Mrs. White

by Margaret Tracy

  Her mouth turned down grimly, her eyes slightly wet, she reached into a cupboard for a pot. She took the pot to the sink and turned on the faucet. As the water ran into the pot, Mrs. White gazed sadly out the window at the lawn and the forest, the driveway and the barn.

  The water overflowed and spilled into the sink.

  She hadn’t thought about the barn.

  The bear’s cave. Paul’s workshop. Maybe his hiding place too.

  Paul felt good as he finished work for the day. He packed up his tools and climbed into his truck, ready to head home. The sky was clear and it was still bright, and he was glad to get the added daylight hours.

  He started the truck up and pulled out onto the street.

  Weekend! he thought, just like a boy in school. He grinned at the sun on the windshield.

  And it was only a short drive home.

  Mrs. White noticed the overflowing pot and reached out mechanically to turn off the faucet. She carried the pot to the stove, turned on one of the units, and set the pot down there. Her confusion was clear in her eyes.

  Primarily, she felt guilty, deeply guilty, for distrusting her husband so. But the suspicion that he was with other women—lying naked next to other women, rich women, smoking and laughing, laughing at his old frumpy wife—it was a palpable sore. It was a lump in her stomach, and she could cure it in only one way. She had to know.

  She looked at the clock. It was five thirty-five. It was too late now to go into the barn. Paul would be home soon, and if he caught her snooping around there … That would be terrible.

  She took a teaspoon and measured out some salt and poured it into the heating water. She set down the spoon and walked to the kitchen door. She glanced back at the stairs. She could hear the TV in the den where Mary was, and she knew that Junior was in his room.

  Mrs. White stepped outside and walked across the driveway to the barn.

  The barn doors had no more than a small bar to keep them fastened shut. Mrs. White lifted it, opened one of the doors just a crack, and slipped inside.

  As Paul drove, he felt the truck settle into an easy, natural rhythm. His thoughts followed with it.

  It was going to be a good weekend. The radio said nice weather. Maybe there would be time for a little baseball with Paul. Maybe he’d take everybody to the movies. Movies, though, were getting awfully expensive nowadays. Maybe he’d take everyone miniature golfing instead. Junior would be bored, but he’d make it up to him. He’d take him out later and show him how to do the jump-throw off second to keep from being bowled over during a double play. Or maybe he’d shown him that already. Probably he had. There wasn’t much he could teach Junior about baseball anymore. There probably wasn’t much he could teach him about anything.

  Kids grow up faster now than they used to, Paul thought. Junior probably knows as much as his old man, and maybe a little more. Still, there were some things you didn’t know when you were that age. Paul had yet to have a man-to-man with his son on the subject of ye olde opposite sex.

  Paul would enjoy that actually. He may be an old married man now, but he still knew some things worth passing on to his son. He was willing to admit he hadn’t actually ever been a real lover boy, but he still felt he knew women pretty well. He knew how to charm them—that was how he got most of his jobs. And he knew how to take care of them. And he knew how to recognize a good one, like Joan, who would stay true to you, and mind you when you talked to her. And he knew how to spot the others. He would explain all of it to Junior. There was a lot Junior had to know. A lot of things he had to warn him about. He had to warn him about the others: the ones who didn’t pay attention, who were inconsiderate, who were too fancy to mind you because they thought they were better than you were.

  As he drove, Paul felt a small pressure beginning to build in the pit of his stomach.

  Mrs. White shut the door behind her and she was in total darkness inside the barn. Her ears were highly attuned to noises outside, listening for the sound of Paul’s truck on the street. That was why she didn’t hear the faint rustling sound coming from somewhere close beside her.

  She was thinking that if Paul caught her, she would tell him that she was looking for a hammer because she had to fix something, she had to hang a picture. Paul would smile at that because she usually let him do all the work of that sort. She thought of him smiling, and again all her suspicions melted away. This entire project seemed suddenly ridiculous—and wrong.

  Mrs. White reached out and felt along the wall. She found the light switch and turned it on; a bare bulb hanging by a string from the ceiling lit the room.

  The faint rustling sound came again, and this time Mrs. White heard it and gasped. She glanced down just in time to see a chipmunk squeezing through a knot hole in the barn wall. She laid her hand on her breast, breathing heavily.

  She stood as if rooted to the spot. Against the far wall there was a workbench with a toolrack hanging above it. To her left was a jigsaw and a lathe; to her right was a buzz saw and two tall metal clothes lockers.

  Slowly, cautiously, her hand still pressed to her chest, Mrs. White stepped forward. Her eyes swept over each of the objects in the room as she moved steadily toward the lockers.

  As she slid forward, Mrs. White noticed how clean Paul kept his shop. It was just like him. He’d leave his clothes lying on the bedroom floor, but there was not even a trace of sawdust on the floor of the shop. The machinery was gleaming. The tools were all in their proper places.

  Paul caught sight of his cottage in the distance, and his thoughts drifted away. In another moment there was nothing left of them but that small nagging pressure in his stomach. And soon even that had receded into the back of his mind.

  He stepped on the gas and his house grew nearer. Another two, three minutes and the weekend would officially begin.

  Paul smiled. Then he started to whistle.

  Here I come, he thought happily. Daddy’s home.

  Just then Mrs. White’s arm brushed against the edge of one of the lockers.

  She spun around to it as if surprised to find it there. When she reached for the handle of the locker, she noticed her hand was shaking. She opened the door of the locker wide, and then stood peering into it, an expression of surprise coming over her face.

  It was empty except for a coat hook, and on the floor a large crumpled rag. Instinctively Mrs. White reached down and picked up the rag, intending to hang it on the coat hook.

  It was heavy, and when she lifted it she realized it was not a rag, but old white workman’s overalls, covered with brown stains. Paul must have been intending to use it as a rag, it was so filthy. Mrs. White thought that was a waste. He should have given it to her to clean, although old bloodstains are nearly impossible to get out.

  Her glance fell to the floor of the locker. A butcher knife, which had been hidden under the overalls, was visible there now. It, too, was darkly stained.

  Mrs. White’s lips parted slightly.

  “I …” she whispered.

  And then she knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Still grinning, Paul pulled the truck into the driveway. He parked it there and then sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He looked through the windshield at the little house before him. He had improved this place, practically rebuilt it. He shook his head with pride at the good job he had done for himself and for his family. If I do say so myself, he thought, and smiled wider.

  Grabbing his toolbox, Paul opened the truck door and lightly jumped to the ground. Then he closed it behind him. He walked jauntily up the front path to the house. He felt good. He felt good to be home. He felt like giving everybody a big hug.

  Inside he banged his toolbox down on the kitchen table, loudly enough for anyone in the house to hear.

  “Hey!” he said. “Hi!”

  No voice greeted his. There was no sound at all. Paul sighed. He strained to hear anything in the house and finally did: the fuzzy sound of a television.

  A fi
ne how-do-you-do, he thought, but still smiled. No one to greet old Dad.

  Slightly chagrined, Paul took the stairs, following the TV’s sound. When he reached the upstairs, he stood outside the den. Through its open door he saw the small shape of his daughter curled up like a cat on the floor before the TV. Letters of the alphabet were dancing on the flickering screen before her. Paul tiptoed in.

  Standing above the tiny girl, he waited for a welcome. But Mary just kept watching the tube, transfixed.

  “Hey,” he said. “Hi.”

  Mary looked up, peeved. “Shh.”

  Paul’s eyebrows rose. “‘Shh’?”

  Mary grew more plaintive. “Please, Daddy, I’m watching my program.”

  Paul could only smile and sigh more. Crouching down, he gently tugged Mary’s chin—which was already strong, like his own—toward him.

  “Just one kiss,” he said. “For Daddy.”

  Mary sighed and agreed. She pecked his cheek, then she turned back to the set.

  “Where’s Mom?” Paul said.

  Mary shrugged. Nodding, Paul stood.

  “A fine how-do-you-do,” he said quietly.

  From the den, he walked the short distance to Paul Jr.’s room. His door was closed. Paul rapped on it softly.

  “Who is it?” Paul Jr. asked sharply.

  “It’s your father, sport. Open up.”

  Groaning audibly, Paul Jr. roused himself. Then he let Paul in. It was clear from what was on the floor—baseball cards, carefully arranged—that Paul Jr. was playing a mock game of some sort with cards as the players.

  “What’s up?” Paul said.

  Paul Jr. shrugged. “Not much.”

  “No? Well … it’s the weekend, huh?”

  Paul Jr. shrugged again. “Yeah.”

  Paul sighed. “Where’s Mom?”

  Paul Jr. shrugged a final time.

  Paul gestured toward the cards. “Who’s winning?”

  “Yanks.”

  “What inning?”

  “Bottom of the sixth.”

  Paul nodded. “Okay. Well, see you later.”

  Paul Jr. nodded. Then, slowly, he shut the door after his father.

  His mood deflated, Paul walked slowly back down the stairs. He looked at the carefully crafted handrail. When I think of all the work I put into this house, he thought. A fine how-do-you-do.

  “Joan?”

  He could not imagine where she had gone. Not very far, anyway, he’d seen the car in the driveway. He still felt like giving her a hug. But where the hell was she?

  “Joanie?”

  Idly, Paul looked out the kitchen window. He saw no trace of her. But the lawn looked good, he thought. It had been well trimmed; he had done a good job. Maybe he would plant a few more bushes around, or some flowers. Joan would like that.

  Paul’s gaze went past the lawn, over the dirt of the driveway, to the barn. That could use a paint job, he thought.

  Paul shrugged. He was getting hungry now. He turned around and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door and rooted around inside, pulling a piece of white bread out from its wrapper. Then he unhooked a beer from a six-pack.

  He closed the refrigerator door and angled the bread down into his mouth. He peeled off the tab to the beer and, tipping back his head, he took a long drink.

  Then he heard a noise from somewhere outside—somewhere near the barn.

  The beer can came slowly down from Paul’s lips. He swallowed the mixture of liquid and wet bread. Then he waited. It had sounded like someone moving. Like a footstep on the gravel outside the barn.

  Paul stood motionless, the lines of his face growing taut. The lids of his eyes shut halfway. He stood, tensely, all his senses alert, like an animal.

  Then he heard it again.

  It was unmistakable this time, though softer. It sounded as if it were coming from farther away. Carefully, Paul put the beer and the piece of mangled bread down on the counter.

  His fist opened and closed, slowly, at his side. He nearly snarled. Every muscle in his big body tensed. Then, like a spring uncoiling, he leaped toward the sink and peered out the window at the barn.

  Nothing. There was no one there.

  Turning swiftly, in a voice harsher than usual, he called the children.

  “Mary! Paul Jr.! Come down here! On the double!”

  There was a long pause. Then, shuffling reluctantly, the two preoccupied children descended.

  Mary and Paul Jr. stood in the middle of the stairs, frowning at him. Paul studied them, his eyes wide, his stare cold.

  “Now, where’s Mom?” he asked sternly.

  The two simultaneously shrugged, but Paul cut them short with a curt wave of his hand.

  “Didn’t she say anything? Didn’t she say where she was going?”

  Timidly now, Paul Jr. shook his head. “She must be around.”

  Mary nodded. “She wouldn’t leave us alone.”

  Paul nodded very slowly. Then he turned back to the kitchen window overlooking the barn. He listened intently but heard nothing. Then, in a seething whisper, talking almost to himself, he said, “Well. Maybe I ought to go out and find Mommy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mrs. White stood in the barn, the butcher knife in one hand, the bloody overalls in the other. The first shock of realization passed through her like an electric current. It stiffened her body and, when it faded, it left her numb and dazed.

  She felt nothing—she felt everything at once. It was as if, with her home, her life, her sanctuary, tumbling around her, she turned her face away and would not watch them fall. There was some odd and distant sense in her that she had, somehow, always known; that it had been everywhere, in all her moments of happiness and the little chores and pains of everyday living. It had been there like an echo that one barely hears: the footsteps of a predator echoing her own.

  But this sense was overwhelmed, swallowed by a darkness of unfeeling. A blackness in which she could not, would not, see the truth. She tried to tell herself there was a killer, a vicious, ugly murderer living with her—but it would not hit home. At most, she could imagine, vaguely, that such a creature was living with both her and Paul: a stranger, an invader in their happy life, a killer living with them all with a face pasted together from pieces of all the movie villains she had ever seen. A stranger. Not Paul.

  Still, more than anything else, there was the blackness. The blackness through which the world collapsed while she stood frozen, knife and overalls in hand, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, knowing nothing.

  And then she heard Paul’s truck outside on the gravel of the drive. And she thought: Oh, there’s Paul. I have to tell him the terrible news. He’ll know what to do.

  Her eyes wide and blank, she turned and put the overalls and the knife back into the locker where she found them. She swung the locker door closed and turned to the front of the barn. To step outside. To tell Paul.

  Then, as if in memory, she heard the locker door bang shut. She stopped moving. She blinked. Numbly, she thought: Paul, Paul, Paul.

  But even now it was not a sense of danger that stopped her. Just a small voice, a cold voice from somewhere down deep and far away. She could not tell Paul, it said. Paul was the killer; Paul was the monster. Paul was the stranger. The words meant nothing to her. Not really. And yet she remained immobile as second after second passed.

  She heard a noise: a small, choked whimper. It was a moment before she realized it was coming from herself.

  What was she going to do? The question repeated itself in her mind so loudly that it blotted out any practical thoughts on how to save herself.

  What was she going to do? she wondered. And again, like the seductive whisper of a vampire the answer came: Ask Paul. He’ll know what to do.

  She looked around her at the barn workshop. His things—his tools, his materials—were everywhere. All the familiar signs of him surrounded her. Even his smell—that old, safe, familiar, manly smell—was in the air.

&n
bsp; It was only the barn, the workshop, the bear’s lair. She could not, would not, accept it as something different. Her emotions were a wall withstanding the insistent little voice that said: It’s all gone. It’s all different now. It’s a place where evil is. It is as evil as it is familiar and as terrible as it is real.

  Mrs. White’s lips moved, and she almost murmured aloud: It’s only the barn, the workshop. While the voice repeated: It’s the home of a murderer—and somehow, you’ve got to get out.

  The words echoed in her mind until, at last, she heard them. She had to get out. That was it. That was what she had to do. She had to get out and back to her house. Back to her children. She had to get out without the murderer seeing her; without Paul—without Paul seeing her.

  Outside, the truck door slammed and Mrs. White started and gasped. She heard Paul jump down onto the drive; she heard his footsteps. She was digging the fingernails of one hand into the palm of the other, but she did not feel the pain. She felt nothing. She only heard the footsteps and thought: They’re getting louder; he’s coming here. Paul.

  But he was not. The footsteps were moving toward the house. She could hear the screen door open. She heard the front door close.

  For the second time the sound of a door closing seemed to awaken her. Her thoughts, frozen in fear a moment before, now began racing.

  She had to get out without him seeing her. She had to get out and back to the house. Back to the children. But Paul was inside now, in the kitchen, and that meant he might see her, might see her through the window. Then he would know. Then he would know and he would—hurt her. Paul would. Paul would hurt her or—the children.

  She moved her clasped hands up and down her sides twice, as if to jar her mind, to get it moving. What would he do? What would Paul do? He would go inside and he would call to her. The children would come. They would come downstairs and he would say, “Where’s Mommy.” And the children would say: “Mommy’s in the barn.”

  She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. They hadn’t seen her. They didn’t know. They would tell him they didn’t know, and he would go upstairs to look for her. Or would he send Paul Jr. and wait, wait in the kitchen, looking out the window at the barn?