Driving Blind

At the door, Henry turned and peered into Steve Ralph’s face.

“Dear me, dear me, are those tears?”

“I think so, Henry.”

“Well now, that’s more like it. Not Evelyn’s of course, and you’re not heaving great sobs. But it’ll do. Much thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Henry.”

“Well.” Henry opened the door. “See you around.”

“Not too soon, Henry.”

“Eh? No, of course not. No hurry. Good-bye, friend.”

“Oh, good-bye, Henry.” Yet another mysterious gulp arose in the younger man’s throat.

“Yes, yes.” Henry smiled. “Keep that up until I’m down the hall. Well, as Groucho Marx said—”

And he was gone. The door shut.

Turning, slowly, Steve Ralphs walked to the telephone, sat down, and dialed.

After a moment the receiver on the other end clicked and a voice spoke.

Steve Ralphs wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and at last said:

“Evelyn?”

House Divided

Small fifteen-year-old fingers plucked at the buttons on Chris’ trousers like a moth drawn to a flame. He heard whispered words in the dark room that meant nothing, and could not be remembered a moment after they were spoken.

Vivian’s lips were so fresh that it was unbelievable. Chris had the feeling that this was a dream. This was a pantomime carried out in the dark, which he could not see. Vivian herself had switched out every light. It had started as every evening like it had started. With Chris and his brother Leo climbing upstairs with Vivian and Shirley, their girl cousins. The girls were both blonde and smiling. Leo was sixteen and clumsy. Chris was twelve and knew nothing of such moths darting in the warm pantomime, or that there was a light shining in him he had never known about, that some girl might want. Shirley was ten, going on eleven, but very curious. Vivian was the ringleader; she was fifteen and beginning to see the world’s people.

Chris and Leo had arrived in the family car, acting properly grave, since it was such a grave situation. They walked silently behind Mother and Dad into the Johnsons’ house on Buttrick Street, where all the other relatives were gathered in a hushed spell of waiting. Uncle Inar sat by the phone, looking at it, his big hands twitching all by themselves, uneasy animals in his lap.

It was like walking into the hospital itself. Uncle Lester was very badly off. They were waiting for news now from the hospital. Lester had been shot in the stomach on a hunting trip and had lingered half-alive for three days now. So they had come tonight to be together, just in case they received the news of their Uncle Lester’s passing. All three sisters and Lester’s two brothers were there, with their wives and husbands and children.

After a proper interval of hushed speaking, Vivian had very carefully suggested, “Mama, we’ll go upstairs and tell ghost stories, so you grown-ups can talk.”

“Ghost stories,” said Uncle Inar vaguely. “What a thing to tell tonight. Ghost stories.”

Vivian’s mama agreed. “You can go upstairs if you’re quiet. We don’t want any racket.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Chris and Leo.

They left the room, walking slowly on the edge of their shoes. Nobody noticed their going. They could have been several phantoms passing for all the attention they got.

Upstairs, Vivian’s room had a low couch against one wall, a dressing table with pink-folded silk for a skirt, and flower pictures. There was a green leather diary, fabulously inscribed but securely padlocked on the table, freckles of powder on it. The room smelled sweetly soft and nice.

They sat upon the couch, backs lined neatly against the wall, a row of solemn ramrods, and Vivian, like always, told the first ghost story. They turned out all but one lamp, which was very feeble, and she put her voice low in her rounded breasts and whispered it out.

It was that ancient tale about lying abed late one night, with stars cold in the sky, al alone in a big old house when some thing starts creeping slowly up the stairs to your room. Some strange and awful visitor from some other world. And as the story advanced, slowly step by step, step by step, your voice got more tense and more whispery and you kept waiting and waiting for that shocking finale.

“It crept up to the second step, it stepped up to the third step, it came to the fourth step …”

All four of their hearts had churned to this story a thousand times. Now, again, a cold sweat formed on four anticipatory brows. Chris listened, holding Vivian’s hand.