But at My Back
I Always Hear
DAVID MORRELL

SHE PHONED AGAIN LAST night. At 3 a.m. the way she always does. I’m scared to death. I can’t keep running. On the hotel’s register downstairs, I lied about my name, address, and occupation, hoping to hide from her. My real name’s Charles Ingram. Though I’m here in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, I’m from Iowa City, Iowa. I teach—or used to teach until three days ago—creative writing at the University. I can’t risk going back there. But I don’t think I can hide much longer. Each night, she comes closer.

From the start, she scared me. I came to school at eight to prepare my classes. Through the side door of the English building I went up a stairwell to my third-floor office, which was isolated by a fire door from all the other offices. My colleagues used to joke that I’d been banished, but I didn’t care, for in my far-off corner I could concentrate. Few students interrupted me. Regardless of the busy noises past the fire door, I sometimes felt there was no one else inside the building. And indeed at 8 a.m. I often was the only person in the building.

That day I was wrong, however. Clutching my heavy briefcase, I trudged up the stairwell. My scraping footsteps echoed off the walls of the pale-red cinderblock, the stairs of pale-green imitation marble. First floor. Second floor. The neon lights glowed coldly. Then the stairwell angled toward the third floor, and I saw her waiting on a chair outside my office. Pausing, I frowned up at her. I felt uneasy.

Eight a.m., for you, is probably not early. You’ve been up for quite a while so you can get to work on time or get your children off to school. But 8 a.m., for college students, is the middle of the night. They don’t like morning classes. When their schedules force them to attend one, they don’t crawl from bed until they absolutely have to, and they don’t come stumbling into class until I’m just about to start my lecture.

I felt startled, then, to find her waiting ninety minutes early. She sat tensely: lifeless dull brown hair, a shapeless dingy sweater, baggy faded jeans with patches on the knees and frays around the cuffs. Her eyes seemed haunted, wild, and deep and dark.

I climbed the last few steps and, puzzled, stopped before her. “Do you want an early conference?”

Instead of answering, she nodded bleakly.

“You’re concerned about a grade I gave you?”

This time, though, in pain she shook her head from side to side.

Confused, I fumbled with my key and opened the office, stepping in. The room was small and narrow: a desk, two chairs, a wall of bookshelves, and a window. As I sat behind the desk, I watched her slowly come inside. She glanced around uncertainly. Distraught, she shut the door.

That made me nervous. When a female student shuts the door, I start to worry that a colleague or a student might walk up the stairs and hear a female voice and wonder what’s so private I want to keep the door closed. Though I should have told her to reopen it, her frantic eyes aroused such pity in me that I sacrificed my principle, deciding her torment was so personal she could talk about it only in strict secrecy.

“Sit down.” I smiled and tried to make her feel at ease, though I myself was not at ease. “What seems to be the difficulty, Miss …? I’m sorry, but I don’t recall your name.”

“Samantha Perry. I don’t like ‘Samantha,’ though.” She fidgeted. “I’ve shortened it to—”

“Yes? To what?”

“To ‘Sam.’ I’m in your Tuesday–Thursday class.” She bit her lip. “You spoke to me.”

I frowned, not understanding. “You mean what I taught seemed vivid to you? I inspired you to write a better story?”

“Mr. Ingram, no. I mean you spoke to me. You stared at me while you were teaching. You ignored the other students. You directed what you said to me. When you talked about Hemingway, how Frederic Henry wants to go to bed with Catherine”—she swallowed—“you were asking me to go to bed with you.”

I gaped. To disguise my shock, I quickly lit a cigarette. “You’re mistaken.”

“But I heard you. You kept staring straight at me. I felt all the other students knew what you were doing.”

“I was only lecturing. I often look at students’ faces to make sure they pay attention. You received the wrong impression.”

“You weren’t asking me to go to bed with you?” Her voice sounded anguished.

“No. I don’t trade sex for grades.”

“But I don’t care about a grade!”

“I’m married. Happily. I’ve got two children. Anyway, suppose I did intend to proposition you. Would I do it in the middle of a class? I’d be foolish.”

“Then you never meant to—” She kept biting her lip.

“I’m sorry.”

“But you speak to me! Outside class I hear your voice! When I’m in my room or walking down the street! You talk to me when I’m asleep! You say you want to go to bed with me!”

My skin prickled. I felt frozen. “You’re mistaken. Your imagination’s playing tricks.”

“But I hear your voice so clearly! When I’m studying or—”

“How? If I’m not there.”

“You send your thoughts! You concentrate and put your voice inside my mind!”

Adrenaline scalded my stomach. I frantically sought an argument to disillusion her. “Telepathy? I don’t believe in it. I’ve never tried to send my thoughts to you.”

“Unconsciously?”

I shook my head from side to side. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her: of all the female students in her class, she looked so plain, even if I wasn’t married I’d never have wanted sex with her.

“You’re studying too hard. You want to do so well you’re preoccupied with me. That’s why you think you hear my voice when I’m not there. I try to make my lectures vivid. As a consequence, you think I’m speaking totally to you.”

“Then you shouldn’t teach that way!” she shouted. “It’s not fair! It’s cruel! It’s teasing!” Tears streamed down her face. “You made a fool of me!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“But you did! You tricked me! You misled me!”

“No.”

She stood so quickly I flinched, afraid she’d lunge at me or scream for help and claim I’d tried to rape her. That damned door. I cursed myself for not insisting she leave it open.

She rushed sobbing toward it. She pawed the knob and stumbled out, hysterically retreating down the stairwell.

Shaken, I stubbed out my cigarette, grabbing another. My chest tightened as I heard the dwindling echo of her wracking sobs, the awkward scuffle of her dimming footsteps, then the low deep rumble of the outside door.

The silence settled over me.

An hour later I found her waiting in class. She’d wiped her tears. The only signs of what had happened were her red and puffy eyes. She sat alertly, pen to paper. I carefully didn’t face her as I spoke. She seldom glanced up from her notes.

After class I asked my graduate assistant if he knew her.

“You mean Sam? Sure, I know her. She’s been getting Ds. She had a conference with me. Instead of asking how to get a better grade, though, all she did was talk about you, pumping me for information. She’s got quite a thing for you. Too bad about her.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s so plain, she doesn’t have many friends. I doubt she goes out much. There’s a problem with her father. She was vague about it, but I had the sense her three sisters are so beautiful that Daddy treats her as the ugly duckling. She wants very much to please him. He ignores her, though. He’s practically disowned her. You remind her of him.”

“Who? Of her father?”

“She admits you’re ten years younger than him, but she says you look exactly like him.”

I felt heartsick.

Two days later, I found her waiting for me—again at 8 a.m.—outside my office.

Tense, I unlocked the door. As if she heard my thought, she didn’t shut it this time. Sitting before my desk, she didn’t fidget. She just stared at me.

“It happened again,” she said.

“In class I didn’t even look at you.”

“No, afterward, when I went to the library.” She drew an anguished breath. “And later—I ate supper in the dorm. I heard your voice so clearly, I was sure you were in the room.”

“What time was that?”

“Five-thirty.”

“I was having cocktails with the Dean. Believe me, Sam, I wasn’t sending messages to you. I didn’t even think of you.”

“I couldn’t have imagined it! You wanted me to go to bed with you!”

“I wanted research money from the Dean. I thought of nothing else. My mind was totally involved in trying to convince him. When I didn’t get the money, I was too annoyed to concentrate on anything but getting drunk.”

“Your voice—”

“It isn’t real. If I sent thoughts to you, wouldn’t I admit what I was doing? When you asked me, wouldn’t I confirm the message? Why would I deny it?”

“I’m afraid.”

“You’re troubled by your father.”

“What?”

“My graduate assistant says you identify me with your father.”

She went ashen. “That’s supposed to be a secret!”

“Sam, I asked him. He won’t lie to me.”

“If you remind me of my father, if I want to go to bed with you, then I must want to go to bed with—”

“Sam—”

“—my father! You must think I’m disgusting!”

“No, I think you’re confused. You ought to find some help. You ought to see a—”

But she never let me finish. Weeping again, ashamed, hysterical, she bolted from the room.

And that’s the last I ever saw of her. An hour later, when I started lecturing, she wasn’t in class. A few days later I received a drop-slip from the registrar, informing me she’d canceled all her classes.

I forgot her.

. . .

Summer came. Then fall arrived. November. On a rainy Tuesday night, my wife and I stayed up to watch the close results of the election, worried for our presidential candidate.

At 3 a.m. the phone rang. No one calls that late unless …

The jangle of the phone made me bang my head as I searched for a beer in the fridge. I rubbed my throbbing skull and swung alarmed as Jean, my wife, came from the living room and squinted toward the kitchen phone.

“It might be just a friend,” I said. “Election gossip.”

But I worried about our parents. Maybe one of them was sick or …

I watched uneasily as Jean picked up the phone.

“Hello?” She listened apprehensively. Frowning, she put her hand across the mouthpiece. “It’s for you. A woman.”

“What?”

“She’s young. She asked for Mr. Ingram.”

“Damn, a student.”

“At 3 a.m.?”

I almost didn’t think to shut the fridge. Annoyed, I yanked the pop-tab off the can of beer. My marriage is successful. I’ll admit we’ve had our troubles. So has every couple. But we’ve faced those troubles, and we’re happy. Jean is thirty-five, attractive, smart, and patient. But her trust in me was clearly tested at that moment. A woman had to know me awfully well to call at 3 a.m.

“Let’s find out.” I grabbed the phone. To prove my innocence to Jean, I roughly said, “Yeah, what?”

“I heard you.” The female voice was frail and plaintive, trembling.

“Who is this?” I said angrily. “It’s me.”

I heard a low-pitched crackle on the line.

“Who the hell is me? Just tell me what your name is.”

“Sam.”

My knees went weak. I slumped against the wall.

Jean stared. “What’s wrong?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Sam, it’s 3 a.m. What’s so damn important you can’t wait to call me during office hours?”

“Three? It can’t be. No, it’s one.”

“It’s three. For God’s sake, Sam, I know what time it is.”

“Please, don’t get angry. On my radio the news announcer said it was one o’clock.”

“Where are you, Sam?”

“At Berkeley.”

“California? Sam, the time-zone difference. In the Midwest it’s two hours later. Here it’s three o’clock.”

“… I guess I just forgot.”

“But that’s absurd. Have you been drinking? Are you drunk?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, I took some pills. I’m not sure what they were.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Then I heard you. You were speaking to me.”

“No. I told you your mind’s playing tricks. The voice isn’t real. You’re imagining—”

“You called to me. You said you wanted me to go to bed with you. You wanted me to come to you.”

“To Iowa? No. You’ve got to understand. Don’t do it. I’m not sending thoughts to you.”

“You’re lying! Tell me why you’re lying!”

“I don’t want to go to bed with you. I’m glad you’re in Berkeley. Stay there. Get some help. Lord, don’t you realize? Those pills. They make you hear my voice. They make you hallucinate.”

“I …”

“Trust me, Sam. Believe me. I’m not sending thoughts to you. I didn’t even know you’d gone to Berkeley. You’re two thousand miles away from me. What you’re suggesting is impossible.”

She didn’t answer. All I heard was low-pitched static.

“Sam—”

The dial tone abruptly droned. My stomach sank. Appalled, I kept the phone against my ear. I swallowed dryly, shaking as I set the phone back on its cradle.

Jean glared. “Who was that? She wasn’t any ‘Sam.’ She wants to go to bed with you? At 3 a.m.? What games have you been playing?”

“None.” I gulped my beer, but my throat stayed dry. “You’d better sit. I’ll get a beer for you.”

Jean clutched her stomach. “It’s not what you think. I promise I’m not screwing anybody. But it’s bad. I’m scared.”

I handed Jean a beer.

“I don’t know why it happened. But last spring, at 8 a.m., I went to school and …”

Jean listened, troubled. Afterward she asked for Sam’s description, somewhat mollified to learn she was plain and pitiful.

“The truth?” Jean asked.

“I promise you.”

Jean studied me. “You did nothing to encourage her?”

“I guarantee it. I wasn’t aware of her until I found her waiting for me.”

“But unconsciously?”

“Sam asked me that as well. I was only lecturing the best way I know how.”

Jean kept her eyes on me. She nodded, glancing toward her beer. “Then she’s disturbed. There’s nothing you can do for her. I’m glad she moved to Berkeley. In your place, I’d have been afraid.”

“I am afraid. She spooks me.”

At a dinner party the next Saturday, I told our host and hostess what had happened, motivated more than just by need to share my fear with someone else, for while the host was both a friend and a colleague, he was married to a clinical psychologist. I needed professional advice.

Diane, the hostess, listened with slim interest until halfway through my story, when she suddenly sat straight and peered at me.

I faltered. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t stop. What else?”

I frowned and finished, waiting for Diane’s reaction. Instead she poured more wine. She offered more lasagna.

“Something bothered you.”

She tucked her long black hair behind her ears. “It could be nothing.”

“I need to know.”

She nodded grimly. “I can’t make a diagnosis merely on the basis of your story. I’d be irresponsible.”

“But hypothetically …”

“And only hypothetically. She hears your voice. That’s symptomatic of a severe disturbance. Paranoia, for example. Schizophrenia. The man who shot John Lennon heard a voice. And so did Manson. So did Son of Sam.”

“My God,” Jean said. “Her name.” She set her fork down loudly.

“The parallel occurred to me,” Diane said. “Chuck, if she identifies you with her father, she might be dangerous to Jean and to the children.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy. To hurt the equivalent of her mother and her rival sisters.”

I felt sick; the wine turned sour in my stomach.

“There’s another possibility. No more encouraging. If you continue to reject her, she could be dangerous to you. Instead of dealing with her father, she might redirect her rage and jealousy toward you. By killing you, she’d be venting her frustration toward her father.”

I felt panicked. “For the good news.”

“Understood, I’m speaking hypothetically. Possibly she’s lying to you, and she doesn’t hear your voice. Or, as you guessed, the drugs she takes might make her hallucinate. There could be many explanations. Without seeing her, without the proper tests, I wouldn’t dare to judge her symptoms. You’re a friend, so I’m compromising. Possibly she’s homicidal.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“For openers, I’d stay away from her.”

“I’m trying. She called from California. She’s threatening to come back here to see me.”

“Talk her out of it.”

“I’m no psychologist. I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Suggest she get professional advice.”

“I tried that.”

“Try again. But if you find her at your office, don’t go in the room with her. Find other people. Crowds protect you.”

“But at 8 a.m. there’s no one in the building.”

“Think of some excuse to leave her. Jean, if she comes to the house, don’t let her in.”

Jean paled. “I’ve never seen her. How could I identify her?”

“Chuck described her. Don’t take chances. Don’t trust anyone who might resemble her, and keep a close watch on the children.”

“How? Rebecca’s twelve. Sue’s nine. I can’t insist they stay around the house.”

Diane turned her wineglass, saying nothing.

“… Oh, dear Lord,” Jean said.

The next few weeks were hellish. Every time the phone rang, Jean and I jerked, startled, staring at it. But the calls were from our friends or from our children’s friends or from some insulation/magazine/home-siding salesman. Every day I mustered courage as I climbed the stairwell to my office. Silent prayers were answered. Sam was never there. My tension dissipated. I began to feel she no longer was obsessed with me.

Thanksgiving came—the last day of peace I’ve known. We went to church. Our parents live too far away for us to share the feast with them. But we invited friends to dinner. We watched football. I helped Jean make the dressing for the turkey. I made both the pumpkin pies. The friends we’d invited were my colleague and his wife, the clinical psychologist. She asked if my student had continued to harass me. Shaking my head from side to side, I grinned and raised my glass in special thanks.

The guests stayed late to watch a movie with us. Jean and I felt pleasantly exhausted, mellowed by good food, good drink, good friends, when after midnight we washed all the dishes, went to bed, made love, and drifted wearily to sleep.

The phone rang, shocking me awake. I fumbled toward the bedside lamp. Jean’s eyes went wide with fright. She clutched my arm and pointed toward the clock. It was 3 a.m.

The phone kept ringing.

“Don’t,” Jean said.

“Suppose it’s someone else.”

“You know it isn’t.”

“If it’s Sam and I don’t answer, she might come to the house instead of phoning.”

“For God’s sake, make her stop.”

I grabbed the phone, but my throat wouldn’t work.

“I’m coming to you,” the voice wailed.

“Sam?”

“I heard you. I won’t disappoint you. I’ll be there soon.”

“No. Wait. Listen.”

“I’ve been listening. I hear you all the time. The anguish in your voice. You’re begging me to come to you, to hold you, to make love to you.”

“That isn’t true.”

“You say your wife’s jealous of me. I’ll convince her she isn’t being fair. I’ll make her let you go. Then we’ll be happy.”

“Sam, where are you? Still at Berkeley?”

“Yes. I spent Thanksgiving by myself. My father didn’t want me to come home.”

“You have to stay there, Sam. I didn’t send my voice. You need advice. You need to see a doctor. Will you do that for me? As a favor?”

“I already did. But Dr. Campbell doesn’t understand. He thinks I’m imagining what I hear. He humors me. He doesn’t realize how much you love me.”

“Sam, you have to talk to him again. You have to tell him what you plan to do.”

“I can’t wait any longer. I’ll be there soon. I’ll be with you.”

My heart pounded frantically. I heard a roar in my head. I flinched as the phone was yanked away from me.

Jean shouted to the mouthpiece, “Stay away from us! Don’t call again! Stop terrorizing—”

Jean stared wildly at me. “No one’s there. The line went dead. I hear just the dial tone.”

I’m writing this as quickly as I can. I don’t have much more time. It’s almost three o’clock.

That night, we didn’t try to go back to sleep. We couldn’t. We got dressed and went downstairs where, drinking coffee, we decided what to do. At eight, as soon as we’d sent the kids to school, we drove to the police.

They listened sympathetically, but there was no way they could help us. After all, Sam hadn’t broken any law. Her calls weren’t obscene; it was difficult to prove harassment; she’d made no overt threats. Unless she harmed us, there was nothing the police could do.

“Protect us,” I insisted.

“How?” the sergeant said.

“Assign an officer to guard the house.”

“How long? A day, a week, a month? That woman might not even bother you again. We’re overworked and understaffed. I’m sorry—I can’t spare an officer whose only duty is to watch you. I can send a car to check the house from time to time. No more than that. But if this woman does show up and bother you, then call us. We’ll take care of her.”

“But that might be too late.”

We took the children home from school. Sam couldn’t have arrived from California yet, but what else could we do? I don’t own any guns. If all of us stayed together, we had some chance for protection.

That was Friday. I slept lightly. Three a.m., the phone rang. It was Sam, of course.

“I’m coming.”

“Sam, where are you?”

“Reno.”

“You’re not flying.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Turn back, Sam. Go to Berkeley. See that doctor.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“Please—”

The dial tone was droning.

I phoned Berkeley information. Sam had mentioned Dr. Campbell. But the operator couldn’t find him in the yellow pages.

“Try the University,” I blurted. “Student Counseling.”

I was right. A Dr. Campbell was a university psychiatrist. On Saturday I couldn’t reach him at his office, but a woman answered his home. He wouldn’t be available until the afternoon. At four o’clock I finally got through to him.

“You’ve got a patient named Samantha Perry,” I began.

“I did. Not anymore.”

“I know. She’s left for Iowa. She wants to see me. I’m afraid. I think she might be dangerous.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry.”

“She’s not dangerous?”

“Potentially she was.”

“But tell me what to do when she arrives. You’re treating her. You’ll know what I should do.”

“No, Mr. Ingram, she won’t come to see you. On Thanksgiving night, at 1 a.m., she killed herself. An overdose of drugs.”

My vision failed. I clutched the kitchen table to prevent myself from falling. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw the body. I identified it.”

“But she called that night.”

“What time?”

“At 3 a.m. Midwestern time.”

“Or one o’clock in California. No doubt after or before she took the drugs. She didn’t leave a note, but she called you.”

“She gave no indication—”

“She mentioned you quite often. She was morbidly attracted to you. She had an extreme, unhealthy certainty that she was telepathic, that you put your voice inside her mind.”

“I know that! Was she paranoid or homicidal?”

“Mr. Ingram, I’ve already said too much. Although she’s dead, I can’t violate her confidence.”

“But I don’t think she’s dead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If she died on Thursday night, then tell me how she called again on Friday night.”

The line hummed. I sensed the doctor’s hesitation. “Mr. Ingram, you’re upset. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve confused the nights.”

“I’m telling you she called again on Friday!”

“And I’m telling you she died on Thursday. Either someone’s tricking you, or else …” The doctor swallowed with discomfort.

“Or?” I trembled. “I’m the one who’s hearing voices?”

“Mr. Ingram, don’t upset yourself. You’re honestly confused.”

I slowly put the phone down, terrified. “I’m sure I heard her voice.”

That night, Sam called again. At 3 a.m. From Salt Lake City. When I handed Jean the phone she heard just the dial tone.

“But you know the goddamn phone rang!” I insisted.

“Maybe a short circuit. Chuck, I’m telling you there was no one on the line.”

Then Sunday. Three a.m. Cheyenne, Wyoming. Coming closer.

But she couldn’t be if she was dead.

. . .

The student paper at the University subscribes to all the other major student papers. Monday, Jean and I left the children with friends and drove to its office. Friday’s copy of the Berkeley campus paper had arrived. In desperation I searched its pages. “There!” A two-inch item. Sudden student death. Samantha Perry. Tactfully, no cause was given.

Outside in the parking lot, Jean said, “Now do you believe she’s dead?”

“Then tell me why I hear her voice! I’ve got to be crazy if I think I hear a corpse!”

“You’re feeling guilty that she killed herself because of you. You shouldn’t. There was nothing you could do to stop her. You’ve been losing too much sleep. Your imagination’s taking over.”

“You admit you heard the phone ring!”

“Yes, it’s true. I can’t explain that. If the phone’s broken, we’ll have it fixed. To put your mind at rest, we’ll get a new, unlisted number.”

I felt better. After several drinks, I even got some sleep.

But Monday night, again the phone rang. Three a.m. I jerked awake. Cringing, I insisted Jean answer it. But she heard just the dial tone. I grabbed the phone. Of course, I heard Sam’s voice.

“I’m almost there. I’ll hurry. I’m in Omaha.”

“This number isn’t listed!”

“But you told me the new one. Your wife’s the one who changed it. She’s trying to keep us apart. I’ll make her sorry. Darling, I can’t wait to be with you.”

I screamed. Jean jerked away from me.

“Sam, you’ve got to stop! I spoke to Dr. Campbell!”

“No. He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t violate my trust.”

“He said you were dead!”

“I couldn’t live without you. Soon we’ll be together.”

Shrieking, I woke the children, so hysterical Jean had to call an ambulance. Two interns struggled to sedate me.

. . .

Omaha was one day’s drive from where we live. Jean came to visit me in the hospital on Tuesday.

“Are you feeling better?” Jean frowned, troubled.

“Please, you have to humor me,” I said. “All right? Suspect I’ve gone crazy, but for God sake, humor me. I can’t prove what I’m thinking, but I know you’re in danger. I am too. You have to get the children and leave town. You have to hide somewhere. Tonight at 3 a.m. she’ll reach the house.”

Jean stared with pity.

“Promise me!” I said.

She saw the anguish on my face and nodded.

“Maybe she won’t try the house,” I said. “She might come here. I have to get away. I’m not sure how, but later, when you’re gone, I’ll find a way to leave.”

Jean peered at me, distressed; her voice sounded totally discouraged. “Chuck.”

“I’ll check the house when I get out of here. If you’re still there, you know you’ll make me more upset.”

“I promise. I’ll take Susan and Rebecca, and we’ll drive somewhere.”

“I love you.”

Jean began to cry. “I won’t know where you are.”

“If I survive this, I’ll get word to you.”

“But how?”

“The English department. I’ll leave a message with the secretary.”

Jean leaned down to kiss me, crying, certain I’d lost my mind.

I reached the house that night. As she’d promised, Jean had left with the children. I got in my sports car and raced to the Interstate.

A Chicago hotel where at 3 a.m. Sam called from Iowa. She’d heard my voice. She said I’d told her where I was, but she was hurt and angry. “Tell me why you’re running.”

I fled from Chicago in the middle of the night, driving until I absolutely had to rest. I checked in here at 1 a.m. In Johnstown, Pennsylvania. I can’t sleep. I’ve got an awful feeling. Last night Sam repeated, “Soon you’ll join me.” In the desk I found this stationery.

God, it’s 3 a.m. I pray I’ll see the sun come up.

It’s almost four. She didn’t phone. I can’t believe I escaped, but I keep staring at the phone.

. . .

It’s four. Dear Christ, I hear the ringing.

Finally I’ve realized. Sam killed herself at one. In Iowa the time-zone difference made it three. But I’m in Pennsylvania. In the East. A different time zone. One o’clock in California would be four o’clock, not three, in Pennsylvania.

Now.

The ringing persists. But I’ve realized something else. This hotel’s unusual, designed to seem like a home.

The ringing?

God help me, it’s the doorbell.