When Annie saw her she shut off the motor and the vacuum bag deflated with a drawn-out whine.
“This isn’t the time to be doing the rugs, is it?” Edith said.
“Annie looked surprised, and a little sulky. “Maybe not, but I figured I might as well be doing something if you wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.” She was gratified to note that her subtle counter-attack made Edith ill at ease, and she pressed her advantage. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Miss Morrow, I figured you’d look at the food grinder in the kitchen. It’s not working and Della accuses me of losing one of the parts which I never did.”
“Some other time — not now.”
“Well, I just thought, I was just thinking I needed it to make the stuffing for the veal.”
I’ll teach you, her eyes said, for keeping me away from the funeral of someone who had more class than all the rest of you put together.
“I just thought it’d be nice,” she said blankly. “You can’t buy food grinders any more.”
“All right, I’ll see it,” Edith said.
She passed the door of Lucille’s room without looking at it, and went down the stairs again with Annie following her. She had a sudden wild notion that Annie had opened the bundle from the hospital and seen the letter, that she must be placated.
“About Mrs. Morrow’s clothes,” she said, and tried to keep the agitation out of her voice.
“I put them in Dr. Morrow’s room,” Annie said. “Naturally he’ll want to look over it, I figured. I didn’t touch a thing.”
“I didn’t say you had.”
“Over here’s the grinder. See? Here’s where the screw’s missing.”
Edith bent over it. Her body drooped with weariness, it seemed that it would never have the strength to right itself again.
“It’s so... so complicated,” she whispered.
“If Mrs. Morrow was here, she’d know about it. She was real handy around the house.”
“I’m sorry, I...”
“You look real bad, Miss Morrow. Maybe you’d like a cup of tea? You go up and lie down and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I don’t really have to stuff the veal.”
Then why didn’t you say so? Edith screamed silently, why didn’t you say so?
“It’s just as nice not stuffed,” Annie said. “The tea’ll be up in a jiffy.”
“Thank you,” Edith said, and turned, and dragged herself back up the stairs. There was no use arguing with Annie, and no use getting excited. The letter wasn’t important. It was probably not there anyway, and even if it was, there was nothing in it except a record of her own fears and her own folly.
I’ll see about it later on, she thought, and lay down on her bed, with one arm shielding her eyes from the light.
Annie brought the tea in and left again. Edith lay without moving. She could feel her migraine coming on, the beat of the blood on one side of her neck and up along the artery behind the ear. Pretty soon the actual pain would be there, and after that the nausea. She began to massage the side of her neck gently, the way Andrew had told her to do when she felt the first symptom.
But it was no use. By dinnertime the pain was intense, and immediately after dinner she came back to her room and lay listening to the sounds that filtered through the house, Annie and Della washing up in the kitchen and then going up to their rooms on the third floor. A little later they came down again, whispering, and the back door opened and closed.
They’re going to a movie, Edith thought and remembered Janet Green and Tuesday, and the funeral, and then the letter again.
In the darkness she got off the bed and crept to the door and out into the hall. She could hear people talking down in the living room, and she waited until she could distinguish all their voices, Polly’s and Martin’s and Andrew’s, so she would know she was alone upstairs.
She hesitated, suddenly appalled by her own secretiveness. Why, they were her own family, down there. And she, herself, had every right to go into Andrew’s room and sort out Lucille’s clothes — every right, it was her duty, in fact, she must spare Andrew — there was no need to be afraid.
But in silence and in secret her slippered feet crossed the hall. It was only when she had switched on a lamp in Andrew’s room that some of her fear left her. For the room was like Andrew himself, it was familiar and comfortable and getting old, but it had worn well. Even the smell was reassuring — polished leather and books and tobacco.
She glanced toward the smoking stand beside the leather chair and saw that Andrew had left the lid of the humidor off. Automatically she walked over and replaced it. His pipe lay across the ash tray, and an open book straddled one arm of the chair.
He must have been up all night, she thought. Walking around and smoking and trying to read and then pacing the room again. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with pity for him and her knees sagged against the chair.
The book slid limply to the floor. It made only a faint noise, yet she went rigid, and a trickle of ice water seemed to ooze down her spine. Her ears moved a little, like an animal’s, waiting for some sound, some signal...
But there was no sound. Hurriedly she bent to pick up the book. It was a diary.
Funny, I didn’t know Andrew kept a diary, she thought. No, it can’t be his. The writing’s different, very round and big, and the ink’s faded. I mustn’t look at it... None of my business... I must find my letter...
She closed the book and put it on the arm of the chair again. She had already turned to walk away before the name on the cover penetrated to her mind.
Then she became aware that someone was walking along the hall outside. The blood pounded against her ears, and unconsciously she began to rub her neck.
“What are you doing in here, Edith?” Andrew said, and the door clicked in place behind him.
Her hand paused. “I... I was looking for Lucille’s clothes.”
“They’re in the closet. We thought you were asleep.”
“No... no... I... couldn’t sleep.”
She saw his eyes go toward the chair and falter.
“I didn’t read it,” she said. “It fell, I just picked it up. But I didn’t read it.”
“Don’t talk like a child. What difference would it make if you had read it?” He closed his eyes-for a second. “Mildred never wrote anything that other people couldn’t see.”
“You read it — last night?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve kept it all these years?”
“All these years, yes.”
Her hand began to move again up and down the cord of her neck. “But I thought — wasn’t it missing after she died? Didn’t the policeman...?”
“Yes, it was missing. I had it. I didn’t feel justified in handing my wife’s diary over to a policeman. You were the one who told the police that the only things missing after she died were the jewels she had on and her diary?”
“Yes, I told them, I was the one.”
“Silly of you, Edith,” he said gently. “Did you think there might be a clue in it?”
“Perhaps — for a while...”
He picked up the book and handed it to her. “Take it with you,”
“No, no, I wouldn’t want to read it! It will just upset me... I have this headache.”
“It won’t upset you. It’s a very ordinary diary, just the little things that happened to her day by day, about, the children, and us.”
He was still holding the book out to her and now she took it, almost without volition.
“Don’t show it to the children,” he said. “They’re not old enough yet to get any comfort from the past.”