The Listening Walls by Margaret Millar Read Free Book Online Page B

man, more like Amy than he would ever realize. “You’ll drive carefully, won’t you, Gilly?”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t call me that. It sounds absurd.”
    â€œYou don’t object when Amy calls you . . .”
    â€œIt was my nickname when we were children. She uses it unconsciously. And I do object. Remind me to speak to her about it when she comes home.”
    Helene’s expression didn’t change, but she felt a sud­den sick feeling in her stomach and the coffee she was drinking seemed to have turned sour. I don’t want her to come home. She is two thousand miles away. I like it this way.
    David, the thirteen-year-old, bounced into the room, wearing the uniform of the military day school he attended. “Morning, all.”
    â€œWhat on earth,” Helene asked, “is the matter with your face?”
    â€œPoison oak,” he said cheerfully. “Roger and Bill got it, too, when we were out on maneuvers. Boy, the sergeant was mad. He said the Russians could have landed while the whole bloody bunch of us were chasing around after poison oak.”
    â€œI’ll call for you after school and take you to the doc­tor.”
    â€œI don’t want to go to any bloody doctor.”
    â€œStop saying that word. It’s not very nice.”
    â€œThe sergeant uses it all the time. He’s an English­man. They always say bloody. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Uncle Rupert’s home. He phoned last night when you were out.”
    â€œYou might,” his father said, “have told me before.”
    â€œHow could I, when you were out?”
    â€œIs Amy all right?”
    â€œI don’t know. He didn’t say anything about her.”
    â€œWell, what did he say?”
    â€œJust that he was going to be home all day today and would like to see you about something important.”
    â€œI’ll call right . . .”
    â€œHe said not to call. It’s a very private matter. He wants to talk to you in person.”
    Gill was already on his feet.
    The two men shook hands and Gill said immediately, “Amy’s all right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere is she? Still in bed?”
    â€œShe’s—we can’t talk out here. You’d better come in.”
    The house was dark and quiet and musty, as if the peo­ple who lived there had been away for a long time. No sun filtered through the drawn blinds, no sound crept past the closed windows. Only in the den, at the end of the long, narrow hall, had the drapes been pulled open, and the morning sun hung dusty in the air. On the tiled coffee ta­ble was a half-empty highball glass smudged with lipstick, and beside it, an unstamped envelope with the name “Gilly” written across the front in Amy’s boarding-school script.
    Gill stared at it. The letter was wrong; the silent man at the window, the too-quiet house, the half-empty glass, all seemed ominous. He cleared his throat. “The letter—it’s from Amy, of course.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy? Why a letter, I mean.”
    â€œShe preferred to do it that way,” Rupert said, without turning.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œExplain why she went away.”
    â€œWent away? Where?”
    â€œI don’t know where. She refused to tell me.”
    â€œBut this is preposterous, it’s impossible.”
    Rupert turned to face him. “All right, have it your way. It’s preposterous and impossible. It happened, though. Some things can happen without your knowledge or per­mission.”
    They glared at each other across the sunny room. When Amy was around to smooth things over, the two men had been civil to each other and observed the amenities. Now, without her presence, the unspoken gibes and un­voiced criticisms that had accumulated through the years seemed to hang between them, ready to be plucked out of the air and used as strings to either bow.
    â€œShe took her clothes,”