Chapter 13

Meredith awoke exhausted on Friday morning, her body a deadweight that had to be dragged from bed. Early in their marriage, she and Richard would sometimes make love all night. She could remember fatigue, but not exhaustion such as this.

Downstairs, she managed the habitual movements of making Richard breakfast, then saw him off, excusing her sleepy silence as exhaustion from preparing for Halburton’s visit. Richard kissed her lightly on the cheek, but his look showed concern. He urged her to go back to bed.

It was raining outside. She wished she could give in to Richard’s suggestion and to the narcotic effect of the rain tapping on the roof. She could not. The yard sale was advertised for tomorrow, and nothing had been prepared. Even more, all through the night she had been making love with the strange man to whom sleep had somehow betrothed her. She remembered his gestures, the glistening of light on his skin, and her own helplessness against the passion he aroused in her. She could not sleep, would not sleep, she told herself. Sleep meant falling back into his arms, which even now seemed to reach out for her.

The house was muggy and warm, so she pulled the back door open, latching the hook on the screen. Fresh air and hard work would wake her, and if they did not, she would perk a pot of coffee as thick as tar. She turned to the task of pricing the miscellaneous grab bag of items set aside for the sale.

The shelves of the pantry were full. Clothes from college and Richard’s little league coaching equipment filled one large box on the floor. Elsewhere lay three sets of barbecue tools, wedding gifts that had never been used, the Scotch plaid cooler, and tablecloths that did not fit the new table. On another shelf were old clocks, extension cords, an outdated encyclopedia, two cookbooks, and the odds and ends of cloth from an overambitious quilt project. Meredith pulled a roll of white sticker labels from her pocket and debated how to set prices.

The point of the sale was to meet the neighbors, and people might be offended if she set prices too high. Bargains seemed best, so friendship could trade on goodwill. Meredith wrote seventy-five cents on a label and pressed it to the side of a picture frame. She dusted the glass before turning to the next item.

The work went quickly. Within an hour she had priced and dusted many of the smaller things, arranged the encyclopedia volumes alphabetically, and sorted through a stack of records to be sure there were none worth keeping. While she worked, she had time to think. It was a pleasure to work alone, feeling strong and self sufficient without giving in to imagining the man’s company. Gradually, relief dawned on her. The stranger’s presence did not seem alive in the house this morning. In a sense, like the echo of another woman’s emotions, she missed him, but that would probably pass. It might be that the whole business of loneliness would now pass. Maybe those dreams of making love were the culmination. Maybe life would return to normal now.

On the other hand, maybe it would not. She reviewed the evidence. She remembered back to the first dream, how each had brought the man closer and closer. Then came the talk with Gus, and after that at least her fear diminished. Nevertheless, in the days since, the man had not faded from her mind. If anything, he became more real, keeping her company as she moved through the house. The awful vision that had occurred in the living room yesterday seemed linked to the growing reality of his presence.

The really frightening thing was how she seemed to change when he was around. She knew herself, and she was a confident and competent person. But when he was around, she felt herself slipping away, melting into someone much younger and more self-conscious. Even in last night’s dream, she had seemed unable to express her full adult sexuality, her pleasure wrapped in her own fragile helplessness, overwhelmed by his power and experience at lovemaking. She had been like a small cloud driven to and fro by bursts of wind.

Meredith paused, a tablecloth half-folded and forgotten in her hands. Color rose to her cheeks. Even now her thighs ached at the memory of his touch. The rain had grown heavier, and it beat a hypnotic rhythm outside the back door. Its drumming insistence made her long for sleep and for the sensuality of the dream. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She would not give in, not now. She could at least hang on to the world of daylight. Perhaps if she spent one day alone, in full control of her life, his power might fade.

Meredith finished folding the cloth and stuck a tag on it asking a dollar-fifty. The Scotch plaid cooler and stepladder would both be bargains at three-fifty apiece. At least if she did not make money, she intended to make friends.

The rhythm of the rain was steady and peaceful. Its tapping on the lids of the trash cans outside the back door accompanied her work like an irregular sort of music; sometimes soft and predictable, sometimes loud and persistent. She had grown so used to it that when she first thought she heard someone calling she dismissed the sound as rain. Wind rattled the screen door, reminding her of Elsa’s visit. She felt glad, because at least bad weather had a way of keeping busybodies at home.

The sound came again. It definitely sounded like a man calling.

“Hello. Hello there. Can you hear me?”

Startled, Meredith looked up from the bookend she had been dusting. She was about to turn when she heard the voice call more audibly.

“Are you there? Please, can you hear me?”

Meredith stiffened. It was the stranger’s voice. She tried to deny it, but there was no mistaking that deep, gentle tone. She was stunned. There was nothing otherworldly about the voice. This could not be illusion.

She tested the air for his presence, but he had not felt near all morning. Even as she whirled and surveyed the pantry, she sensed no hint of his company. Yet, he had spoken.

“Please don’t,” she said, in a low whisper. “Please, please, go away.”

A knocking rattled the screen door. The voice called again. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m Arthur Watson. I called. Mrs. Morgan?”

The message suddenly reached her. This was the man who had called the other night about the yard sale. She had told him to come Friday morning. Without setting down the wooden bookend, she hurried into the kitchen to see a tall man in a raincoat and wide-brimmed hat barely visible beyond the rain-soaked screen. She rushed to open the door.

“I’m sorry,” she exclaimed in embarrassment. “I didn’t know it was you. I mean, you must have thought you had the wrong house.”

“No, I knew the house.” Arthur Watson dipped his head to remove his rain hat and then pressed his handkerchief to his damp face. He looked up and said, “But I wasn’t sure you were home.” He seemed hesitant, almost as if he wished he were not there.

At the first glimpse of his face, Meredith stumbled backward against the edge of the sink. The bookend dropped with a sharp crack and she heard splinters ricochet from the baseboard. She stared at the man from the dreams.