A Stranger in My Grave Read Free

to cast a reflection on him and his ability to look after them properly. “Frightened of what?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œYou can’t be frightened without having something to be frightened about. So what is it?”
    â€œYou’ll laugh.”
    â€œBelieve me, I never felt less like laughing in my life. Come on, try me.”
    She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “I had a dream.”
    He didn’t laugh, but he looked amused. “And you’re crying because of a dream? Come, come, you’re a big girl now, Daisy.”
    She was staring at him across the table, mute and melancholy, and he knew he had said the wrong thing, but he couldn’t think of any right thing. How did you treat a wife, a grown woman, who cried because she had a dream?
    â€œI’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t meant to—”
    â€œNo apology is necessary,” she said stiffly. “You have a perfect right to be amused. Now we’ll drop the subject if you don’t mind.”
    â€œI do mind. I want to hear about it.”
    â€œNo. I wouldn’t like to send you into hysterics; it gets a lot funnier.”
    He looked at her soberly. “Does it?”
    â€œOh yes. It’s quite a scream. There’s nothing funnier than death, really, especially if you have an advanced sense of humor.” She wiped her eyes again, though there were no fresh tears. The heat of anger had dried them at their source. “You’d better go to your office.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you so mad about?”
    â€œStop swearing at—”
    â€œI’ll stop swearing if you’ll stop acting childish.” He reached for her hand, smiling. “Bargain?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œThen tell me about the dream.”
    â€œThere’s not very much to tell.” She lapsed into silence, her hand moving uneasily beneath his, like a little animal wanting to escape but too timid to make any bold attempt. “I dreamed I was dead.”
    â€œWell, there’s nothing so terrible about that, is there? People often dream they’re dead.”
    â€œNot like this. It wasn’t a nightmare like the kind of dream you’re talking about. There was no emotion connected with it at all. It was just a fact.”
    â€œThe fact must have been presented in some way. How?”
    â€œI saw my tombstone.” Although she’d denied that there was any emotion connected with the dream, she was beginning to breathe heavily again, and her voice was rising in pitch. “I was walking along the beach below the cemetery with Prince. Sud­denly Prince took off up the side of the cliff. I could hear him howling, but he was out of sight, and when I whistled for him, he didn’t come. I started up the path after him.”
    She hesitated again. Jim didn’t prompt her. It sounded real enough, he thought, like something that actually happened, ex­cept that there was no path up that cliff and Prince never howled.
    â€œI found Prince at the top. He was sitting beside a gray tomb­stone, his head thrown back, howling like a wolf. I called to him, but he paid no attention. I went over to the tombstone. It was mine. It had my name on it. The letters were distinct, but weathered, as if it had been there for some time. It had.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œThe dates were on it, too. Daisy Fielding Harker , it said. Born November 13, 1930. Died December 2, 1955 .” She looked at him as if she expected him to laugh. When he didn’t, she raised her chin in a half-challenging manner. “There. I told you it was funny, didn’t I? I’ve been dead for four years.”
    â€œHave you?” He forced a smile, hoping it would camouflage his sudden feeling of panic, of helplessness. It was not the dream that disturbed him; it was the reality it suggested: someday Daisy would die, and there would be a genuine tombstone in that very cemetery