That made me feel nervous again; I could not tell exactly why. I tried to overcome it by not looking in his direction again, not even a glance, but pretending (mostly to myself) that I did not know he was there. I concentrated on the tows, and watched the spreader and the grey fertilizer sifting down from the hopper on to the soil. When I turned off the tractor at noon and walked up to the house he had gone in again. I did not see him go so I could not tell when.
Lunch was about as usual, and then I went out again. In the late afternoon I fertilized the vegetable garden, this time using manure. I hauled it in the old wooden hand-cart, some from the pile outside the barn, some from the henhouse. I used manure not because of anything Mr Loomis had said but because we always did; it makes the garden grow better than the chemical fertilizer. We used a mix of three parts cow to one part chicken, the chicken being much stronger.
All in all a fairly routine day until dinner time, and even what happened then was not really startling.
It was six-thirty, I was in the kitchen, and had almost finished cooking; in fact I was putting knives and forks on the tray when I heard the sound of his cane and the thump of his footsteps (somewhat brisker than before) coming out of the bedroom. I thought he must be going to the porch; I listened, standing quiet, and instead heard him turn in the opposite direction—towards the back of the house, towards me. I thought: was he coming to the kitchen? I heard a chair scrape, a thump, and when I looked out he had seated himself at the dining room table. He saw me in the doorway.
“I don’t need to eat in bed any more,” he said. “I am still weak, but not sick.”
I put away the tray and set the table instead. We ate together, he at one end of the table, I at the other. He even tried to create conversation.
“I saw you driving the tractor. I was on the porch.”
I said: “Oh?”
“Was it hot in the sun?”
“A little. Not very.”
“Some tractors have sunshades for the driver.”
“You can buy them. My father never did. He liked to work in the sun. When it got too strong he wore a straw hat.”
There was a pause; we ate in silence. Then he said:
“I thought the corn looked good.” He was paying me a compliment.
I said: “It’s okay. So are the beans.”
“And the vegetable garden.”
We were, in fact, eating spinach from the garden for dinner, and in a few more days would have peas.
He kept this up, a sort of inconsequential chatter, and I joined in as well as I could. I even told him about the eight new chickens. And I did feel a little more relaxed as a result, which I suppose was what he intended.
After dinner I washed the dishes as usual, and swept the floor. I was yawning, feeling quite tired, having worked hard all day and scarcely slept the night before. When I came out of the kitchen I saw that he had not gone back to the bedroom; he had decided that he was no longer sick, so he had sat in a chair in the living room, the big chair my father used to sit in in the evenings. He had even lighted two lamps, though it was not really dark out, but still dusk.
He said: “Do you remember when I was sick—something you did?”
I was immediately alarmed, thinking he was coming back to the hand-holding.
“What do you mean?”
“You read to me. At least once, for quite a long time.”
I was relieved. I did not mind discussing reading. “I remember.”
“Could you do it again?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes.”
“Read what?” I was not very eager to do it, only partly because I was tired. It seemed strange and unnatural. I thought, why should he want me to read to him when he knew how to read himself? Still, I knew of families who did read to one another as a regular pastime; perhaps it was not so strange.
“Whatever you like,” he said. “Maybe what you read before?”
“That was poetry.”
“I don’t mind. I’d like to hear it. Or anything else you want to read.”
I did not want to read anything, but the fact is I did not know how to refuse, which I suppose he knew.
So I ended up reading to him for more than an hour. I read Gray’s “Elegy” again, and when I finished that he asked me not to stop, so I read the beginning of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. (I could almost have recited that by heart.)
As I said, it was not such a startling thing, but one part of it bothered me, and also puzzled me. After the first half hour or so I realized that he was not listening at all. I discovered this while reading Jane Austen. I was so tired by that time that I accidentally turned two pages at once, skipping from page seventeen to page twenty. I read on for half a page before I realized that I had left out the whole episode telling about Mr Bonaventure and his money, so that what I was reading made no sense. I started to explain and go back to page eighteen when it came to me that he had not even noticed. So I just read on.
But why should he ask me to read to him if he did not want to listen?
The more I thought about it the more the feeling grew in me that it was wrong; it was as if he were playing some kind of a trick on me. And that idea made me feel more nervous than ever—in fact, afraid. Then I got quite angry with myself for feeling that way. I told myself I was making up problems. There was no reason to believe that he did not really want to be read to, even though he did not pay close attention. The sound of a voice can be soothing; he had been mortally ill, and perhaps was still restless; surely he must be bored all through the day. I reminded myself that that, at least, was sure to get better as he was able to walk farther and do more. Meanwhile if I could help him I should.
Chapter Eighteen
Still June 3oth
That was my self-lecture, but it did not work perfectly. I continued to feel uneasy; in fact the next night was slightly worse. He asked me to play the piano.
Again he was sitting in the living-room in my father’s chair, with two lamps lit. Playing the piano should have been, in a way, better than reading, since I was reasonably sure that he would at least listen—I knew he had liked it before. The difficulties were mechanical and (again) probably not really important. First, I was tired, and piano playing is harder than reading. Second, I had to sit with my back to him, and I felt unreasonably wary about that.
Did I expect that he would come creeping up on me from behind? I did not really think he would, and yet as I played the first piece, a Clementi Sonatina, I had a terrible urge to look over my shoulder, and I kept trying to play softly so I could hear if he moved. As a result I played very badly, hitting more wrong notes than right ones. I resolved to do better on the next one, so I picked a very slow and easy Andante by Heller (from the “Easy Pieces”), one I knew almost from memory, and I concentrated on it. It was quite long; I did the repeats, and it was going well—when all at once I heard his cane tapping behind me. It tapped twice, clearly and sharply, and I could not control myself. I whirled around on the bench. He was still sitting in the chair. He had not moved at all.
He said: “Is something wrong?”
“Your cane,” I said. “It startled me. I thought—" I stopped, not wanting to say what I had thought.
“My cane slipped,” he said, “but I caught it.”
I turned and tried to play again, but by now my hands were shaking so badly I could not really do it. His cane did not look as if it had slipped. It was hooked over the arm of his chair and his hand was resting on it. I was really nervous. I tried a hymn, but half way through it I had to stop. I turned around again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t play any more. I think I’m just too tired.”
“Tired so soon?” he said.
“I’ve been working all day,” I said. “I suppose that’s why.” Of course that was not why at all, and I was pretty sure he knew it. I thought he had tapped the cane purposely, just to see what I would do. I do not know what he expected. I even thought: mayb
e he is trying to frighten me. But why should he? That was making up trouble again.
He said: “There is too much work. But quite soon now I will be able to do some of it. Then you must show me how to operate the tractor.”
But when I went to bed, even that thought kept me from sleeping. It was ironic; as a child, and even right up to the time Mr Loomis had come, I hadn’t particularly liked working in the fields. I preferred to cook, or feed the animals. Yet in the last few days the times I felt best were when I was out alone, working in the garden or running the tractor.
The next night he did not ask me either to read or play the piano. I was a little surprised, since I had got the dinner a bit earlier than usual, but I decided it must be because the night before, I had said I was tired. In fact, after dinner he did not sit in my father’s chair at all but disappeared into his room. So, since it was still light after I had cleaned up the kitchen, and the evening was pleasant, I went with Faro for a walk. There was no breath of wind; everything was quiet; it was the time of the long twilight that valleys have while the sun is still setting outside. We walked slowly down the road to the church, and I felt glad and almost peaceful again at being away from the house. Faro seemed to feel the same way—at least he did not scurry around and sniff, but just plodded along quietly, his toenails clicking on the tarmac. When we reached the church I did not go in, but sat on the edge of the small white porch outside the front door; Faro lay on the step and rested his chin on my feet as he sometimes does. Up above in the belfry I could hear the two crows in their nest clucking themselves down for the night, sounding like chickens; I could also hear the higher twittering of at least two or three babies, one of which I had found behind the altar.
When they had quietened down and the air was turning grey I stood up and started back to the house. At this time of evening at this season, in the old days, the whippoorwills would have flown in from the south and we could hear them singing in the pine trees, sometimes so loudly they kept us awake. But now all I heard was a beetle buzzing past; up the hillside I saw a few fireflies blinking, the first I had seen this year. I was glad there were some of them left, at least.
About half way back the house came into view, rather vague in the dim light. I was level with the pond and was just looking to see if there were any fish-ripples on the surface when a movement straight ahead caught my eye. I stopped and looked harder. It was Mr Loomis walking from the house to the wagon; it reminded me of the time before, when he was so sick and had fired the gun. But he walked more purposefully this time, and so far as I could see he was not even using the cane.
I could not see exactly what he was doing because of the faint light—also some bushes were partly in the way. But he walked slowly around the wagon, bent over it a couple of times as if looking at something, and then stood up straight and stared down the road. I did not think he could see me, since I had stepped some way off the road to look at the pond; Faro was sitting still in the high grass. After about two minutes (I stayed still) he turned and walked back to the house, mounting the porch steps carefully, holding on to the rail. I suppose he had been checking on the safe-suit. He definitely did not have the cane.
I waited until he had gone back into the house and the door closed behind him; I started to walk back and then, for some reason, did not want to quite yet, so I sat down on a hummock beside the road and watched the fireflies some more. Finally, after about half an hour, when it was fully dark, I went back. The house was unlighted. I went directly up to my bedroom and sat on the bed. Faro came in with me, lay down, and went to sleep immediately.
I lit a candle, set and wound the clock, and sat for a few minutes thinking what I must do tomorrow. I felt sleepy after my walk but uneasy. I kicked off my shoes but decided not to undress, at least for a while.
The next thing I knew I woke up in pitch darkness; the candle had burned out, and Faro was growling. The growl changed to a short yip of surprise; his feet scuffled on the floor and he ran out. I wondered what had startled him and then, in the next second I knew. Mr Loomis was in the room.
I could not see anything at all, but I could hear his breathing. I knew in the same second that he could hear mine. I started to hold my breath but that was foolish—he knew I was there. So I tried to breathe normally; I tried not to tremble, thinking, perhaps he would think I was still asleep; perhaps he would go away. He moved, very slowly and quietly—he did think I was still asleep. But I was never more wide awake.
He crept forward until he was just beside me, just where Faro had been. I felt his hand, groping, touch the edge of the bed. Then, suddenly, both his hands were over me, not roughly, but in a dreadful, possessive way that I had never felt or imagined. His breathing grew faster and louder. He was not going to go away. I could sense that, and I knew what he was planning to do as clearly as if he had told me. One hand moved upward, brushed my face, and then came down hard on my shoulder to pin me to the bed. At that instant pretence ended. I whirled to one side, sprang to the floor, and made a dive for the door. In the same second his whole weight landed on the bed where I had just been.
But I had tripped over his leg in my dive and before I could get my balance his hand, grabbing blindly, had caught my ankle. His grip was fiercely strong; he was pulling me back and my hands, grasping for something to hold, slid backwards over the smooth floor. His other hand groped forward and caught the back of my shirt. I pulled forward again, heard the shirt rip and felt his fingernails tearing the skin of my back. I hit back with my elbow as hard as I could.
By good luck I think I hit him in the throat. He gave a gasp, and his loud breathing stopped momentarily. So did his grip on my ankle and my shirt, and in a burst I was out of the door and running, my shirt rent down my back.
Chapter Nineteen
June 30th (continued)
I did not sleep any more that night. After I got out of the house I ran, not thinking where I went, not caring, except just to get away as fast as I could. As it happened I ran down the road towards the store and church; I did not hear any sound of his following me but I could not be sure, because my ears were pounding with my own heartbeats. I have never been so afraid. I ran at top speed for, I think, a minute or more. Then I slowed down enough to look over my shoulder. Although there was no moon that night it was clear, the sky was bright and I could see the road plainly. There was no sign of him. I slowed to a dog-trot, breathing so hard I was dizzy. I passed the pond, and when I reached the store I stopped, got partly behind it, and sat down where I could still watch the road.
I did not think he could run, but I did not trust that idea—I had also not thought he could walk without the cane.
And there I sat for an hour or more, not thinking much, but first getting my breath, trying to stop shaking. Faro was nowhere to be seen, and I knew where he was. He had hidden under the porch. He always did that. When there was any friction between people—if my father or mother had to scold Joseph or David or me for instance—he would sense it and crawl under there. He had heard the struggle, of course. If he had not, if he had not been there in the room to wake me up in time, I do not know how it would have ended.
After a while I felt thirsty and very cold; a small, chill wind had blown up, and I thought of the blankets that were still in the cave. I could pull one on over my torn shirt; I could sit at the entrance and keep watch. At that point my brain began working again, at least a little, and I remembered that I had no shoes and no other shirt at the cave—I had taken my clothes back to the house—so while I was at the store I had better get new ones. It came to me then that I might never go back to the house again, not as long as he was there.
It was coal black inside the store, but I knew the shelf where Mr Klein kept the matches, and also where he kept the candles. I groped my way around and got a candle lit. In the clothing section of the store—it is on the rear right as you come in—I picked out a pair of sneakers my size and two shirts, one cotton, one flannel, by candlelight. I put on the shoes and fl
annel shirt (being so cold) and was just buttoning it when I heard a thud up near the front of the store. I jumped so hard I knocked the candle over and it went out.
I should not have been so frightened, I know. But I was. I started shaking again, and just stood there in the dark, listening. There was no other sound. Then I thought: the door! That was what had happened. I had left the door in the front of the store open about six inches, and the wind had blown it shut. I re-lit the candle, my hands shaking so I could hardly strike the match, and went to the front. It was the door—that was all. Still I wanted to get out of there. I was not used to being such a coward.
In the relative lightness outside I felt better, and walked, carrying my extra shirt (and the candle, which I blew out and put in my pocket) to the pond. There, where the brook flows in, I drank and rested. Except for the water and the blinking of the stars there was no movement anywhere. Yet I felt in danger.
I walked on. In the cave—I had not been there for weeks—all was as I had left it. I lit a lamp, put a blanket around my shoulders and sat in the entrance, in my usual place, where I could lean back against the rock wall and look down on the house. In the dark it was visible only as part of a blur that formed the garden, the trees, and the bushes. There was no light in any window that I could see.
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