Strangers by Mort Castle Read Free Book Online Page A

have been a wax statue whose features had been instantly reworked by a sculptor’s invisible hand. His mouth became a cruel slash. His nostrils flared. His eyes held the too-bright gleam of taxidermist’s glass,
    I do not know him, she thought. I have never known him.
    Michael opened the top drawer of the desk. He took out the ruler.
    Trembling, she held out her hand, palm up. Michael slowly ‘raised the ruler, keeping it an unending, frozen moment at the peak of its climb.
    She waited for the fiery slash.
    The ruler sliced the air, a blur, first the brownish-yellow of wood, then shining steel as it becomes a long, sharp knife that severed her hand at the wrist.
    There was no blood. There was no pain. Her hand lay on the green—desk blotter, fingers curled up, an insect dying on its back.
    Michael-Who-Was-Not-Michael said, “Now the pain. Now the blood.”
    And he—Michael-Who-Was-A-Stranger—stabbed her, the knife a cold intrusion in her belly, stabbed her, a twisting sharpness in her chest, stabbed her, a rending, ferocious agony in her throat.
    This is a dream! Dreams cannot hurt you! Dreamscannothurt! Beth screamed in her mind.
    Her subconscious commanded all its resolve, willed her Out —out of the dream-horror. Thoughts rushed in to soothe her, comfort her: All is well and my children are safe I am safe no fear no harm no hurt no danger no killing no blood no death No Death NO DEATH!!!
    The succession of consoling ideas wove together in a heavy tapestry that covered over her dream, hiding it under a thick-layered cloth of assurance, concealing it from memory.
    When Beth Louden awoke the next morning, she felt tired, a bit achey and cranky, as though she had not had a good night’s sleep. She thought she might have had a nightmare.
    She tried to recall it.
    She could not, not for the life of her.
     
    — | — | —
     

FOUR
     
     
    MICHAEL PIERCED the yolk of his second over-easy egg with the corner of a half slice of toast. At the counter, Beth, in her housecoat, poured herself coffee in a yellow “Smiley Face” mug and then came to join him. Through the east window, the sun cast a sharply angled parallelogram between them on the butcher block table.
    “Good eggs,” Michael said. He performed a Groucho Marx, eyebrow waggling leer. “Eggs help a man restore some of his recently drained vital juices.”
    Beth laughed. “Michael, you are terrible.”
    “I yam what I yam and ‘at’s all what I yam,’ Michael grinned, left eye set in a Popeye squint.
    The portable radio on the counter reported the eight o’clock weather forecast. The start of the work week would be—“What else, Chicagoland?” demanded a manic deejay—another scorcher, temperature near 90, humidity near “hideous!”
    Michael said, “We could use a good rain, break this heat wave.”
    “It would help,” Beth agreed.
    Same old scene in the same old script, Michael thought. Breakfast: The Husband and The Wife discuss The Weather, and then, naturally, The Kids.
    “What time do Marcy and Kim roll in?” he asked.
    “The bus is supposed to be at their school by 10:30. I’ll leave here early, though, so I can stop out at Lincoln Junior College for a catalog and registration information before I pick up the girls.”
    “Uh-huh,” Michael nodded, finishing the egg, then saying what he knew she’d be pleased to hear. “I’m glad to see you’re excited about going back to school, Beth.”
    “And I’m glad you’re glad. I think it will mean something important to us both. I mean , our future doesn’t have to be more of the present routine, does it?”
    “Right,” Michael said—and his future definitely would not be. As for Beth— Hey, kiddo, you probably don’t want to plan too far ahead, okay?
    Toying with the handle of her mug, Beth pursed her lips thoughtfully. She said, “It’s been strange—not having the girls home these two weeks. I’ve missed them and worried about them, but, you know, I think it did work out