Once again the dress bore no label – Wherever does he find these things? she wondered – and, as before, the material felt like silk. Shrugging off her robe, she slipped the dress over her head and examined herself in the mirror on the closet door, pressing the cloth against her belly, breasts, and hips. Like the first dress, now safely packed off to the cleaners, its hemline was cut rather high, and she realized that, once more, she was going to have to keep her knees tight together when she wore it. Maybe Rosie found her legs exciting; or else he just didn't know the length young women were wearing their skirts these days.
She would have to call him to thank him – he's really spoiling me, she decided – but she was feeling too tired now. Still in the dress, she returned to the couch. The cloth felt smooth and cool against her bare skin; there was something a little bit sinful about it. She lay back and stretched her legs. The TV, with its volume down, was practically inaudible.
'Unprecedented temperatures,' someone was saying. 'Freak storms. .. ' She ran her hand inside the collar, touching her neck. 'Warm air masses over New Jersey… '
New Jersey. Visions of the countryside, the peaceful blue skies of the farm, came back to her in the breeze from the fan. She remembered tiny silver fishes darting in the stream, the fields of young corn, Sarr and Deborah and the kittens.
'Reports of thunder,' the TV was saying. 'Changes in the atmosphere… ' She ran her hand deeper beneath the dress, closed her eyes, and thought of Jeremy.
Thunder last night, but heard no rain. Wonder if the weather's affected the stream, because walking by it today, I noticed it's becoming clogged with algae.
Chicken amp; dumplings for dinner. Had three helpings. Deborah didn't seem to mind.
Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen, 1818, chapters one through seven. Not the parody I'd expected – the mock-Gothic bit obviously isn't central to the story – but witty nonetheless. Fun to picture Deborah in the leading role.
Love stories tend to bore me, but this one's proved quite bearable so far.
Bwada seems to be almost completely healed now, at least outwardly, though still may have some sort of throat obstruction. When she miaows there's a different timbre, a kind of huskiness. Sarr's mother is coming tomorrow to look at her.
Read some more Le Fanu in bed. 'Green Tea,' about a phantom monkey with eyes that glow, amp; 'The Familiar,' about a staring little man who drives the hero mad. In neither case – cf. de Maupassant's 'The Horla' – is the hero sure just why he's been singled out.
Not the smartest choices right now, the way I feel, because for all the time that fat grey cat purrs over the Poroths, she just stares at me. And snarls. I suppose the accident may have addled her brain a bit, or perhaps she somehow blames me for it, or has forgotten who I am, or something… Can a cat's personality change like that?
Petted Toby tonight, the little orange one – my favorite of the bunch, the one I like to play with even though my nose gets clogged amp; my ears tear. Came away with a tick on my arm which I didn't discover till I undressed for bed. A tiny flat thing, paper thin, like a squashed spider; it was dull red, no doubt from having made a meal for itself on my blood. As a result, I can still feel, even now, imaginary ticks crawling up amp; down my spine.
Damned cat.
July Thirteenth
Another poor night's sleep. Awakened sometime shortly before dawn by thunder, not so distant now. Once or twice I swear it shook the ground. No sense to it at all; the weather had been mild enough when I went to bed, amp; it's just the same right now, with not a sign of rain. Maybe the noise was caused by 'heat lightning' – you sometimes read about such things; but though I sat up for half an hour last night peering through the screens, I saw no lightning.
I did hear someone singing (or trying to) very late, out toward the farmhouse and the road. Possibly just an old tramp out on some night-time excursion, but it didn't sound like one. It's hard to tell, though, when you're half asleep; maybe it was only Sarr or Deborah gargling in the bathroom.
I've been thinking a lot about Deborah lately – about how little Sarr seems to appreciate her. Sure, he grabs her all the time amp; obviously likes having her around, but I wonder if he wouldn't feel the same way toward any woman within reach. Still can't decide if anything went on between him amp; Carol.
For that matter, I wonder just how much Deborah really cares for him. He's tall amp; powerfully built, sure, if you happen to like that type. (And I guess most women do.) But guys like that can sometimes be so goddamned boring…
Of course, Deborah might not mind being bored. Anyone who could spend all day shelling peas, or shoving seeds into holes, or praying on her knees, obviously has a pretty high boredom threshold. Still, I can't help thinking that Deborah's interested in me. She's certainly attentive enough, giving me all that good food, taking my side against Sarr whenever disagreements arise. And she certainly is looking good these days, the more I see of her. That long black dress may cover her up to the neck, but the cloth is thin (thank God for summer!), amp; I'm sure she wears nothing beneath it.
I know it's wrong to have these thoughts, no doubt the loneliness is getting to me, but I can't help wondering if Sarr ever goes off by himself in the evening – a night out with the boys, maybe. I sure wouldn't mind being alone with Deborah some time…
This morning, though, all three of us were together, up in the work area Sarr's constructed in the attic of the barn. The two of them were cutting strips of molding for the extra room upstairs, and I was helping, more or less. I measured, Sarr sawed, Deborah sanded. All in all I hardly felt useful, but what the hell?
While they were busy I stood staring out the window. There's a narrow flagstone path running from the barn to the main house, amp; Toby amp; Zillah were crouched in the middle of it taking the morning sun. Suddenly Bwada appeared on the back porch amp; began slinking along the path in our direction, tail swishing from side to side. When she got close to the two little ones she gave a snarl -1 could see her mouth working – amp; they leaped to their feet, bristling, amp; ran off into the grass.
Galled this to the Poroths' attention. They claimed to know all about it. 'She's always been nasty to the kittens,' Deborah said, 'maybe because she never had any of her own.' (I thought she sounded a bit wistful.)
'And besides,' said Sarr, 'she's getting old.'
When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn't think she'd gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I'd unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the chinks in the floorboards.
Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat had been acting a bit odd these days, ever since the accident. It's not just the kittens she fights with; Azariah, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her.
Sarr was more helpful. 'It's sure to pass,' he said. 'We'll see what my mother thinks.'
Mrs Poroth arrived while they were eating lunch. The three of them had been seated at the table, talking about the general store. 'It wasn't always a co-operative,' Sarr was saying. 'Years ago, before my father ran it, it was owned by just two families, the Sturtevants and the van Meers. It did quite well in those days, so I've been told, but then there were several bad years in a row. The rain was poor, some crops around here failed, and the price of corn fell off. 'Twas just a streak of bad luck. Nobody was at fault, and nobody could have predicted it-'
'Some folks could.'