Hours to Kill
locked both front and kitchen doors, something was obviously open. With a dim glance at the clock—a quarter of four—Margaret got up, put on her robe, and went to investigate.The dark hall, the long black spaces beyond it, were so nightmarishly alive with air and stirrings that she was shocked wide awake; it was as though the seeking night had broken loose in here at last, and lights might show her some unseeable tiling. With a feeling of near panic she got a lamp on, closed a yawning, swaying casement window in the dining room, followed a strong curl of cold air into the kitchen. When she found the light switch, the bird mobile was spinning wildly, one pair of red wings smashed when the window from which the mobile hung had been flung open against a cabinet. The broken body dipped and flew with the others with a sickening impervious grace. Before Margaret could reach the window it slammed against the cabinet again and the little red head wrenched downward and hung there.
She got the window closed, trembling, and nearly cried out at a sound in the doorway behind her. It was Hilary, of course; it couldn’t very well be anybody else but Hilary, waked by the wind, as she had been—
And terrified. Chalk white, pupils pinpointed in eyes that looked yellower than usual, jaw set to keep her teeth from chattering. Margaret said, quieting her own alarm as well, “What a night—windows have been blowing open all over the house. Are there any open in your room?”
Hilary stared speechlessly and then shook her head. She seemed to be shivering in her quilted robe. Margaret said conversationally, “Well, let it blow, everything’s nice and tight now. Would you like some warm milk before you go back to bed?”
Hilary got her locked lips open. “I hate warm milk.”
“So do I, and so does everybody I know and everybody I ever heard of. Who got this warm milk business up, do you suppose?” Margaret was talking at random, babbling, really, because the child was so tense and terrified. Now, of course, was the time to say without warning, “Where did you get that picture of Philip, and the other things?” But Margaret could not; she was still so appalled at Hilary’s face that she delayed along the bank of windows, saying idly aloud, “That’s locked, and that . . before she moved toward the light switch. Hilary said rapidly, “Is the cellar door bolted?”
“Always,” said Margaret, hiding a further sense of shock, “but I’ll check while I’m up. And then, Hilary, you must go back to bed. It’s four o’clock, and you’ll be as cross as a witch in the morning. There, that’s that, and now let’s go.”
Hilary’s mouth had lost its desperate tightness, but Margaret went back with her to her room and examined the window fastenings ostentatiously. “A hurricane couldn’t get in here now, and if you hear anything in the night it’s me, getting up for a cigarette. All set? I think,” said Margaret casually, “that I’ll leave my door open, and yours. With all this running around in the middle of the night, you might have to wake me up in the morning ”
“Mrs. Foale’s bird is broken,” said Hilary suddenly, and even Margaret, unfamiliar with children, recognized the driven and scapegoat quality of this utterance.
“It’s her own fault for hanging it up on a window that opens in,” she said, “and anyway there are enough birds here to stock a good-sized forest, so don’t worry about it. Goodnight, Hilary.”
But how basically cruel, she thought presently, listening to the balked and muted sounds of the wind, to have a houseful of lifeless birds at all, no matter how beautiful the medium; to take pleasure out of contemplating, in total stillness, something whose element was freedom.
And the gay, worn little shoes. And the handkerchief . . . the wonder was that the initial hadn’t been made out of humming-birds rather than forget-me-nots. And the inheritance . . . with a deeper exhaustion than she had felt in years, Margaret slept.
The morning was gray, with Hilary totally recovered. Except for the branches and twigs that littered the front lawn, and the broken bird which Margaret cut down, mocking at herself, the night before might never have happened.
It was a busy morning. Margaret was in the middle of the breakfast dishes when the phone rang and a woman’s voice said expectantly, “Isabel?”
“Mrs. Foale is away—abroad, I believe.”
“Oh, and who is this?”
It was a form of rudeness which Margaret disliked immensely. She said crisply, “Miss Russell. And this is . . . ?”
“When did Mrs. Foale leave, do you know?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Oh, dear. How very—” From the exasperated tone, Mrs. Foale might have been up Margaret’s sleeve. “I suppose you have no idea when she’ll be back?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Pause. “Then I might—well, thank you so much,” said the voice dismissingly, and the receiver went down.
Might what? Come to the house to get something, or leave something, and discover Hilary’s forbidden presence? Margaret, reflecting rather grimly on this, was interrupted by a distant crash.
Cornelia had indeed put a number of breakables away, but she had put them at the back of the high shelf in the closet in Hilary’s room, not foreseeing the possibility of Hilary’s shooting a rubber band up, climbing on her suitcase to grasp the shelf with both hands, and pulling the whole business down. A glass candlestick had splintered, and a black pottery bowl which looked horrifyingly valuable. A number of hats and a mass of purple wool still on knitting needles had cushioned the trip for several other objects.
Teeth-grinding would not help here. “Get me the broom, Hilary,” said Margaret in measured tones.
“I was only—”
“I am trying very hard not to beat you, but I will need help. Get me the broom, and the dustpan.”
Cornelia was keeping a list, conscientiously, and now a glass candlestick and a pottery bowl must be added to it, along with