The Kill-Off

His face had gone white. The pale had pushed up, spread over the summer's tan; and all his color seemed concentrated in his burning black eyes.

'Why ain't you satisfied?' he said. 'What's there about me or my wife that makes our word less reliable than that of these other people?'

His voice was kind of a low, quivering purr. A kind of wound-up, coiled-tight undertone. He spoke again, repeating his question, and the quiver became stronger. The tenseness, the coiling seemed to extend to his body.

I began to get a little nervous, but I couldn't stop now. Not the way he was looking at me, the way he sounded: the way, in so many words, he was threatening me. If he'd just laughed again or even smiled a little; given me an opening to say, oh, hell, of course I was just joking…

'You've been kicking me in the teeth all evening,' he said, 'and I took it. But I ain't taking that last. When you tell me that my wife's word is no good-that she and I ain't as decent and upright as other people-then you throw the door wide open. You got a hell of a lot more tellin' to do then, buster, and by God you'd better not clown around when you do it. Because if you do-'

'Now, w-wait a minute,' I said. 'I-I-'

'What are you trying to cover up, Williams? Why did you go to such lengths to prove that this was an accident? You felt you had to, right? You had a guilty conscience, right? You knew-you sit there now, knowing that it was not an accident but murder. And knowing full well who the murderer is. That's right, isn't it, Williams? Answer me! You know who killed Luane Devore, and by God, I think I do, too! You've as good as admitted it. You've put the finger right on yourself! You've-'

'N-no! NO!' I said. 'I w-was with my sister! I-'

'Suppose I told you I'd talked with your sister? Suppose I told you she's admitted that you weren't with her? Suppose I told you I've only been playing with you all evening-getting you out on a limb with this one- person alibi deal? Suppose…'

His voice had uncoiled; he had uncoiled. He was in front of me, leaning toward me, pounding on the desk. He was there, but he was also behind me, to the side of me, above me. He seemed to surround me like his voice, closing in, shutting out everything else. Chasing me further and further into a black, bewildering labyrinth where only he and the voice could follow. I couldn't think. I-I-

I thought, Isn't it funny? How, when you feel so much one way, you act just the opposite?

I thought, She never said nothin'. Mama and Papa said I did real good… and she hated it. She hated me. All her life she's-

'She did it!' It was me, screaming. 'S-she said she was going to! S-she-she-she says I wasn't to home, why she wasn't either! S-she- -she-'

'Then she can't alibi for you, can she? You can't prove you were at home. And you weren't, were you, Williams? You were at the Devore house, weren't you, Williams? You were killing Luane, weren't you, Williams? Killing her and then faking-'

'N-N-NO! NO! Don't you s-see? I couldn't I-I couldn't hurt no one! H-honest, Mr. Kossmeyer! I-I ain't that way. I k-know it 1- looks like-like-but that ain't me! I couldn't do it. I didn't, d-didn't, didn't, didn't..

He was making little motions with his hands, motioning for me to stop. The whiteness was gone from his face, giving way to a deep flush. He looked ashamed and embarrassed, and kind of sick.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't really think you killed Luane. I just got sore, and-'

'He didn't kill her,' said a voice from the doorway. 'I did.'

11:

MYRA PAVLOV

Papa just about scared me to death when he came home for lunch. He didn't act much different or say anything much more out of the way than he usually does-I guess he really didn't actually. But I kept feeling like he knew about Bobbie and me, and that that was why he was acting and talking the way he was. And finally I just got so nervous and scared that I jumped up from the table, and ran up to my room.

Afterwards, sitting up on the edge of my bed, I was scared even more. I thought, Oh, golly, now I have done it. Now, he will know there's something wrong, if he doesn't already. I shivered and shook. I began to get sick to my stomach; kind of a morning sickness like I've had a lot lately. But I didn't dare go to the bathroom. He might hear me, and come upstairs. He might start asking Mama questions, and that would be just as bad, because she's even scareder of him than I am.

It's funny how we feel about him; I mean, the way we're always so scared of him. Because there's actually no real reason to be. He's never hit Mama or me. He's never threatened us or cussed us out. He's never done anything of the things that mean men are supposed to do to their families, and yet we've always been scared of him. Almost as far back as I can remember, anyway.

Well, after a moment or so, Mama left the table too, and came upstairs, stopped in the doorway of my room. I held my hand over my mouth and pointed. She pointed to my shoes. I slipped them off, and followed her down the hall to the bathroom. And, golly, was it a relief to get in there.

I used the sink to vomit in, and Mama kept running the water to cover up the noise. It was sure a relief.

We went back to my room, she in her shoes and me in my stocking feet. We sat down on my bed, and she put her arms around me and held me. She was kind of stiff and awkward about it, since we've never done much kissing and hugging or anything like that in our family. But it was nice, just the same.

It wasn't much later, but it seemed like hours before Papa left. Mama's arms slid away from me, and we both heaved a big sigh. And then we laughed, kind of weakly, because it was sort of funny, you know.

'How are you feeling, girl?' Mama said. 'Girl' is about as close as she ever comes to calling me a pet name. I said I was feeling pretty good now.

'Stand up and let me take a look at you,' Mama said.

I stood up. I pulled my dress up above my waist, and Mama looked at me. Then, she motioned for me to sit down again.

'It doesn't show none at all,' she said. 'You couldn't tell there's a thing wrong by looking at you. Of course, it wouldn't need to show if he's-he's-'

'Do you think he has, Mama?' I started to tremble a little. 'Y-you don't think he has heard anything, do you, Mama?'

'Well, sure, now,' Mama said quickly. 'Of course, he hasn't. I reckon he'd sure let us know if he had.'

'But-but what makes him act so funny then?'

'Mean, you mean,' Mama said. 'When did he ever act any other way?'

She sat, turning her hands in her lap, looking down at the big blue veins in the rough red flesh. Her legs were bare, and they were red and rough, too; bruised-looking where the varicose veins were broken. She was just kind of a mass of redness and roughness, from her face to her feet. And all at once I began to cry.

'There, there, girl,' she said, giving me an awkward pat. 'Want me to get you something to eat?'

'N-no.' I shook my head.

She said I'd better eat; I'd hardly touched my lunch. She said she could bake me up something real quick-some puff bread or something else real tasty.

'Oh, Mama.' I wiped my eyes, suddenly smiling a little. 'That's all you ever think of! I'll bet if a person had a broken leg you'd try to feed them!'

'Well…' She smiled, kind of embarrassed. 'I guess I would probably, at that.'