say, ‘Oh, how awful,’ but they really get off on it. That’s human nature.”
“I . . . I’ve got things to do in the kitchen,” she said nervously. “Call me
when you’ve fixed the set.” She left the room and went down the hall through the
swinging door into the kitchen.
She was trembling. She despised herself for her weakness, for the ease with
which she surrendered to fear, but she could not help being what she was. A
mouse.
Aunt Violet had often said, “Girl, there are two kinds of people in the
world—cats and mice. Cats go where they want, do what they want, take what they
want. Cats are aggressive and self-sufficient by nature. Mice, on the other
hand, don’t have an ounce of aggression in them. They’re naturally vulnerable,
gentle, and timid, and they’re happiest when they keep their heads down and
accept what life gives them. You’re a mouse, dear. It’s not bad to be a mouse.
You can be perfectly happy. A mouse might not have as colorful a life as a cat,
but if it stays safely in its burrow and keeps to itself, it’ll live longer than
the cat, and it’ll have a lot less turmoil in its life.”
Right now, a cat lurked in the living room, fixing the TV set, and Nora was in
the kitchen, gripped by mouselike fear. She was not actually in the middle of
cooking anything, as she had told Streck. For a moment she stood by the sink,
one cold hand clasped in the other—her hands always seemed to be cold—wondering
what to do until he finished his work and left. She decided to bake a cake. A
yellow cake with chocolate icing. That task would keep her occupied and help
turn her mind away from the memory of Streck’s suggestive winking.
She got bowls, utensils, an electric mixer, plus the cake mix and other
ingredients out of the cupboards, and she set to work. Soon her frayed nerves
were soothed by the mundane domestic activity.
Just as she finished pouring the batter into the two baking pans, Streck stepped
into the kitchen and said, “You like to cook?”
Surprised, she nearly dropped the empty metal mixing bowl and the battersmeared
spatula. Somehow, she managed to hold on to them and—with only a little clatter
to betray her tension—put them into the sink to be washed. “Yes. I like to
cook.”
“Isn’t that nice? I admire a woman who enjoys doing woman’s work. Do You sew,
crochet, do embroidery, anything like that?”
“Needlepoint,” she said.
“That’s even nicer.”
“Is the TV fixed?”
“Almost.”
Nora was ready to put the cake in the oven, but she did not want to carry
the pans while Streck was watching her because she was afraid she would shake
too much. Then he’d realize that she was intimidated by him, and he would
probably get bolder. So she left the full pans on the counter and tore open the
box of icing mix instead.
Streck came farther into the big kitchen, moving casually, very relaxed, looking
around with an amiable smile, but coming straight toward her. “Think I could
have a glass of water?”
Nora almost sighed with relief, eager to believe that a drink of cold water was
all that had brought him here. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. She took a glass
from the cupboard, ran the cold water.
When she turned to hand it to him, he was standing close behind her, having
crept up with catlike quiet. She gave an involuntary start. Water slopped out of
the glass and splattered on the floor.
She said, “You—”
“Here,” he said, taking the glass from her hand.
“—startled me.”
“Me?” he said, smiling, fixing her with icy blue eyes. “Oh, I certainly didn’t
mean to. I’m sorry. I’m harmless, Mrs. Devon. Really, I am. All I want is a
drink of water. You didn’t think I wanted anything else—did you?”
He was so damned bold. She couldn’t believe how bold he was, how smart-mouthed
and cool and aggressive. She wanted to slap his face, but she was afraid of what
would happen after that. Slapping him—in any way acknowledging his insulting