Mrs. White

by Margaret Tracy

  No, he would go himself. He would think she was sleeping and he wouldn’t want Junior to wake her up. That’s what Paul would do, that’s what her husband would do, because he was so considerate, so nice about the little things.

  “Oh, God,” Mrs. White said aloud, and her voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

  Now he would be talking to the children, she thought. Now he would be thinking. Now he would be going upstairs. I have to do it now.

  For a long, long second, it seemed as if she could not command her body into motion. It seemed as if the distance between her and the barn doors was just too terribly far for her to cross. She felt like a person in a dream, trying to move, to run from danger, and unable to make the effort.

  And then she was walking forward slowly, step by step, on stiff, nerveless legs.

  She braced herself against the barn door. Suddenly she remembered that the front latch would be open. Would he know? Would he notice? No, she thought, he would have come in by now if he had. And he didn’t come in. He had gone upstairs to see if she was sleeping. That’s what he’d done. Oh, dear sweet God, she thought. Let him have done that.

  With one hysterical movement she pushed open the door, stepped out onto the driveway, and closed and locked the door behind her. Her footsteps on the gravel sounded like thunder to her.

  Rigid with fear, the frumpy little housewife swiveled toward the house, ready to run at the door.

  Then something caught her eye in the kitchen window. Something moving.

  She bolted and ran clumsily. But not for the house—she ran back around the barn, almost hurtling herself behind it. She clung to the barn’s back wall, panting, as if she were playing hide-and-seek with Mary.

  Hide-and-seek, she thought. Hide. And seek.

  Slowly, she brought her panicked breathing under control. She gingerly let go her hold on the barn wall, as if she were afraid it would collapse on top of her. She brought her head around and peeked cautiously past the edge of the barn.

  The moment she saw the house she felt foolish. There she was, playing hide-and-seek, peeking around corners like a spy in a bad movie, and what was she looking at? Her own house, her own little cottage, her own lawn, her own driveway. The same old place in the evening sunlight she had lived in for so many years. This was her territory, her place, the place where she was safe. It would not be more than thirty steps from where she was to the door of the house. Thirty steps over ground that knew her steps better than anyone else’s. Thirty steps she’d taken maybe a thousand times, thirty thousand times.

  Thirty steps.

  How would she ever make it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  She saw it again: a movement at the kitchen window. Her thoughts cut off in midstream, she ducked back behind the barn.

  He was in there. He was looking for her. And yet, even this could not flesh out her sense of her own danger. It was still a cold fact, and that was enough to terrify her. But she couldn’t help thinking: well, of course he’s in there. Of course he’s looking for me. He’s my husband. And once again she felt a fool, hiding behind the barn. A grown woman, playing hide-and-seek.

  Seek, she thought. Will he come for me? Will he come looking for me? Is that what Paul will do? Of course it is. I have to move. I have to do something.

  She threw a frantic glance to every side, but little registered in her mind. She knew there was no chance of getting to the front door with Paul in the kitchen. But if she could get away, get out to the road, or down into the woods, maybe she could pretend she’d been taking a walk.

  The woods were down across the lawn to her right. If she ran, she might make it before Paul saw her. Unless, that is, he came outside to search for her. Then he would have a clear view of the lawn.

  She looked to her left. There was the road, just at the end of the driveway. But there were no trees protecting it from the house.

  She heard herself whimper again. The house, she thought. My home. I want to be inside my home, where it’s safe.

  And, still not understanding, unable to comprehend, she thought, But it isn’t safe anymore. It isn’t safe. Paul’s there. My husband is there. My home isn’t safe anymore.

  She let go of the barn and dashed wildly up the driveway toward the road.

  And yet, again, as if she were in a dream, the distance—no more than fifteen yards—seemed to take forever to cross. She was moving in slow motion, and every sound that was not hers had fallen silent. It seemed as if, as she ran, all of nature fell into a hush and pointed at her, screaming out of its very silence: there she is, Paul, there she is.

  She extended her leg as she ran—it seemed to stretch out before her slowly, slowly. Her foot fell onto the driveway. The crunch of gravel seemed to shout at the sky, to reverberate off the trees. Another step—it was like moving through water. A hundred years had passed and she was still two steps away from the place where the side of the house would obscure her movement.

  Then, into that silent and slow motion world, there came another sound. It was the sound of the house door opening. It seemed very loud to her, and at the same time it seemed to do nothing but magnify the horrible noise of her own foot coming down—ever so slowly—onto the gravel with a shattering bang.

  The screen door was opening. She was just a half step away from the side of the house. But already another step was on the gravel outside the house—or was it her own step, echoing and echoing over the whole world.

  She turned her head as she ran and saw—or thought she saw—a portion of a man’s body coming out onto the driveway.

  Then she was behind the house. Everything around her broke into its normal speed. She dashed over the last few steps of the driveway out onto the street.

  She did not stop. She turned and ran around to the front of the house. From there, she would be able to walk to the driveway and down it, to say she had just been talking a walk.

  She paused there to listen, her breathing loud and heavy. She could not be sure if there were more steps sounding in the driveway or not.

  Mrs. White stood still, trying to catch her breath. She attuned her ears to every little noise, hoping to catch a hint of where Paul was, trying desperately and senselessly to think of what to do next.

  She thought she heard—for a moment she was sure of it, and in the next moment she was again unsure—the sound of the latch on the barn door being swung back.

  She tried to remember: how had she left the room. Had she put the overalls back where she’d found them? Had she replaced the knife? Would he notice that they’d been moved?

  She glanced up and down the street. It was empty. She saw nothing but trees. There was no one to help her, no one to keep him away.

  For a second she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what Paul was doing. He would go inside the barn. He would go to the locker … no, first he would turn on …

  The light! She had forgotten to turn off the light!

  Her hand flew up over her mouth, her other hand stretched out in the direction of the barn.

  Oh, Paul, she thought. Oh, Paul, come home, you have to help me figure this out; you have to tell me what to do.

  She whimpered again. She choked back a sob.

  And then he grabbed her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Mrs. White’s scream died in her throat as, whipping around, she discovered that the hand that had taken hold of her belonged to Jonathan Cornell.

  She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Then she looked up into the kindly, befuddled eyes of her landlord.

  Cornell’s grip relaxed. His hand fell away. He was apologizing for having startled her. He was smiling and speaking. But Mrs. White could hardly make out what he said.

  He seemed to her to be speaking about cats. She shook her head as if deaf. He went on and on and Mrs. White started to tremble with impatience. She was in danger. She had to get out. She couldn’t stand here and listen to this.

  It did not occur to her to appeal to Corn
ell for help. It was the furthest thing from her mind. Her whole world, her whole disordered world had reduced itself to a series of desperately simple questions: How could she get inside without Paul questioning her? What could she tell him? How could she get back into her own house? And as often as she tried to tell herself that things were different now, all she wanted—it seemed all she would ever want—was to be in her home again.

  “… would you, Mrs. White?” Cornell said.

  Mrs. White opened her mouth to answer. Her eyes were wild with fear and fury. But then she stopped. She closed her mouth again. Slowly, she smiled.

  In Cornell’s bland, familiar face she suddenly saw something other than an obstacle. She saw salvation.

  Where had she been? That’s what Paul would ask her. And here was her answer: She was with Cornell. She was speaking with Cornell. That’s where she had been.

  “Y-yes,” she said, finding her voice. “I mean, I’m sorry, Mr. Cornell, Jonathan, I … what was it you were saying?”

  Cornell smiled unsurely and began again. He thought Mrs. White was acting strangely, and she looked terrible to boot, pale and shaking. He thought about her unfaithful husband and he nearly sighed. She sure was taking it hard.

  “It’s not anything important,” he said pleasantly. “It’s just … I wondered if you could do me a favor.”

  Mrs. White nodded too vigorously—anything for her friend, her alibi. “Of course,” she said. “Anything.”

  Mrs. White’s stare made Cornell blush. He studied the pavement. “I’m going away for the weekend,” he said. “And I was just wondering if you could come up once, on Saturday and Sunday, and refill their bowls for me.”

  Mrs. White was silent for a very long time. “Your cats,” she murmured then.

  “Yes. Picasso and Munch. They’re really no trouble. You probably won’t even see them.” That stare of hers was still eating into him. “The food is right on the kitchen counter.”

  Again Mrs. White maintained a seemingly endless silence. “Cats,” she said finally, “of—of course. Why, I love cats. I used to have one when I was little.”

  “Did you? Well, that’s nice.”

  There was another pause in which Mrs. White seemed to consider. But she gave no firm reply. Instead, as she began to speak again, she began also to move, slowly, steadily, down the road toward her driveway.

  “You know, speaking of cats,” she said, “that, uh, reminds me …”

  Just come with me, she was thinking desperately. Just follow me. Let Paul see us together. Let him know that’s where I am. That’s right. Come with me.

  Helplessly, Cornell was following her. Mrs. White kept walking to her driveway, down her driveway, toward her house. She kept talking, almost idly, her hands moving expressively now, as if she were a hypnotist coaxing him along.

  What is with her? Cornell thought. Poor woman.

  “… little Mary, you see, has … has always wanted a dog. A dog, yes,” Mrs. White was saying. “But she—she couldn’t have one.”

  “No?”

  “No. Well, because, of course, you prohibit pets on your property.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, it’s … it’s in the lease.” How, she wondered, had she remembered that?

  They were passing the side of the house now, coming around the corner of it. The door was not far, the kitchen window was almost in sight.

  “Well, I was just wondering whether you’d make an exception … an exception this time and … well, let her have a dog. It wouldn’t be a big dog, it …”

  “Oh, listen, sure,” said Cornell. “That, in the lease, that’s just a standard lease. I bought it at a drugstore. I’ve never even read it. Dogs are nice.”

  “It would just be a little thing,” Mrs. White stumbled on. “A poodle or one of those little York, those, what do you call them?”

  “Yorkshire. Well, that’s fine. Listen, I have to get on my—”

  “That’s right, Yorkshire. I always see old ladies with two of them. They yap—the dogs.”

  They were in front of the kitchen window now and Mrs. White was making wide gestures, animated expressions, like an actor in a silent film. Cornell almost laughed.

  “Well, this wouldn’t be one of those dogs, because I think they’re silly,” she said. “It would be a small one and no trouble though.”

  “That’s fine, really—”

  “Would that be a possibility? She’s just a little girl, and this would mean so much.”

  “Really, it’s fine. Oh, about the cats …”

  They were just in front of the door now. Mrs. White, to Cornell’s relief, came to a stop. She went on speaking though, loudly, almost insistently.

  “She’s just a little girl, like I said, but Paul Jr., he—he might like …”

  The door opened. Paul White stepped out. Bowing under the frame, he looked large and strong. He waved to Cornell with his left hand, a beer can in his right.

  “Hi, Jon,” he said. “There you are, Joan. I was looking for you.”

  Cornell gazed at his tenant. So here’s the great American playboy, he thought. Denim shirt, beer can, beer belly. The very image of romance.

  Mrs. White turned to her husband, smiling at him a bit too broadly. Then she said very quickly: “Well, I’ll be up tomorrow then to take care of the cats. Just leave the door open.”

  Cornell blinked, surprised. “Okay,” he said. “Great.”

  Mrs. White nodded once, then she and her husband disappeared back into the cottage.

  Walking up the hill to his house, Cornell considered the honorable estate of marriage. He thought about the old saying: Never interfere in a friend’s marriage—in the morning, the marriage is intact, and the friendship is over. All the same, he did feel sorry for Mrs. White. There was, sometimes, something comical about her normalcy, her frumpiness. But her devotion and, now, her suffering—these weren’t funny at all.

  Through the kitchen window Mrs. White watched Cornell walk away. She felt Paul standing close behind her; she felt him hovering over her shoulder. She was inside again. The door was shut. And Cornell was walking away.

  Now, now that she had obtained her objective, now that she was back inside, she found herself suddenly wondering: Why hadn’t she said something to Cornell? Why hadn’t she asked him for help?

  Mrs. White heard her husband’s soft, steady breathing as she glanced at the flowered wallpaper, the samplers on the kitchen wall.

  And she understood. She had not asked Cornell for help because it simply had not occurred to her.

  As Cornell’s shambling figure disappeared around the corner, she realized that she did not fully believe what she had discovered in the barn and that, above all, it went against all her instincts to ask another man to stand with her against Paul, against her own husband.

  Paul reached out from behind her. He put his big hands lightly on her shoulders and, gently, he pulled her back into a firm embrace. His lips were at her ear, his breath seemed to run through her.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “What’s for dinner?” Paul said.

  Mrs. White turned to face him. She half expected to see something grotesque standing there where her husband was, something inhuman. How could everything remain the same, now that she knew.

  But there was nothing grotesque there. It was just Paul, her husband, Paul, holding her by the shoulders, tired and hungry after a hard day’s work.

  Mrs. White felt something inside her relax as she looked up at the man to whom she’d been married for twenty years. Outside, in the barn, it had seemed so clear to her. But now, here he was, everything was just the same as usual.

  “Dinner?” she said.

  “Yeah.” Paul scratched his nose. “You remember dinner. It’s what you feed your husband and kids at the end of the day.”

  Mrs. White watched Paul scratch his nose. His hand was big and strong. She had always liked that. She saw it
now holding the butcher knife that was in the locker. She could not forget that—the butcher knife was right there in the locker. And sometimes her husband held it in his hand, and sometimes he did things with it.…

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I was … I was talking. I was talking to Jon, the landlord.”

  “Yeah, I saw.” Paul turned away and reached for his beer. He continued lightly: “Now I know what goes on around here when I’m at work, huh? Now I know.”

  Mrs. White’s eyes widened slightly. Did he? Did he know? Had he gone into the barn? Had she forgotten to turn out the light? Had he noticed?

  “I’ll start making it right away,” she said. “We’re having steak.”

  “Oh, great. My favorite. What’d you do, hock the kids?”

  “Yes—no,” said Mrs. White. And then taking a deep breath: “Don’t be silly.”

  She began to move about, collecting the plates and knives and forks she would need to set the table. There was peace in motion. It made her feel that everything was all right, everything was as it should be. There were the spices, there was the refrigerator, there the sink and the stove, everything where it should be, where it always was.

  Paul took his beer to the kitchen table and sat, letting out a long breath.

  “Boy, this has been a week,” he said. “This has really been a week.”

  There’s the meat and the frozen vegetables, thought Mrs. White. And there’s Paul, there’s my husband, the man who does things with a butcher knife to women. All those women, thought Mrs. White. All those poor women.

  “You know, I was thinking,” said Paul, “this has been such a tough week, I thought maybe we could take it easy this weekend. Get out a little.”

  “All right,” Mrs. White whispered. “That would be fine.” She moved from oven to stove, from counter to refrigerator. She could not keep still.

  “Maybe Paul Jr. and me could have some time together,” said Paul. “I mean, not to be corny or anything, but it’s that age and all when a kid oughta have some time with his old Dad.”