porch.
“What do you want?”
“I had to see you. I just didn’t know where else to turn, I didn’t know who else to go to, this is a lovely house…”
She entered the living room and swept the panorama with a little turn of admiration. “Oh,” she said. “It’s so nice. You’ve done this so nice. And it’s so much bigger than my place. Look at those curtains. It’s unusual for a man to have curtains, I mean, such nice, big ones like that. I mean, men tend to just live with what they have, don’t they, but floral curtains- someone must have put a lot of thought into that, I bet.”
Dyce moved to the other side of her so that he was standing between her and the hall leading to the bathroom. He could not imagine what was going on with her or why she was here. What did she mean about his curtains?
“It’s lovely, it really is. And what is that you’re burning? Incense? Is that incense?”
She leaned over one of the saucers and waved the fumes to her nose.
“I never really knew what incense smelled like. That’s such a nice touch, it really is, Mr. Dyce. You’ve done everything up so nicely.”
She ran a finger across the table draped with white silk.
“Did you have help?”
“What?” Dyce asked dully. His mind was racing with priorities, possibilities, and necessities. Nothing she said made any sense to him.
“Did you have help decorating at all?” Helen swept an arm around the room. Dyce followed it, trying to imagine what she saw.
“It looks like a woman’s touch.”
“I don’t know what… what did you want?”
“I just had to see you tonight. I’m sorry, I would have called, but you only had your address on your checks, not your phone number. I just felt so awful. I know we don’t know each other very long, but I feel that I know you. Am I wrong? I feel I can talk to you in a way I can’t to anybody else. There’s something between us. I know it, I just know it.”
She stopped speaking abruptly and stood in the middle of the room, trembling. She had said it. This was the moment: He would either laugh at her or throw her out, or, worst of all, treat her with pity.
Dyce’s expression was still one of confusion, but she noticed his chest was heaving as if he were reacting with strong emotion-or struggling to control himself.
“Would you like me to go now?” she asked at last.
“I don’t think I can let you go,” he said.
“Oh, Mr. Dyce!” She took a step toward him, then stopped herself It was better to let them make the first move, if they could ever be coaxed into making it. But he cared, he clearly cared!
“I’ll wait here if you want to turn off the shower,” she said, seating herself in the overstuffed chair that she knew must be “his.”
“Yes,” said Dyce. “The shower.” He left the room, then came back almost immediately. He gave Helen a very peculiar smile.
“Don’t go away,” he said and for the first time that night there was animation in his voice.
“I won’t.”
“Because I think we have to talk,” said Dyce.
She smiled at him, then lowered her eyes. When she looked up, he had gone. Realizing the chair was a mistake because it would not allow him to sit beside her, Helen transferred to the sofa. Like all the other furniture in the room, it was heavy and old, as if it had come from a different age. She sank into it and caught a whiff of mildew. The living room itself was the dumpiest thing she had ever seen, Helen thought. The curtains looked as if they’d been made by hand by somebody’s grandmother. There was practically no light in the room, and what was that thing with the white silk on it, some kind of altar? And the smell! No wonder he was burning incense, although she wondered if that might not go with the altar in some way, too. She hoped he wasn’t religious in some obsessional way. She could deal with it if he was because she had been that way for a time herself She understood it, but the memory of her days in the commune still rankled, and she didn’t want to be reminded if she could help it. God was all right; it was the people that troubled Helen.
Impatiently she got to her feet and made a circuit of the living room. A little light would do wonders, she decided. Preferably sunlight. The cobwebs on the ceiling caught her attention. She wondered if smoke from the incense turned them that black. At least he seemed to be clean in his personal hygiene. Had he decided to finish his shower? The water was still running. How long could it take to turn it off?
Pausing by the foyer entrance, Helen thought of extinguishing the fire under the rattling pot on the stove. What could require such a violent, prolonged boiling? Was that the source of the stench? It was all she could do to keep herself from going into the kitchen and taking charge.
The bathroom was filled with mist and the mirror was filmed over so that Dyce could not see his reflection. He wanted to know how he looked, what she might have seen. His brain was careening; he could not think clearly what to do. How much did she know? Did she know anything? Why was she here, could he believe her reasons, was there something else, what had he left visible in the living room? And if she did see anything, what conclusions could she reach? It all seemed an impossible maze. He needed time to think.
After a few minutes, Dyce remembered to turn off the shower. He pulled the shower curtain closed, put down the toilet seat, and sat on the toilet. The mist settled on his cool skin and soon rivulets of water ran down his face and his naked legs, but he did not notice.
It did not occur to him to kill her. Dyce did not think of himself as such a person. He was not a man of violence. The things he did with the men were not done from malice or panic or ill will of any sort. He did them because they needed to be done, but that was only one small segment of his life and certainly not the dominant part of his personality. That was not the way he lived his life, for heaven’s sake. It was not the way he would solve his problems. He would have thought less of himself if he did.
Helen could contain herself no longer. The noise from the pan lid in the kitchen was driving her crazy and was probably dangerous. Fires could get started that way. She was doing him a service. Helen went into the kitchen. It was the largest pot she had ever seen in a home.
Fire had blackened the aluminum halfway up the sides, and the carbon was thick enough to scrape off with the edge of a spoon. Two burners were going at high flame underneath the pot, and scum and foam were pushing at the lid and oozing from underneath it. The bubbles of scum came out rhythmically, like gulps or gasps for air that were cut short by the weight of the lid bearing down again. Some of the foam would drift down the side of the pot to meet the flames and then vanish in an angry sizzle of steam as the fire emitted momentary sparks of yellow and green. The smell of it was horrible.
Helen reached for the burner but turned, frightened, as she realized someone was behind her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You frightened me!”
“Don’t turn it off,” Dyce said.
“It’s boiling over. It will be ruined.”
“It won’t be ruined,” he said.
“What on earth are you making?”
Dyce took her by the hand and led her from the kitchen.
“It’s not important,” he said. He preceded her to the couch, still holding her hand, then sat, pulling her gently down beside him. His manner had changed dramatically. For the only time since Helen had known him, he appeared to be in charge of things. She definitely felt he was in charge of her. Wonderfully, masterfully in control.
“I was just trying to help,” she said.
“I understand,” he said calmly. He sat facing her, one leg draped over the other and resting on the floor. Helen realized that he had put on pajama bottoms. but his torso was still bare beneath the robe. The skin of his chest was smooth and hairless.
“Tell me what brought you here,” he said.
Helen pulled her knees up under her. She felt so comfortable with him when he spoke to her like this. So secure. She was his, if only he knew it. Helen was glad the lights were dim because she had applied the purple
