Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson

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СКАЧАТЬ but this was real life and she knew from past experience that it tended to hit back, generally very hard.

      In need of reassurance, a previous wishful thought was some comfort: what if the intruder had already left? Maybe it was Michael, maybe not, but if the house was now empty, she was getting herself into a stew over nothing. A lengthy pause to listen confirmed all seemed quiet. The only obvious sounds were from traffic on the nearby highway and her own restricted breathing. Apart from that, the house was as silent as the grave.

      Smart choice of words, Estelle! She began to rise, slowly, cautiously, the mail still clutched tightly in a clenched fist. Then she was slipping off her shoes and tip-toeing along the hall towards the lounge. Why don’t you just leave? pleaded an astonished inner voice. “I can’t,” she whispered aloud, “I have to know.” A few more steps and she was hissing: “Oh, God, Jason. If only you were here!”

      She’d made it to the phone and paused. He's just a seven-digit number away, nudged memory, then added his words: "... anything at all, phone me - day or night..." This was the kind of 'anything' he had meant.

      She placed the mail on the small table, began reaching for the receiver, then hesitated. To do, or not to do? Unable to decide, she made a tight fist to reset the nerves, opened her fingers and tried again. The hand refused to go any lower as if there was a string attached to it from the ceiling. Was this the puppeteer on high trying to keep her from making what might be a huge mistake? Or was it something closer to home? There was an undeniable need to involve Jason in her life, make him a part of it. Above all, a longing to hear his voice, right at that moment. But if her fears proved to be imaginary, far better that she convince herself of it than drag Jason over on a wild goose chase.

      Leaving the phone, she went into the lounge. There was a great deal to be said for open plan - very few doors to creak as they were opened and it was possible to see into rooms without actually entering them, and be able to dash through from one to the next without delay if need be. Conversely, doors were quite handy barriers to shut behind a person if they were being pursued. It was too late to worry now: the house was built, she was in it, and so too was her prospective attacker - maybe.

      The lounge was as she had left it - comfortably empty. So, too, were both the dining room and the kitchen. Each of these discoveries generated a little more confidence until she was on the verge of feeling normal again - at least, as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.

      She continued to search the rest of the house, finally arriving at the very satisfactory conclusion that she was definitely alone. All that lingered was that unnerving, nauseous feeling whenever privacy has been invaded. Whether by her own husband or another, she didn't know, but it was, nevertheless, unsettling.

      Taking her nervous disposition to the point of becoming a phobia, she went around the house checking locks and latches, and even went so far as to pluck some hairs from her head, licked them, then stuck them across the gaps between all of the outside doors and their frames. Maybe it would work, maybe not, but they did it in the movies.

      During the next half hour, a continuous routine was established - checking rooms, windows, doors, locks, and hairs, paying special attention to this last device. Far from easing tension, the frequent patrols exacerbated it. A slight detour to the cocktail bar seemed a desirable cure. Taking the glass into the kitchen, the next intended port of call, she drowned the splash of vodka with orange juice. A sip or two later, she was padding along the hall to examine the security of the front door when the phone rang - right behind her!

      Estelle gasped. Her heart stopped. She jolted. A third of the drink slopped out of the glass. Some splashed the wallpaper, but most of it ended up on the carpet. Unaware of this, she stood trembling, mildly alcoholic juice dripping from her hand, eyes wide and staring at the phone which continued to herald an incoming call, daring her to answer.

      It's a phone, she told herself. What harm can a phone do you? It can blow up, was the condescending reply. It happens all the time. Maybe the phantom intruder planted a bomb!

      The imagined threat was terrifying - ridiculous, but terrifying. Despite the self-reassurance, she bent to peer under the resonating instrument, not really knowing what to look for, expecting there might be some sign of tampering. It appeared quite innocuous, just like any other phone. Finally, the warbling stopped.

      Estelle caught her breath. She listened, hoping to hear nothing, praying there would be no ticking. Then it dawned that some bombs were designed to stop ticking just before they went off! A nervous glance in the direction of the front door confirmed it was probably too far to reach in time. Plus, it was latched, dead-locked, and haired!

      The phone started up again. After two warbles and when no explosion had rocked the house, she reproached herself for being stupid. The third and fourth warbles provided the opportunity for a determined swig of the drink, then her hand was swooping for the receiver and had gathered it up before the fifth had finished.

      No bang. No blinding flash.

      "Yes?" she hissed testily, and waited.

      "Estelle," said a man’s voice. "What's wrong? It's me - Jason."

      She let out a huge, relieved sigh. "Oh, Jason__!" It almost came out - Darling - but she managed to stifle herself just in time. "__It's you.” Had that expressed too much relief? Another quick sip of the drink and she tried again. “Nothing's wrong."

      "It doesn't sound that way. I knew I shouldn't have let you go home alone. I'm coming over."

      "No!" Calm down, Estelle. "Honestly, Jason, there's nothing the matter. It was a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow."

      "I wanted to catch you before you went to bed," he explained. "I don't suppose you'd consider changing your mind about leaving now before Michael gets back?"

      It might be too late for that, she thought. He could already be here. "I can't, Jason. I told you why. I want this over with. A couple of days and it will be. I realise it must be hard for you, having to take a back seat, but it will be worth it. I promise you." Oh, no! That sounded like a promiscuous come-on and brought an embarrassed flush to her face.

      Jason hadn’t picked the double-meaning and the assurance brought no comfort. "Okay, if you're sure. But it's going to be a hell-of-a wait."

      "Just think of all those chipped teacups," she said, adding a chuckle.

      "I'm thinking," he said. There was a long pause. "I had an idea after I left you tonight. It's about the field trip. Is there any reason that you know of why you shouldn't pack for it now?"

      "My clothes and stuff, you mean?"

      "Clothes and whatever else ladies cart around with them when they go on holiday."

      "You're beginning to sound like a chauvinist."

      "I'm serious, Estelle," he insisted. "If you packed now, tonight, would that be a problem?"

      "No, but I don't see why__"

      "Will you do it, then? Please. For me? Maybe I'm being an old woman, but if your bags are packed and you have to leave quickly for any reason..."

      "I can't see why I'd need to," she lied, glancing towards the front door, trying to see if the hair was still attached or whether it had fallen off, "But I'll do it - for you. And I'll put it in the car, ready."

      "What about Michael's luggage when you collect him from the airport? Won't he get suspicious if he sees your case СКАЧАТЬ