you know Father. She’s a confirmed bachelor girl, and very independent.”
“Your father said she left home at fifteen. That means she’s been on her own for ten years or so.”
“Not exactly. She left
him
when she was fifteen, after—they had some trouble. Brand and I gave her a home until she finished high school. Then she found a job and went on her own. We tried to keep her with us, but she’s very independent-minded, as I said.”
“What kind of trouble did she have with your father? You said something about his corrupting her.”
“Did I? I didn’t mean to. He did a terrible thing to her. Don’t ask me what it was.” Emotion rose in her throat, thickening her voice and almost choking her, like blood from an internal hemorrhage. “Most of the men in this city are barbarians where women are concerned. It’s a wretched place for a girl to try and grow up. It’s like living among savages.”
“As bad as that?”
“Yes. As bad as that.” She cried out suddenly: “I hate this city. I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but I sometimeswish the earthquake had wiped it out entirely.”
“Because your sister had trouble with your father?”
“I’m not thinking of her,” she said, “or him.”
I glanced at her. She was sitting rigid in the seat, her eyes almost black in the white glimmer of her face. She roused herself and leaned to touch my arm:
“You turn off here to the left. I’m sorry. I’m afraid Father upset me more than I realized.”
The road spiraled off among low hills whose flanks were dotted with houses. It was a good residential suburb, where people turned their backs on small beginnings and looked to larger futures. Most of the houses were new, so new that they hadn’t been assimilated to the landscape, and very modern. They had flat jutting roofs, and walls of concrete and glass skeletonized by light.
I turned up a blacktop drive at her direction and stopped the car. The house was similar to the other houses, except that there were no lights behind the expansive windows. She sat motionless, looking out at the dark low building as if it was a dangerous maze that she had to find her way through.
“This is where you live?”
“Yes. This is where I live.” Her voice surrounded the words with tragic overtones. “I’m sorry. I keep saying that, don’t I? But I’m afraid to go in.”
“Afraid of what?”
“What are people afraid of? Death. Other people. The dark. I’m terrified of the dark. A doctor would call it nyctophobia, but knowing the name of it doesn’t seem to help.”
“I’ll go in with you if you like.”
“I would like. Very much.”
I gave her my arm as we mounted the flagstone path. She held it awkwardly, pulling away, as if it embarrassed her to lean on a man. But her hip and bosom bumped me inthe doorway. She took my hands in both of hers and drew me into the dark hall.
“Don’t leave me now.”
“I have to.”
“Please don’t leave me alone. I’m terribly afraid. Feel my heartbeat.”
She pressed my hand to her side, so hard that my fingertips sank through the soft flesh and felt the rib cage, hammered from within by fear or something wilder. Her voice was a whisper close to my ear, so close I could feel her breath:
“You see? I am afraid. I’ve had to spend so many nights alone.”
I kissed her lightly and disengaged myself. “You could always turn on the light.”
I fumbled along the wall for the switch.
“No.” She pushed my arm down. “I don’t want you to see my face. I’m crying, and I’m not pretty.”
“You’re pretty enough for all practical purposes.”
“No. Anne is the pretty one.”
“I wouldn’t know about Anne. I’ve never met her. Good night, Mrs. Church.”
She answered after a pause: “Good night. I won’t say I’m sorry again, but I lost my head for a minute. Brandon has to work late so often. I’ll be all right when he comes home. Thank you for driving me.”
“Don’t mention
“Your father said she left home at fifteen. That means she’s been on her own for ten years or so.”
“Not exactly. She left
him
when she was fifteen, after—they had some trouble. Brand and I gave her a home until she finished high school. Then she found a job and went on her own. We tried to keep her with us, but she’s very independent-minded, as I said.”
“What kind of trouble did she have with your father? You said something about his corrupting her.”
“Did I? I didn’t mean to. He did a terrible thing to her. Don’t ask me what it was.” Emotion rose in her throat, thickening her voice and almost choking her, like blood from an internal hemorrhage. “Most of the men in this city are barbarians where women are concerned. It’s a wretched place for a girl to try and grow up. It’s like living among savages.”
“As bad as that?”
“Yes. As bad as that.” She cried out suddenly: “I hate this city. I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but I sometimeswish the earthquake had wiped it out entirely.”
“Because your sister had trouble with your father?”
“I’m not thinking of her,” she said, “or him.”
I glanced at her. She was sitting rigid in the seat, her eyes almost black in the white glimmer of her face. She roused herself and leaned to touch my arm:
“You turn off here to the left. I’m sorry. I’m afraid Father upset me more than I realized.”
The road spiraled off among low hills whose flanks were dotted with houses. It was a good residential suburb, where people turned their backs on small beginnings and looked to larger futures. Most of the houses were new, so new that they hadn’t been assimilated to the landscape, and very modern. They had flat jutting roofs, and walls of concrete and glass skeletonized by light.
I turned up a blacktop drive at her direction and stopped the car. The house was similar to the other houses, except that there were no lights behind the expansive windows. She sat motionless, looking out at the dark low building as if it was a dangerous maze that she had to find her way through.
“This is where you live?”
“Yes. This is where I live.” Her voice surrounded the words with tragic overtones. “I’m sorry. I keep saying that, don’t I? But I’m afraid to go in.”
“Afraid of what?”
“What are people afraid of? Death. Other people. The dark. I’m terrified of the dark. A doctor would call it nyctophobia, but knowing the name of it doesn’t seem to help.”
“I’ll go in with you if you like.”
“I would like. Very much.”
I gave her my arm as we mounted the flagstone path. She held it awkwardly, pulling away, as if it embarrassed her to lean on a man. But her hip and bosom bumped me inthe doorway. She took my hands in both of hers and drew me into the dark hall.
“Don’t leave me now.”
“I have to.”
“Please don’t leave me alone. I’m terribly afraid. Feel my heartbeat.”
She pressed my hand to her side, so hard that my fingertips sank through the soft flesh and felt the rib cage, hammered from within by fear or something wilder. Her voice was a whisper close to my ear, so close I could feel her breath:
“You see? I am afraid. I’ve had to spend so many nights alone.”
I kissed her lightly and disengaged myself. “You could always turn on the light.”
I fumbled along the wall for the switch.
“No.” She pushed my arm down. “I don’t want you to see my face. I’m crying, and I’m not pretty.”
“You’re pretty enough for all practical purposes.”
“No. Anne is the pretty one.”
“I wouldn’t know about Anne. I’ve never met her. Good night, Mrs. Church.”
She answered after a pause: “Good night. I won’t say I’m sorry again, but I lost my head for a minute. Brandon has to work late so often. I’ll be all right when he comes home. Thank you for driving me.”
“Don’t mention
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