The diary stopped there. “Read the last dramatic entry in Ruth Lansing’s Diary in tomorrow’s Sentinel.”
Victor threw down the paper violently. The old red fury was drifting up through his head. That suffocating hatred swept in waves through him. So Ruth had thought she was getting away with something. But he’d known all along. He’d seen Ruth getting into Phillips’ car down by the corner. And yet he’d been afraid to say anything about it, afraid Ruth would get angry, and then he’d lose her.
He had known she was going out with Phillips that night. And he’d been desperate. He’d felt really sick all day. And frantic. He didn’t know what to do. In the afternoon he decided to send Ruth flowers. She’d get them just before she was supposed to go out with Phillips. Maybe they’d make her realize how much Victor loved her; then she wouldn’t go.
She had gone anyway. He’d seen her sneak away to meet Phillips with his flowers on.
That’s when it had begun, that terrific thing inside of him. That’s when everything began beating faster and faster. During the early hours of that evening he walked and walked and walked. Then he went back to the house. He went into his own room and paced up and down there. How could Ruth do this to him?...
When he heard her come in, he turned out his light, and through the crack of his door he watched her come upstairs and go into her own room.
He paced on around his room, from the left side of the bed around to the right and then back to the left. And on and on that way. A half hour passed. And by that time he was as desperate as a caged animal. People thought they could step all over him, did they? They thought they could treat him like dirt, did they?
He crossed the hall to Ruth’s door. He went in quietly. Ruth was sitting at her desk, writing something.
She looked surprised when she saw Victor. “What are you doing in your undershirt?” she said. That was all she had time to say. Then his hands were on her neck. Ruthie, I was just going to kiss you. Honest, that’s all I meant to dot Honest! I wanted to show you how much I loved you!
It was all over so quickly. He was very hazy about what had happened. But he remembered that when he had seen Ruthie’s head, so blonde and beautiful, he knew he couldn’t leave it...
Mother, do you remember how I cried and cried one day when the boys killed a squirrel? He used to come up and eat out of my hand, that squirrel...
Victor sat there in the deserted farmhouse, listening to the run and drip of the rain outside. He was growing cold, and he trembled. Mother, I’m cold and hungry and frightened. And I didn’t mean it. Honest, I didn’t.
After a while, he fell asleep. He woke up at night and sat there thinking in the dark. He wanted to get a paper in the morning and read the rest of Ruth’s diary. Yet he was afraid to go back into town. They’d be waiting for him. They’d have a trap set by now. But he had to read Ruth’s diary. It was the only thing of hers he had left.
When dawn came, he waited about an hour; then he headed down the road towards the town. He pulled down his hat and went along a side street to the paper store. He walked in, he thought, with a certain amount of casual dignity. They were waiting for him.
One grasped him on the left and one on the right. The handcuffs were on in no time. It was all done quietly.
“I would like to buy a paper,” he said to them.
“What for?” they said.
“To read the rest of her diary.”
They just looked at him.
“Please,” he said.
One of them bought a Sentinel and opened it and started reading without much expression:
“September 3. What a date! Mort sure knows how to show you a good time. And not afraid to spend money either. Oh, God, if only he would want to marry me. But I know he wouldn’t ever. Maybe I could trick him into it. Other girls do it, why not me? Then would I give Victor the bye-bye! I must be screwy to think things like that. I ought to marry Victor. He’s a bird in the hand. But the more I think of it, the sicker I get. What should I do? If there was just somebody I could talk to. Mona doesn’t understand. And Ma’s sore at me all the time. Oh God, I feel tired and lousy. What’s it all about anyway? If only somebody’d tell me what I ought to do. I want to be happy! God, can’t I ever just be happy?”
“Is that all?” asked Victor.
“Yeah.”
The tears ran down his stubbly face. Quite a crowd had collected. They stood around and stared at him.