, Sarah. You almost had it that time.” And she could still hear him asking, “Which bottle?” Not which jar, but which bottle.

She grabbed the kettle and filled it. Stop it, Sarah. It’s the storm, the waiting, too much waiting…your time of life. She drew herself up against his coming, hearing his quick step on the stairs.

“Will you give us a bit of iodine there from the window, Sarah? I’ve scratched myself on those blamed frames.”

She selected the bottle carefully with her eyes, so that her trembling hand might not betray her.

“Dab it on here,” he said, holding a white cuff away from his wrist.

The palm of his hand was moist as she bent over it and she could smell the earth and the horse from it. Familiar. Everything about him had become familiar, too familiar. She felt his breath on her neck, and the hissing sound of it was the only sound in the room. She smeared the iodine on the cut and pulled away. His lips tightened across his teeth in a grin.

“A kiss would make a tickle of the pain,” he said.

Sarah thrust the iodine bottle from her and grabbed the flashlight. “I’m going home.”

His jaw sagged as he stared at her. “Then what did you come for?”

“Because I was lonesome. I was foolish…” Fear choked off her voice. A little trickle of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“No! You came to torture me!”

She forced one foot toward the door and the other after it. His voice rose in laughter as she lumbered away from him. “Good Lord, Sarah. Where’s the magnificent woman who rode to the winds with me last night?”

She lunged into the electric cord in her retreat, searing her cheek on it. Joyce caught it and wrenched it from the wall, its splayed end springing along the floor like a whip. “And me thinking the greatest kindness would be if he never came home!”

The doorknob slipped in her sweaty hand. She dried it frantically. He’s crazy, she thought. Mad-crazy.

“You’re a lump, Sarah,” he shouted. “And Mr. Joyce is a joker. A joker and a dunce. He always was and he will be till the day they hang him!”

The door yielded and she plunged down the steps and into the yard. In her wild haste she hurled herself against the rig and spun away from it as though it were something alive. She sucked in her breath to keep from screaming. She tore her coat on the fence hurtling past it, leaving a swatch of it on the wire. Take a deep breath, she told herself as she stumbled up the steps. Don’t faint. Don’t fall. The door swung from her grasp, the wind clamoring through the house. She forced it closed, the glass plate tingling, and bolted it. She thrust the flashlight on the table and caught up the phone. She clicked it wildly.

Finally it was the operator who broke through. “I have a call for you from Mr. Gerald Shepherd. Will you hold on, please?”