The Secret City Read Free Page A

kitchen, all the latest appliances. No sign of a man, though. If a man had been here that first time she’d not have been so frightened and it would have been the man who found me. Come out with a rifle, no doubt, and shot me on the spot.
    Still there might have been a husband. She may have men’s clothes. Sometimes they keep everything, though sometimes they get rid of everything in a hurry before they have a chance to think. Mother was like that. She got rid of all there was of Dad (not much) and then was sorry later. As was I.
    The bedroom is small and cramped, the bed unmade. I suppose she doesn’t have much energy for cleaning anymore. There’s the picture of a man on the dresser but no men’s clothes. She must be one who threw away all her husband’s things right away. But when I check more carefully, I find a man’s workshirt in with her things. She’s probably been wearing it herself.
    It’s a blue farmer’s shirt. I take off my flowery shirt and put on the farmer’s shirt. The buttons are a little stressed across my barrel chest and the sleeves are a little short but I roll them up so it doesn’t matter. It’s so old it’ll tear easily.
    In the bathroom I find several pink ladies razors. I put a few in my pocket.
    As I come back to check on the old lady, I see a man’s jacket hanging by the front door. Frayed corduroy, out at the elbows. I’ve hardly seen a uglier one. Has she been wearing that, too?
    There’s a whole array of hats on the rifle rack next to the door. Except for one. 22 at the top, the rack holds only canes and hats. I find a floppy soft one with a brim I can pull close over my face. I’m going to stay away from baseball caps from now on. I’ll be a camper. One of those canes will be nice, too.
    It’s a very small house. Even so I wonder if I can hide here a few days while the police are running around looking for me. Let the chase simmer down until they think I’m long gone.
    Just as I come back to the living room, the telephone rings. I step behind the door. There’s an answering machine. It’s a woman’s voice. “Mother, I can’t come up this weekend. Mickey has an ear thing. The same as he had last time.” But then the old woman staggers up, holds on to the furniture. Says, “Oops,” as she plops into the chair by the phone. Her hello is breathless.
    Now that she’s answered, I can only hear her side of the conversation. “I’m fine. I had a dizzy spell but I’m all right. I lay down on the couch and I’m much better now. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. I’ll stay in here by the cooler. Yes, Rosemary comes on Mondays and the police are checking with me every day … ever since they found that man in the bushes.”
    Doesn’t she remember seeing me? Or maybe she doesn’t want to mention it for fear of worrying her daughter.
    I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I start back into the hallway, but she’s wobbling there, one hand on the wall. She goes to lock the front door. She mutters to herself. “She lets him eat anything he wants. He’s not getting enough vitamins. But I’ve got to keep my mouth shut. “ She goes down the hall to the back door and locks it, too. Says again,
“Got
to keep my mouth shut.”
    I stand “stone still” (as we say, not the natives) beside the jacket at the front door. She doesn’t see me. I don’t think her eyes are very good.
    When she comes into the kitchen and sees the kettle already boiling, she says, “I’m even more addled than I thought.” Perfect. I’ll hide here a few days. I don’t think she’ll notice and even if she did she’d think she was mistaken.
    She gets out a saucer, pours in cream and puts it on the floor. I’m thinking, addled indeed, but then she calls, “Come on kitty, kitty, kitty.” It doesn’t come. I’m not sure if there is a cat or if there just used to be.
    She putters around for a few minutes and I think she’s forgotten about the tea. But no, here comes the teacup.