“That is something to think about,” said Elizabeth, glad to change the subject.
“Call up Matthew. Tell him I’m the one that needs to go.”
“Timothy, I’ve been up since six o’clock this morning and every single minute there’s been some Emerson dumping crisises on me.”
“Crises,” Timothy said into his beer can.
“Picking and bickering and arguing. Raking up all these disasters and piling them in front of me. Well, I’ve had my quota. I don’t want any more. I’m going to call your mother, and then I’m going off for an afternoon on my own and not coming back till supper.”
“Wait, Elizabeth—”
But she left. She went into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, and lifted the telephone from the table. Then she couldn’t remember Mrs. Emerson’s number. All this chaos was disrupting her mind. There were tatters of old arguments in the air around her, and she had a restless, hanging-back feeling as if there were something she had not done well. She listened to the dial tone droning in her ear and watched Timothy pace back and forth in the living room with his eyes averted, his face pink and rumpled-looking. Then Mrs. Emerson’s number flashed before her, and she leaned forward to dial.
The telephone rang four times. (Was Mrs. Emerson in some new frenzy, twirling through the house wringing her hands and far too upset to answer?) The fifth ring was cut off in the middle. “Hello!” Mrs. Emerson said.
“It’s Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth, where are you? There’s a man here delivering big sacks of something.”
“Oh, that’ll be the lime.”
“What will I do with it? Where will I tell him to put it? I thought you were around the house somewhere.”
“The lime goes in the toolshed,” Elizabeth said. “I’m at lunch. I may be late getting back, I’m spending the afternoon downtown.”
“Downtown? What — and I can’t find Timothy. One minute he was here and the — now, don’t take all afternoon, Elizabeth.”
“Okay,” Elizabeth said. “Bye.”
She hung up. Timothy was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “Now call Matthew,” he said.
“I’m through with that subject.”
“That’s what you think.”
He took a step back and slammed the door between them, with a noise that shook the room. She heard the key in the lock. “Call him!” he shouted from the other side.
“Oh, for—”
She stood up and went to try the door. It was firmly locked. Timothy was standing so close behind it that she heard his breath, which came in short puffs. “Timothy,” she said. He didn’t answer. She gave the door a kick and then turned an oval knob at eye level that locked it from inside — a useless move, but the final-sounding click was a satisfaction. Then she flung herself on the bed again and lay back to stare at the ceiling.
When she had been there a few minutes she began to see some humor in the situation. She got off the bed and circled the room, stopping to look out the window. “I’m stripping your bed, Timothy,” she called. “Now I’m tying the sheets together. Now I’m tying the blankets. I’m knotting them to the headboard, I’m hanging them out the window. Whee! Down I go.”
Timothy said nothing. She imagined him waiting aimlessly, feeling sillier by the minute but unable to back down.
She went over to the bureau, found two military brushes, and brushed her hair with both at once. She picked up a textbook and went back to the bed with it and looked at a diagram of the circulatory system. There seemed no point in memorizing it. She went through her pockets, hoping to find something time-consuming — a scrap of sandpaper, maybe. Timothy’s windowsill was scarred and peeling. But all she came up with was a rubber band, an unwrapped stick of chewing gum, six wooden matches and an envelope flap with a number on it. The rubber band she flipped into a light fixture on the ceiling, and the gum she dusted off and popped into her mouth. The matches she struck one by one on the windowsill and then held in her fingers, testing to see if telepathy could make a flame go out before it burned her. It couldn’t. She was relieved to see the flickering knot of blue proceed steadily downward, unaffected by anything so insubstantial as her thought waves, which flickered also, veering from the match in her hand to the silent figure behind the door. When she had blown the last match out, and wiped the sting from her fingers, she dialed the number on the envelope flap. “Hardware,” a man said. She dialed again, choosing the numbers at random. “I’m sorry, we are unable to complete your call as dialed,” someone told her disapprovingly. “Please hang up and dial again, or ask your operator for assistance. This is a—” Elizabeth slammed the receiver down. “Timothee,” she said, in the tone she might use for the cat, “I’m ready to come out now.”
“Did you call Matthew?”
She blew a strand of hair out of her face and tried another number. This time she hit on one that existed. A woman said, “Hello? Barker residence.”
“Oh, Mrs. Barker,” Elizabeth said, shifting her chewing gum to the back of one cheek. “This is Miss Pleasance calling, from Baltimore Gas and Electric? Your name has been referred to us for an in-depth study. Would you care to answer a question?”
“Why, surely,” Mrs. Barker said.
“Could you tell me if—”
“But first, I want to say that I just love the little leaflets you send out. The ones with the bills? Your recipe-of-the-month is especially helpful and of course I’m always interested to see what new appliances are out. Why, every time the bill comes I just sit right down and read every word.”
“You do?”
“Oh, my yes. And try the recipes. Living on a budget, you know, I especially appreciate those meals-in-a-skillet. Rice and what-not. Of course my husband prefers straight meat. ‘I’m a meat-and-potatoes man,’ he says, but I say, ‘Joe, you supply the money and then I’ll supply the meat. Until then,’ I say, ‘it’s meals-in-a-skillet for you, my friend.’ Well, he’s very good-natured about it.”
“Mrs. Barker,” Elizabeth said, “is your—”
“One thing I might mention, though—”
“Is your refrigerator running, Mrs. Barker?”
“Oh, you’re preparing for summer, aren’t you. I read what the leaflet said about summer: don’t leave your icebox door open and then come crying to us if the bill is high. Well, you don’t have to worry, Miss Pleasance. I know how you people are working to save us money and I do try to co-operate in every way I can. One thing I might mention, though, is the amount you depend on tomato sauce in your recipes. I wouldn’t bring it up except you did ask, and I feel it might be helpful for you to know. My husband doesn’t like tomato sauce. He says it’s too acid. I don’t know about other families, maybe they love tomato sauce, but it’s something for you people to think over. Have you considered chicken broth? Look, I’m so glad you called. Any time, any questions at all, you just feel free to give me a ring. I’m home all day. I don’t go out much. We just moved here and we don’t find Baltimore very friendly, although I hope I’m not stepping on your toes when I say that. But I just know we’ll settle in. And I take a great deal of pride in my home and feel sure I could tell you just anything you want to know about the typical housewife’s opinions. Are you concerned about your meter-reading service?”
“Well, not just now,” Elizabeth said.
“Any time you are, then—”