Mum's the Word by Dorothy Cannell

“You seemed a bit off colour back at the airport. Remember?”
    â€œYou’re right.” He slid my jacket off my shoulders, twirled it on one finger and sent it into a free spinning arc, to land on the petticoat shade of the bedside lamp. “Time for some physical therapy.”
    â€œLet’s not overdo things,” I warned. “Must have you in tip-top shape for the Mangés.”
    He was undoing the buttons of my blouse. “To hell with the Mangés.”
    Instantly the room darkened. There came a rasping soundas of the wind gathering for a storm. My eyes were closed and he was breathing hard.
    Sometimes I had trouble believing I was the woman who had been wearing a marked down sticker when Ben took her off the shelf and dusted her off. He was so incredible! Everything about him impeccably groomed, down to his long lashes. At that moment I would have promised him anything short of agreeing to name the baby Esau. Turning my head on the pillow I hoped my hair would spill about my shoulders in the manner of the heroine of
Love’s Last Lament
. But, true to form, the rubber band confining my torrid locks refused to snap. And my legs didn’t writhe between satin sheets because the Mulberry Inn didn’t go in for anything so vulgar. I had to make do with kicking off my shoes and rubbing a foot against Ben’s.
    The scent of cloves receded; the feather mattress embraced our bodies. For some weeks I had not been myself matrimonially speaking, but now the spice of his aftershave, the rasp of his manly chin, the lingering dexterity of his hands upon every button of my blouse brought back the sublime ecstasy of knowing I was loved for something other than my mind.
    My lips toyed with his.
    â€œYou drive me insane with desire,” he whispered.
    â€œLikewise,” I murmured.
    Yes, it was all very lovely, but afterward … well, I would have been failing as a tourist had I continued lying there, the holiday ticking away, while I gazed into his eyes.
    Semi-respectably dressed in my aqua and sea foam lace negligee (purchased as a last fling before giving myself over to maternity bras and smocks with bumble bees on the pockets), I suggested we get our first taste of American culture.
    â€œYou want to go out and tour the U.S.S.
Constitution
?”
    â€œNo.” I readjusted a loose end of the Laura Ashley sheet he wore with such fetching machismo. “I want to watch television.”
    â€œVery well, but remember you only get three wishes.” He waved his remote control wand. Amazing! The dry sink in the corner turned into a television set. The picture slid around as though greased. The words
Melancholy Mansion
had leaped upon the screen.
    â€œLooks like your cup of hemlock, Ellie.”
    â€œMy mother had a part in this film.”
    â€œYou never told me.” He touched my hair.
    â€œI’ve never seen it.” I pressed a hand over his mouth. “She gave me a choice of this or
Bambi
.”
    A surge of surflike music holding undercurrents of tidal terror. A swirl of mist, momentarily twitched away—in the manner of a magician’s hanky—to reveal a full moon, hovering above a house of finest Gothic Horror design, rising up out of a body of water—a river or perhaps a lake. A crashing of cymbals, the scarred front door lunges inward, and the viewer is swept into a wainscotted hall of magnificent gloom. All in glorious black and white.
    My breath caught when the imperious butler, complete with patent leather hair and penciled moustache, descended the stairs, a candle held aloft.
    â€œLadies and Gentlemen,” he intoned, his voice dripping with gore, “I regret to be the bearer of inclement tidings.” His lips crept into a travesty of a smile, emphasizing his unearthly pallor. “The master is dead of unnatural causes, and the will is as full of holes as cheese.”
    A shifty-eyed hush from the recipients of this