What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell Read Free Book Online Page A

you might just tell him I’ve decided to sell the house. That should surprise him. Tell him I’m ready to sell to the first buyer.”
    The voice on the phone took on a slightly puzzled tone. “All right, I’ll tell him. And I’ll have him call you.”
    Blanche said good-bye and then, just as she was going to hang up, hesitated, listening. Though the secretary had already hung up, there was still a sound of contact on the line, a faint, whispered breathing. It continued for a moment or two and then, with a faint click, disappeared.
    With a frown of concern Blanche lifted the phone from her lap and placed it on the desk. She had purposely brought it into her room from the hallway so that Jane wouldn’t overhear her from downstairs. There was no really good reason for this, she supposed,or none at least of which she was consciously aware. It just seemed better to discuss the matter of selling the house privately with Bert before mentioning it to Jane. There was time enough to tell Jane when she was sure of what actually could be done. Then, too, there was no telling; with Jane in her present state, the idea of moving might upset her all the more.
    There was no sense, either, in being annoyed with Jane for eavesdropping; even confronted with it she would only deny it and then do it again at the very first opportunity. But it was annoying, knowing that from now on all her telephone conversations would be monitored from downstairs. Also she wondered—and with a faint feeling of apprehension—what Jane’s reaction to selling the house might actually be, now that she knew. Turning her chair to face the window, Blanche let her eyes trace the intricate pattern of the grillwork against the sharp blue of the sky. Circles within circles, strong straight lines swerving off suddenly, tapering away into nothing. Like life itself. Like reason and unreason.… Blanche cast the thought from her, pulling her gaze quickly back into the room.
    She looked back at the phone, suddenly certain in her own mind that Jane, having come upon the information about selling the house as she had, would surely oppose the idea. From experience Blanche knew that anything originating with her at the moment was sure to meet with Jane’s automatic disapproval. And anything that Blanche had planned in secret—well, there were bound to be repercussions from that!
    Blanche curled her hands tightly around the arms of her chair. She had made up her mind; she was determined. She only had to think of some way to allay Jane’s opposition before it began. If she could just make Jane believe that she herself opposed the plan. If she could make her think that Bert was forcing a sale against her own objection… for financial reasons…
    She nodded to herself, certain she had found the right way to win Jane over. Once Jane believed Blanche was against selling the house, she would support the idea. At least she wouldn’t botherto make a fuss about it. Blanche looked across to the push button fixed to the side of the bedside table. Frowning, she started in that direction. And then, abruptly, she stopped and turned her head toward the open doorway:
    “Oh, the postman, he won’t mind,
    ’Cause Mama says that heaven’s near.
    Tho’ you’ve left us both behind,
    I am writing, Daddy, dear.
    I l-o-v-e you!”
    As the song echoed with distant and terrible sweetness up the stairway and into the room, Blanche remained perfectly still, listening. Eyes closed, she simply sat there, as if transfixed, and then a slight shudder passed through her wasted body.
    She stood in the center of the room, a squat pudding of a woman in a soiled cotton house dress patterned with faded lilacs and daffodils. On her feet she wore flat-heeled sandals of red patent leather and bobby socks of pale pink. Above the rolled tops of the socks the whitish flesh of her age-thickened legs was heavily scored with broken blue veins. In the dyed, cherry-red ringlets of her hair was an enormous satin bow