double entendres or other offenses—seemed sure to encourage rather than deter
him.
He stared at her with unsettling intensity, voraciously. His smile was that of a
predator.
She sensed the best way to handle Streck was to pretend innocence and monumental
thick headedness, to ignore his nasty sexual innuendos as if she had not
understood them. She must, in short, deal with him as a mouse might deal with
any threat from which it was unable to flee. Pretend you do not see the cat,
pretend that it is not there, and perhaps the cat will be confused and
disappointed by the lack of reaction and will seek more responsive prey
elsewhere.
To break away from his demanding gaze, Nora tore a couple of paper towels from
the dispenser beside the sink and began to mop up the water she had spilled on
the floor. But the moment she stooped before Streck, she realized she’d made a
mistake, because he did not move out of her way but stood over her, loomed over
her, while she squatted in front of him. The situation was full of erotic
symbolism. When she realized the submissiveness implied by her position at his
feet, she popped up again and saw that his smile had broadened.
Flushed and flustered, Nora threw the damp towels into the waste can under the
sink.
Art Streck said, “Cooking, needlepoint . . . yeah, I think that’s real nice,
real nice. What other things do you like to do?”
“That’s it, I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t have any unusual hobbies. I’m not a
very interesting person. Low-key. Dull, even.”
Damning herself for being unable to order the bastard out of her house, she
slipped past him and went to the oven, ostensibly to check that it was finished
preheating, but she was really just trying to get out of Streck’s reach.
He followed her, staying close. “When I pulled up out front, I saw lots of
flowers. You tend the flowers?”
Staring at the oven dials, she said, “Yes . . . I like gardening.”
“I approve of that,” he said, as if she ought to care whether he approved or
not. “Flowers . . . that’s a good thing for a woman to have an interest in.
Cooking, needlepoint, gardening—why you’re just full of womanly interests and
talents. I’ll bet you do everything well, Mrs. Devon. I mean everything a woman
should do. I’ll bet you’re a first-rate woman in every department.”
If be touches me, I’ll scream, she thought.
However, the walls of the old house were thick, and the neighbors were some
distance away. No one would hear her or come to her rescue.
I’ll kick him, she thought. I’ll fight back.
But, in fact, she was not sure that she would fight, was not sure that she had
the gumption to fight. Even if she did attempt to defend herself, he was bigger
and stronger than she was.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re a first-rate woman in every department,” he repeated,
delivering the line more provocatively than before.
Turning from the oven, she forced a laugh. “My husband would be astonished to
hear that. I’m not too bad at cakes, but I’ve still not learned to make a decent
piecrust, and my pot roast always turns out bone-dry. My needlepoint’s not half
bad, but it takes me forever to get anything done.” She slipped past him and
returned to the counter. She was amazed to hear herself chattering on as she
opened the box of icing mix. Desperation made her garrulous. “I’ve got a green
thumb with flowers, but I’m not much of a housekeeper, and if my husband didn’t
help out—why, this place would be a disaster.”
She thought she sounded phony. She detected a note of hysteria in her voice that
had to be evident to him. But the mention of a husband had obviously given Art
Streck second thoughts about pushing her further. As Nora poured the mix into a
bowl and measured out the required butter, Streck drank the water she had given
him. He went to the sink and put the empty glass in the dishpan with the dirty
bowls and utensils. This time he did not press unnecessarily close to her.