Richard Deming
Die a Little Longer
The second time Maida peered through the trellised vines which formed shimmering green curtains on all sides of the porch, she uttered a squeal of dismay. The wide-shouldered young man who had spent five minutes studying the name on her mailbox was turning into the steep lane and approaching the house.
It absolutely could not be the new owner arriving to take possession a day before she expected him, when none of the dishes were packed and her final house cleaning had left her looking like she had wallowed in a coal bin. It absolutely could not be, but it probably was, for no one but the mailman had called in three weeks.
Setting the dishes she was holding alongside a half-filled barrel, she rushed into the house and whisked the dust wrapper from her hair. In the mirror over the kitchen sink she examined the face Tom occasionally described as “tony,” noting its toniness was at the moment incognito behind a good deal of plebian dirt. She attacked the dirt with the dampened end of a dish towel and fluffed her loose black hair into a semblance of order.
By the time she returned to the front door, her visitor was mounting the porch steps. Viewed closely, he was not as young as he had seemed at fifty yards. Maida judged him about her own age — thirty. He had the strong shoulders and powerful arms of an athlete, but his rather pale features and colorless eyes seemed those of a person whose life involved little physical activity. His expression was tinged with wariness, as though he were not sure what his reception would be.
“Mrs. Kirk?” he asked with a touch of diffidence.
“Yes. And you’re Mr. Steuben?”
His eyes turned blank and a curious expression of surprise crossed his face. Then his features relaxed into an amused grin. “How did you know?”
“Easy,” Maida said, matching his grin. “No one ever calls here. Come in.”
She moved aside and he stepped past her into the hall, glanced quickly up the stairs and went on into the front room.
“There are only boxes to sit on,” Maida apologized. “The furniture’s all shipped except for my bed and a spare cot in the maid’s room I’m leaving.”
He said, “May I have a glass of water?”
Surprised by the abruptness of his request, she looked at him for a moment open-mouthed. Then she said, “Certainly,” and went to the kitchen to get him one.
When she brought it back, he drank thirstily and set the empty glass on one of the boxes.
“No one at all?” he asked idly.
“I beg your pardon?”
His colorless eyes touched her face briefly before continuing about the room in slow inventory. “Calls here, I mean.”
“Oh,” Maida said, following him back to their initial conversation. “No one but the mailman. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The achromatic eyes fixed on her face again, and the suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “Yes. That’s what I wanted.”
“It was lucky we both happened to engage the same real-estate man,” Maida said, making conversation to cover her embarrassment at his standing there as though waiting for something to happen. “You searching all the way from New York for a secluded place to work, which I imagine was hard to find, and us looking for a buyer for a place twenty miles from nowhere, which I know was hard to find.” She added quickly, “Of course it’s an excellent house and the view is lovely.”
He stood quietly with his hands behind him, making no reply.
“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said nervously. “Were you planning to take possession immediately?”
His expression was musing, as though he pondered her question, and he did not reply for so long she began to suspect he had not heard her. “I’m sorry if it inconveniences you,” he said finally. “I planned to spend the night in Kingston, but my baggage failed to arrive and it contains my traveler’s checks. There’s no need for you to leave, however, unless you fear the conventions. You mentioned a spare cot?”
Her back stiffened indignantly at his air of proprietorship and calm assumption that if anyone left, it should be she. At the same time it occurred to her he should have had no difficulty obtaining credit at the Kingston Hotel until his luggage arrived. Mr. Regan, the real estate man, would certainly have vouched for him.
She said sharply, “I’m afraid I couldn’t leave before tomorrow, even if I wanted to, unless I walk the twenty miles to Kingston. My husband doesn’t plan to pick me up till morning.” She could not forbear adding, “I don’t fear the conventions, as you put it, because all the doors in this house lock.”
Her flash of anger brought a surprised grin to his lips, and laughter replaced the reserved opacity of his eyes. “I really am sorry,” he said.
Immediately she liked him better. She grinned back and said briskly, “You’re probably eager to see the house. I never before heard of anyone buying a house unseen. You must have great trust in Mr. Regan.”
But apparently her anger only momentarily had jarred him from inward contemplation. “Mr. Regan?” he asked in the tone of one half-listening.
“The real estate man.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Very reliable fellow.”
She preceded him through the downstairs, showing him the dining room, the study, the great sun porch and the kitchen.
“You have everything here you’d have in the city,” she told him, “except neighbors. Central heating, electricity, running water and even a telephone. Of course the phone keeps you awake all night because it rings for eight other parties on the line, but you can’t have everything and solitude too.”
“I see,” he said vaguely, with no smile on his face.
Being proudly interested in the house herself, he seemed to her disappointingly disinterested for a new tenant. She led him up the wide, heavy staircase to the second floor, showed him the big, old-fashioned bath at the head of the stairs, the four bedrooms, and indicated the wing where he would sleep that night on the folding metal cot.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without sheets,” she told him. “But I kept out an extra blanket for my own bed, and you can have that.”
He was over by the window, looking down. “What’s that for?” he asked.
She moved over beside him and saw he was examining the two-foot edge of roofing which encircled the outside of the house between the lower and upper floors.
“That was Tom’s father doing,” she said, laughing. “Originally the house was one story, and when my husband’s father added the second, he saved material by letting the original roof stick out like that. Actually it isn’t unattractive from the ground. Gives a rather quaint effect. Tom calls it ‘the burglar’s walk.’ ”
As they went downstairs again she was rather piqued that he seemed to show such little interest in the house.
When he followed her out on the front porch, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me if I leave you to your own devices most of the day. I have five barrels of dishes to pack. Do you have to return to Kingston to check on your luggage?”
“No,” he said. “It won’t arrive tonight.”
“How did you get out here, anyway?” she asked, suddenly remembering she had seen no taxi when he first appeared at the gate.
“Caught a ride.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “May I help with your packing?”
“I’d appreciate it very much,” she said, pleased. “You can start wrapping those cups in newspaper while I run down to the box for mail. The mailman’s due now.” She indicated the stacked cups on the porch and the pile of old newspapers.
In the near distance she heard the backfire of Mr. Rawlin’s old sedan. And because she would not see the mailman again and wished to tell him good-by, she started to run toward the mailbox. The old man brought his car to a creaking halt, and when he saw Maida running down the lane, he waited for her.