dust. Nevertheless the arm stirred; the object at the end of it, which felt like a bundle of sticks wrapped in torn leather, tried to close on his hand.
Choking, he pulled himself free. Some of the sticks came loose and plunked on the rotten carpet. The flashlight fell beside them, and he heard glass breaking. It didn’t matter, he was at the gap, he could hear movement in the shop, cars and buses beyond. He had no time to wonder who was in there before he turned.
The first thing he saw was that the light wasn’t that of streetlamps; it was daylight. At once he saw why he had made the mistake: the gap was no longer there. Except for a single brick, the wall had been repaired.
He was yelling desperately at the man beyond the wall, and thumping the new bricks with his fists—he had begun to wonder why his voice was so faint and his blows so feeble—when the man’s face appeared beyond the brick-sized gap. Lee staggered back as though he was fainting. Except that he had to stare up at the man’s face, he might have been looking in a mirror.
He hadn’t time to think. Crying out, he stumbled forward and tried to wrench the new bricks loose. Perhaps his adult self beyond the wall was aware of him in some way, for his face peered through the gap, looking triumphantly contemptuous of whoever was in the dark. Then the brick fitted snugly into place, cutting off the light.
Almost worse was the fact that it wasn’t quite dark. As he began to claw at the bricks and mortar, he could see them far too clearly. Soon he might see what was holding the light, and that would be worst of all.
THE HOUSE AT EVENING
by Frances Garfield
Frances Garfield was born Frances Marita Obrist on December 1, 1908 in Deaf (rhymes with “leaf”) Smith County, Texas. Not long afterward, her family moved to Wichita, Kansas, where Garfield grew up, attending Wichita University (now Wichita State University). There she met neophyte writer, Manly Wade Wellman; in 1930 she and Wellman were married, and the couple soon moved to New York, where Wellman became a regular contributor to
The sun had set and another twilight had begun. The western sky took on a rosy tinge, but none of the soft color penetrated into the lofty bedroom.
Claudia leaned toward the bureau. Her stormy black locks curtained her face as she brushed and brushed them. It was a luxurious, sensuous brushing. Her hair glistened in the light of the oil lamp.
Across the room sat Garland. She quickly combed her short blonde hair into an elfish mop of curls. “Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about a great banner like yours,” she said.
“Never you mind,” Claudia laughed back. “We both know it’s impressive.”
They both applied makeup generously. Claudia fringed her silvery eyes with deep blue mascara and Garland brushed her pale eyebrows with brown. Each painted her lips a rosy red and smiled tightly to smooth the lipstick.
They finished dressing and went down the squeaking staircase to the big parlor. Darkness crept in, stealthily but surely. They picked up jugs of oil and went about, filling and lighting all the ancient glass-domed lamps. Light flickered yellow from table and shelf and glistened on the wide hardwood floor boards. Claudia took pride in those old expanses, spending hours on her knees to rub them to a glow. Garland arranged a bowl filled with colorful gourds on the mahogany table that framed the back of a brocaded couch. She put two scented candles into holders and lighted them.
Then they stood together to admire the effect of the soft light, Claudia in her red satin, Garland in her dark, bright blue. They checked each other for flaws and found none.
“I’d like to go walking outside, the way we used to do,” said Garland. She glanced down at her high-heeled slippers. They weren’t too high. “I’ll only be gone a little while.”
“There’s not much to see out there,” said Claudia. “Nobody much walks here anymore. It’s been a long time since we’ve had company.”
“Maybe I’m just being sentimental,” smiled Garland. Her eyes twinkled for a moment, as if with some secret delight. “But maybe I’ll bring somebody back.”
“I’ll stay here in case anybody calls,” Claudia assured her.
The big wooden front door creaked shut behind Garland. She crossed the gray-floored piazza and ran down the steps to the path of old flagstones. Periwinkle overflowed them and knotted its roots everywhere. Ivy and honeysuckle choked the trees, autumn leaves poured down from the oaks. An old dead dogwood leaned wearily at the lawn’s edge. Garland picked her way carefully.
An owl shrieked a message in the distance. Garland smiled to herself. She had worn no wrap out in the warm evening, but she nestled into the soft collar of her silky dress to feel its closeness. She breathed deeply of the night air.
Falling leaves whispered like raindrops. But there were only vagrant clouds in the sky. A young moon shone upon the old sidewalk, upon old houses along the way. They were large, pretentious houses, the sort called Victorian. They were ramshackle. No light shone from any window. Garland might have been the only moving creature in the neighborhood. Once this had been an elegant area on the edge of the old town that existed mainly for Ellerby College, but people had moved out. Deterioration had set in. Urban renewal threatened the neighborhood.
All at once Garland heard something—voices, hushed, furtive. She saw two tall young men coming toward her. She looked at them in the moonlight. They were handsome, sprucely dressed, looked like muscular young athletes. She hadn’t seen their like for a while, and she felt a surge of warmth through her body.
They were near now, she could hear what they said.
“My Uncle Whit used to come here when he was in college,” one young voice declared. “He said this was called Pink Hill. Said you’d be mighty well entertained.”
Now she passed them, and turned at once to go back toward her house. She quickened her steps. For a moment she didn’t know whether to be sad or happy. If only she hadn’t lost her touch—but she knew her body, firm, sweet-looking. As she passed them again, she spoke.
“Hey,” she greeted them.
One, tall with a neat, dark beard, spoke shyly. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”
Garland smiled. If she had had dimples, she would have flashed them. “Yes, but there’s a chill in the air. I think I’ll just go back home. Maybe make some hot chocolate—or tea.”
Away she walked ahead, her hips swinging a trifle, not so fast as to lose touch with them.
They seemed to be following her, all right. The bearded one was speaking, and Garland strained her ears to hear.
“After all,” he was saying, “we did sort of think we were looking for experience.”
The other, the fair-haired athletic one, said something too soft for Garland to hear. But it sounded like agreement.
She walked on, watching her feet on the treacherous pavement. There were so many cracks in that old cement. Sure enough, the two boys were coming along with her. Again she felt a flood of internal warmth. She felt almost young again, almost as young as she must look. Carefully she timed the sway of her hips. There was the
