Jessica had not burned the meat that night. She had kept a decent supper for him in the oven, and she served it to him with a timidity that made him wonder if she was not about to return to him as his wife. After supper, he read to the children and then rolled back his shirtsleeves and sat down at the piano. As Jessica was preparing to leave the room, she turned and spoke to him. Her manner was pleading, and this made her eyes seem larger and darker, and deepened her natural pallor. “I don’t like to interfere,” she said softly, “and I know I don’t know anything about music, but I wonder if you couldn’t ask her—your teacher—if she couldn’t give you something else to practice. That exercise is on my mind so. I hear it all day. If she could give you a new piece—”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I’ll ask her.”
BY HIS FIFTH LESSON, the days had grown much shorter and there was no longer any fiery sunset at the foot of Bellevue Avenue to remind him of his high hopes, his longings. He knocked, and stepped into the little house, and noticed at once the smell of cigarette smoke. He took off his hat and coat and went into the living room, but Miss Deming was not on her rubber cushion. He called her, and she answered from the kitchen and opened the door onto a scene that astonished him. Two young men sat at the kitchen table, smoking and drinking beer. Their dark hair gleamed with oil and was swept back in wings. They wore motorcycle boots and red hunting shirts, and their manners seemed developed, to a fine point, for the expression of lawless youth. “Well be waiting for you, lover,” one of them said loudly as she closed the door after her, and as she came toward Seton he saw a look of pleasure on her face—of lightness and self-esteem—fade, and the return of her habitually galled look.
“My boys,” she said, and sighed.
“Are they neighbors?” Seton asked.
“Oh, no. They come from New York. They come up and spend the night sometimes. I help them when I can, poor things. They’re like sons to me.”
“It must be nice for them,” Seton said.
“Please commence,” she said. All the feeling had left her voice.
“My wife wanted to know if I couldn’t have something different—a new piece.”
“They always do,” she said wearily.
“Something a little less repetitious,” Seton said.
“None of the gentlemen who come here have ever complained about my methods. If you’re not satisfied, you don’t have to come. Of course, Mr. Purvis went too far. Mrs. Purvis is still in the sanatorium, but I don’t think the fault is mine. You want to bring her to her knees, don’t you? Isn’t that what you’re here for? Please commence.”
Seton began to play, but with more than his usual clumsiness. The unholy old woman’s remarks had stunned him. What had he got into? Was he guilty? Had his instinct to flee when he first entered the house been the one he should have followed? Had he, by condoning the stuffiness of the place, committed himself to some kind of obscenity, some kind of witchcraft? Had he agreed to hold over a lovely woman the subtle threat of madness? The old crone spoke softly now and, he thought, wickedly. “Play the melody lightly, lightly, lightly,” she said. “That is how it will do its work.”
He went on playing, borne along on an unthinking devotion to consecutiveness, for if he protested, as he knew he should, he would only authenticate the nightmare. His head and his fingers worked with perfect independence of his feelings, and while one part of him was full of shock, alarm, and self-reproach, his fingers went on producing the insidious melody. From the kitchen he could hear deep laughter, the pouring of beer, the shuffle of motorcycle boots. Perhaps because she wanted to rejoin her friends—her boys—she cut the lesson short, and Seton’s relief was euphoric.
He had to ask himself again and again if she had really said what he thought he heard her say, and it seemed so improbable that he wanted to stop and talk with Jack Thompson about it, until he realized that he could not mention what had happened; he would not be able to put it into words. This darkness where men and women struggled pitilessly for supremacy and withered crones practiced witchcraft was not the world where he made his life. The old lady seemed to inhabit some barrier reef of consciousness, some gray moment after waking that would be demolished by the light of day.
Jessica was in the living room when he got home, and as he put his music on the rack he saw a look of dread in her face. “Did she give you a piece?” she asked. “Did she give you something besides that drill?”
“Not this time,” he said. “I guess I’m not ready. Perhaps next time.”
“Are you going to practice now?”
“I might.”
“Oh, not tonight, darling! Please not tonight! Please, please, please not tonight, my love!” and she was on her knees.
THE RESTORATION of Seton’s happiness—and it returned to them both with a rush—left him oddly self-righteous about how it had come about, and when he thought of Miss Deming he thought of her with contempt and disgust. Caught up in a whirl of palatable suppers and lovemaking, he didn’t go near the piano. He washed his hands of her methods. He had chosen to forget the whole thing. But when Wednesday night came around again, he got up to go there at the usual time and say goodbye. He could have telephoned her. Jessica was uneasy about his going back, but he explained that it was merely to end the arrangement, and kissed her, and went out.
It was a dark night. The Turkish shapes of Bellevue Avenue were dimly lighted. Someone was burning leaves. He knocked on Miss Deming’s door and stepped into the little hall. The house was dark. The only light came through the windows from the street. “Miss Deming,” he called. “Miss Deming?” He called her name three times. The chair beside the piano bench was empty, but he could feel the old lady’s touch on everything in the place. She was not there—that is, she did not answer his voice—but she seemed to be standing in the door to the kitchen, standing on the stairs, standing in the dark at the end of the hall; and a light sound he heard from upstairs seemed to be her footfall.
He went home, and he hadn’t been there half an hour when the police came and asked him to come with them. He went outside—he didn’t want the children to hear—and he made the natural mistake of protesting, since, after all, was he not a most law-abiding man? Had he not always paid for his morning paper, obeyed the traffic lights, bathed daily, prayed weekly, kept his tax affairs in order, and paid his bills on the tenth of the month? There was not, in the broad landscape of his past, a trace, a hint of illegality. What did the police want with him? They wouldn’t say, but they insisted that he come with them, and finally he got into the patrol car with them and drove to the other side of town, across some railroad tracks, to a dead-end place, a dump, where there were some other policemen. It was a scene for violence—bare, ugly, hidden away from any house, and with no one to hear her cries for help. She lay on the crossroads, like a witch. Her neck was broken, and her clothes were still disordered from her struggle with the great powers of death. They asked if he knew her, and he said yes. Had he ever seen any young men around her house, they asked, and he said no. His name and address had been found in a notebook on her desk, and he explained that she had been his piano teacher. They were satisfied with this explanation, and they let him go.