Off Season - Jack Ketchum [13]
He crouched in the field and waited for her to get ready for bed. It would not be long now. She had not gone back to the book. She was cleaning some dishes right in front of his window. He smiled. He was not ten feet away from her and yet she could not see him. The night had turned the red shirt black. So funny to be so helpless and stupid. To throw the trap that way. He wanted to laugh. But he had perfect control of himself and he wouldn’t. He had perfect control and only smiled at her in the dark.
She finished the dishes and walked into the bedroom and took the hairbrush off the night table. She bent over and tossed her hair forward and began to brush. One hundred strokes, she thought. What nonsense. But she did it anyway. The collar of her terrycloth robe got in her way slightly so she straightened up again, removed the robe, bent back over and continued brushing. The stove had warmed the house enough so that she was comfortable naked. She’d sleep that way.
She closed her eyes and brushed hard, enjoying the scrape of the bristles on her clean scalp. The wind was up again outside; she heard it move something against the house.
When she’d had enough she straightened up and brushed her hair back and side to side a bit, and then stopped. She walked into the kitchen and got herself a drink of water. She turned off the lights. She walked back into the bedroom and drank the water, put the glass on the night table, and got into bed. She was much too tired to read. She turned off the bedside lamp.
The sheets were cool against her naked body. Outside she heard the sound again and thought, I wonder if that wind means rain. In no time at all she was asleep.
11:20 P.M.
It was raining in Manhattan. Through the window of her second-floor apartment Marjorie could see the rain slanting down through the glow of a streetlight half a block away, could hear it drumming on the roof of the Checker cab parked below. She knew without having to feel it how cold the rain would be. A man in a toothin jacket stood in a doorway across the street, waiting for a letup. For once the street looked bright and clean. She was glad she was going to the country.
There was a rule her mother had taught her about packing and she always adhered to it: begin at the feet and work up to your hat. She never wore hats but the rule was good, anyway. She ticked off the items in the suitcase in the appropriate order. Shoes: two pairs, one dressy and one comfortable. Sneakers. Socks and stockings. Five pairs of panties. Tampons (she was due by the end of the week—shit!). One slip, one skirt, and two pairs of jeans. A simple cotton dress. Blouses, tee shirts. One sweater, one jacket. Nightgown. Razor for the armpits. Her skin was delicate and prone to break out now and then even at this late date, so she packed a bar of Ivory and the stuff her dermatologist had given her. In the morning she’d throw in the toothbrush, shower cap, and hairbrush. And that would do it.
She closed the suitcase and put it at the foot of the bed, then walked to her desk and wrote herself a note so she’d remember to water the plants in the morning. She glanced outside. The cab was gone and so was the man in the doorway across the street. The rain looked thinner now, a drifting mist. According to the news the storm was supposed to break by morning, so that with luck they’d have a good day for traveling. She undressed in the bathroom and washed her face and hands, then pulled the old spare nightgown on over her head, the one with the hole in the shoulder. Actually she liked the hole there. She had good shoulders.
Was there anything she’d forgotten? She walked slowly through the apartment but could think of nothing. One more note, though. She went to the desk and wrote: Unplug everything. She’d do that the very last thing. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She took a drink and then refilled the glass.