Z for Zachariah

Chapter Eighteen

Still June 3oth

That was my self-lecture, but it did not work perfectly. I continued to feel uneasy; in fact the next night was slightly worse. He asked me to play the piano.

Again he was sitting in the living-room in my father’s chair, with two lamps lit. Playing the piano should have been, in a way, better than reading, since I was reasonably sure that he would at least listen—I knew he had liked it before. The difficulties were mechanical and (again) probably not really important. First, I was tired, and piano playing is harder than reading. Second, I had to sit with my back to him, and I felt unreasonably wary about that.

Did I expect that he would come creeping up on me from behind? I did not really think he would, and yet as I played the first piece, a Clementi Sonatina, I had a terrible urge to look over my shoulder, and I kept trying to play softly so I could hear if he moved. As a result I played very badly, hitting more wrong notes than right ones. I resolved to do better on the next one, so I picked a very slow and easy Andante by Heller (from the “Easy Pieces”), one I knew almost from memory, and I concentrated on it. It was quite long; I did the repeats, and it was going well—when all at once I heard his cane tapping behind me. It tapped twice, clearly and sharply, and I could not control myself. I whirled around on the bench. He was still sitting in the chair. He had not moved at all.

He said: “Is something wrong?”

“Your cane,” I said. “It startled me. I thought—" I stopped, not wanting to say what I had thought.

“My cane slipped,” he said, “but I caught it.”

I turned and tried to play again, but by now my hands were shaking so badly I could not really do it. His cane did not look as if it had slipped. It was hooked over the arm of his chair and his hand was resting on it. I was really nervous. I tried a hymn, but half way through it I had to stop. I turned around again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t play any more. I think I’m just too tired.”

“Tired so soon?” he said.

“I’ve been working all day,” I said. “I suppose that’s why.” Of course that was not why at all, and I was pretty sure he knew it. I thought he had tapped the cane purposely, just to see what I would do. I do not know what he expected. I even thought: maybe he is trying to frighten me. But why should he? That was making up trouble again.

He said: “There is too much work. But quite soon now I will be able to do some of it. Then you must show me how to operate the tractor.”

But when I went to bed, even that thought kept me from sleeping. It was ironic; as a child, and even right up to the time Mr Loomis had come, I hadn’t particularly liked working in the fields. I preferred to cook, or feed the animals. Yet in the last few days the times I felt best were when I was out alone, working in the garden or running the tractor.

The next night he did not ask me either to read or play the piano. I was a little surprised, since I had got the dinner a bit earlier than usual, but I decided it must be because the night before, I had said I was tired. In fact, after dinner he did not sit in my father’s chair at all but disappeared into his room. So, since it was still light after I had cleaned up the kitchen, and the evening was pleasant, I went with Faro for a walk. There was no breath of wind; everything was quiet; it was the time of the long twilight that valleys have while the sun is still setting outside. We walked slowly down the road to the church, and I felt glad and almost peaceful again at being away from the house. Faro seemed to feel the same way—at least he did not scurry around and sniff, but just plodded along quietly, his toenails clicking on the tarmac. When we reached the church I did not go in, but sat on the edge of the small white porch outside the front door; Faro lay on the step and rested his chin on my feet as he sometimes does. Up above in the belfry I could hear the two crows in their nest clucking themselves down for the night, sounding like chickens; I could also hear the higher twittering of at least two or three babies, one of which I had found behind the altar.

When they had quietened down and the air was turning grey I stood up and started back to the house. At this time of evening at this season, in the old days, the whippoorwills would have flown in from the south and we could hear them singing in the pine trees, sometimes so loudly they kept us awake. But now all I heard was a beetle buzzing past; up the hillside I saw a few fireflies blinking, the first I had seen this year. I was glad there were some of them left, at least.

About half way back the house came into view, rather vague in the dim light. I was level with the pond and was just looking to see if there were any fish-ripples on the surface when a movement straight ahead caught my eye. I stopped and looked harder. It was Mr Loomis walking from the house to the wagon; it reminded me of the time before, when he was so sick and had fired the gun. But he walked more purposefully this time, and so far as I could see he was not even using the cane.

I could not see exactly what he was doing because of the faint light—also some bushes were partly in the way. But he walked slowly around the wagon, bent over it a couple of times as if looking at something, and then stood up straight and stared down the road. I did not think he could see me, since I had stepped some way off the road to look at the pond; Faro was sitting still in the high grass. After about two minutes (I stayed still) he turned and walked back to the house, mounting the porch steps carefully, holding on to the rail. I suppose he had been checking on the safe-suit. He definitely did not have the cane.

I waited until he had gone back into the house and the door closed behind him; I started to walk back and then, for some reason, did not want to quite yet, so I sat down on a hummock beside the road and watched the fireflies some more. Finally, after about half an hour, when it was fully dark, I went back. The house was unlighted. I went directly up to my bedroom and sat on the bed. Faro came in with me, lay down, and went to sleep immediately.

I lit a candle, set and wound the clock, and sat for a few minutes thinking what I must do tomorrow. I felt sleepy after my walk but uneasy. I kicked off my shoes but decided not to undress, at least for a while.

The next thing I knew I woke up in pitch darkness; the candle had burned out, and Faro was growling. The growl changed to a short yip of surprise; his feet scuffled on the floor and he ran out. I wondered what had startled him and then, in the next second I knew. Mr Loomis was in the room.

I could not see anything at all, but I could hear his breathing. I knew in the same second that he could hear mine. I started to hold my breath but that was foolish—he knew I was there. So I tried to breathe normally; I tried not to tremble, thinking, perhaps he would think I was still asleep; perhaps he would go away. He moved, very slowly and quietly—he did think I was still asleep. But I was never more wide awake.

He crept forward until he was just beside me, just where Faro had been. I felt his hand, groping, touch the edge of the bed. Then, suddenly, both his hands were over me, not roughly, but in a dreadful, possessive way that I had never felt or imagined. His breathing grew faster and louder. He was not going to go away. I could sense that, and I knew what he was planning to do as clearly as if he had told me. One hand moved upward, brushed my face, and then came down hard on my shoulder to pin me to the bed. At that instant pretence ended. I whirled to one side, sprang to the floor, and made a dive for the door. In the same second his whole weight landed on the bed where I had just been.

But I had tripped over his leg in my dive and before I could get my balance his hand, grabbing blindly, had caught my ankle. His grip was fiercely strong; he was pulling me back and my hands, grasping for something to hold, slid backwards over the smooth floor. His other hand groped forward and caught the back of my shirt. I pulled forward again, heard the shirt rip and felt his fingernails tearing the skin of my back. I hit back with my elbow as hard as I could.

By good luck I think I hit him in the throat. He gave a gasp, and his loud breathing stopped momentarily. So did his grip on my ankle and my shirt, and in a burst I was out of the door and running, my shirt rent down my back.