An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar Page B

into details,” she said flatly. “I was just about to make a generalization.”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œOh, I know you loathe generalizations, Ralph. You prefer intimate statistics like how many tons of mackerel were shipped last month from Newfoundland.”
    Turee’s smile was wan. “Let’s have the generalization.”
    â€œAll right. Some men just shouldn’t get married, they have nothing to give to a woman, not even the time of day. Oh, they can bring her an expensive diamond watch so she can tell the time of day for herself, but that’s not sharing anything.”
    She sat down on the leather hassock in front of the unlit fire as if the sudden release of emotions had exhausted her, like a blood-letting. “I wanted very much to come up here with Ron this week end. Not that I’m particularly keen on fishing or even outdoor life, but I thought it would be fun to do the cooking and eat in front of the fireplace and take walks in the woods with Ron and the two boys. I asked him if I could come along and he didn’t even take me seriously, the whole idea was so incredible to him.”
    She paused to take a long breath. “Why, the boys hardly know this place. They’ve only been here three times. Ron keeps making excuses—the boys might fall over the cliff, they might get bitten by a snake, they might drown, etcetera. But the real excuse he never mentions—the boys might in­terfere with him, they might want something from him that can’t be bought with money, they might demand two or three ounces of Ron’s very own self. They might even take a bite of his precious hide, not knowing, as I do, that it’s quite unpalatable and indigestible.”
    â€œEsther . . .”
    â€œThat’s all. I’ve finished.”
    â€œI don’t mean to shut you up.”
    â€œYou do, of course. But it’s nice of you, anyway, to say you don’t. I blab, don’t I? But not to everybody. I wouldn’t dream of saying any of these things to Billy Winslow or Joe Hepburn or even to Harry. They’re a pretty stupid lot.”
    Turee was inclined to agree but he didn’t care to encourage her in a new subject. He said, “You need some hot food and coffee, Esther. I’ll go and see how MacGregor is getting along.”
    MacGregor was getting along exactly as Turee had antici­pated. The bacon was already burned, the eggs were having convulsions in the skillet, and the odor of coffee was sharp as acid. MacGregor, wearing a chef’s apron over his grease-­stained overalls, was trying to sedate the eggs with liberal doses of salt and pepper.
    â€œI’ll take over,” Turee said.
    â€œWhat say, sir?”
    â€œI’ll carry on from here. You go and set the fire in the main room.”
    â€œThings got a mite burned,” MacGregor said with satisfac­tion, as he removed the apron and handed it to Turee. “It’s the will of the Lord.”
    â€œIt’s a funny thing that whenever the Lord picks some­thing to be burned He chooses you as His instrument.”
    â€œAye, sir, it’s peculiar.” He headed for the main room, whistling cheerfully through the gap between his two remain­ing front teeth. He had scored a victory, not just a personal victory, but one on behalf of all employees over all employers, and while Turee was not exactly an employer, still he was lined up on the same side. That was good enough. Let the bastard eat burned bacon. It was the will of the Lord.
    After breakfast they sat in front of the pine-wood fire MacGregor had built and drank the bitter coffee out of heavy stone-ware mugs. Food and warmth had improved the situa­tion. The pinched look around Esther’s mouth and nostrils disappeared, and the uneasy little animals that Turee had felt moving around in his stomach were temporarily placated.
    There was no sound at all from the upper rooms. Either Billy