light inside. When Jonas and I came in I shut the door and bolted it and we were ready for the night.
“It’s a good dinner,” Constance said, warm and happy from cooking. “Come and sit down, Merricat.” With the door shut she had had to turn on the ceiling light, and our dishes on the table were neatly set. “Tomorrow I will try to polish the silverware,” she said, “and we must bring in things from the garden.”
“The lettuce is full of ashes.”
“Tomorrow, too,” Constance said, looking at the black squares of cardboard which covered the windows, “I am going to try to think of some kind of curtains to hide your cardboard.”
“Tomorrow I will barricade the sides of the house. Tomorrow Jonas will catch us a rabbit. Tomorrow I will guess for you what time it is.”
Far away, in the front of the house, a car stopped, and we were silent, looking at one another; now, I thought, now we will know how safe we are, and I got up and made sure that the kitchen door was bolted; I could not see out through the cardboard and I was sure that they could not see in. The knocking started at the front door, but there was no time to make sure that the front door was locked. They knocked only for a moment, as though certain that we would not be in the front of the house, and then we heard them stumbling in the darkness as they tried to find their way around the side of the house to the back. I heard Jim Clarke’s voice, and another which I remembered was the voice of Dr. Levy.
“Can’t see a thing,” Jim Clarke said. “Black as sin out here.”
“There’s a crack of light at one of the windows.”
Which one, I wondered; which window still showed a crack?
“They’re in there, all right,” Jim Clarke said. “No place else they could be.”
“I just want to know if they’re hurt, or sick; don’t like to think of them shut up in there needing help.”
“I’m supposed to bring them home with me,” Jim Clarke said.
They came to the back door; their voices were directly outside, and Constance reached out her hand across the table to me; if it seemed that they might be able to look in we could run together for the cellar. “Damn place is all boarded up,” Jim Clarke said, and I thought, good, oh, that’s good. I had forgotten that there would be real boards in the tool shed; I never thought of anything but cardboard which is much too weak.
“Miss Blackwood?” the doctor called, and one of them knocked on the door. “Miss Blackwood? It’s Dr. Levy.”
“And Jim Clarke. Helen’s husband. Helen’s very worried about you.”
“Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need help?”
“Helen wants you to come to our house; she’s waiting there for you.”
“Listen,” the doctor said, and I thought he had his face up very close to the glass, almost touching it. He talked in a very friendly voice, and quietly. “Listen, no one’s going to hurt you. We’re your friends. We came all the way over here to help you and make sure you were all right and we don’t want to bother you. As a matter of fact, we promise not to bother you at all, ever again, if you’ll just once say that you’re well and safe. Just one word.”
“You can’t just let people go on worrying and worrying about you,” Jim Clarke said.
“Just one word,” the doctor said. “All you have to do is say you’re all right.”
They waited; I could feel them pressing their faces close to the glass, longing to see inside. Constance looked at me across the table and smiled a little, and I smiled back; our safeguards were good and they could not see in.
“Listen,” the doctor said, and he raised his voice a little; “listen, Julian’s funeral is tomorrow. We thought you’d want to know.”
“There are a lot of flowers already,” Jim Clarke said. “You’d be really pleased to see all the flowers. We sent flowers, and the Wrights, and the Carringtons. I think you’d feel a little different about your friends if you could see the flowers we all sent Julian.”
I wondered why we would feel different if we saw who sent Uncle Julian flowers. Certainly Uncle Julian buried in flowers, swarmed over by flowers, would not resemble the Uncle Julian we had seen every day. Perhaps masses of flowers would warm Uncle Julian dead; I tried to think of Uncle Julian dead and could only remember him asleep. I thought of the Clarkes and the Carringtons and the Wrights pouring armfuls of flowers down onto poor old Uncle Julian, helplessly dead.
“You’re not gaining anything by driving away your friends, you know. Helen said to tell you—”
“Listen.” I could feel them pushing against the door. “No one’s going to bother you. Just tell us, are you all right?”
“We’re not going to keep coming, you know. There’s a limit to how much friends can take.”
Jonas yawned. In silence Constance turned, slowly and carefully, back to face her place at the table, and took up a buttered biscuit and took a tiny silent bite. I wanted to laugh, and put my hands over my mouth; Constance eating a biscuit silently was funny, like a doll pretending to eat.
“
“For the last time,” the doctor said, “we know you’re in there; for the last time will you just—”
“Oh, come away,” Jim Clarke said. “It’s not worth all the yelling.”
“Listen,” the doctor said, and I thought he had his mouth against the door, “one of these days you’re going to
“Leave them be,” Jim Clarke said. “Come on.”
I heard their footsteps going around the side of the house and wondered if they were tricking us, pretending to walk away and then coming silently back to stand without sound outside the door, waiting. I thought of Constance silently eating a biscuit inside and Jim Clarke silently listening outside and a little cold chill went up my back; perhaps there would never be noise in the world again. Then the car started at the front of the house and we heard it drive away and Constance put her fork down on her plate with a little crash and I breathed again and said, “Where have they got Uncle Julian, do you suppose?”
“At that same place,” Constance said absently, “in the city. Merricat,” she said, looking up suddenly.
“Yes, Constance?”
“I want to say I’m sorry. I was wicked last night.”
I was still and cold, looking at her and remembering.
“I was very wicked,” she said. “I never should have reminded you of why they all died.”
“Then don’t remind me now.” I could not move my hand to reach over and take hers.
“I wanted you to forget about it. I never wanted to speak about it, ever, and I’m sorry I did.”
“I put it in the sugar.”
“I know. I knew then.”
“You never used sugar.”
“No.”
“So I put it in the sugar.”
Constance sighed. “Merricat,” she said, “we’ll never talk about it again. Never.”
I was chilled, but she smiled at me kindly and it was all right.
“I love you, Constance,” I said.
“And I love you, my Merricat.”
Jonas sat on the floor and slept on the floor and I thought it ought not to be so difficult for me. Constance should have had leaves and soft moss under her blanket but we could not dirty the kitchen floor again. I put my blanket in the corner near my stool because it was the place I knew best, and Jonas got up onto the stool and sat there, looking down on me. Constance lay on the floor near the stove; it was dark, but I could see the paleness of her face across the kitchen. “Are you comfortable?” I asked her, and she laughed.
“I’ve spent a lot of time in this kitchen,” she said, “but I never before tried lying on its floor. I’ve taken such good care of it that it has to make me welcome, I think.”
“Tomorrow we bring in lettuce.”
