You'll See!

You'll See!

An Almost-Contemporary Tale

by Dai Alanye

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Copyright 2010 by Dai Alanye

Smashwords Edition 1.81

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You'll See! is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It is offered free, but if you wish to share the story with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Despite its being offered at no charge, all rights are reserved by the author. Please don't copy, transfer or in any way alter the book beyond excerpting for purposes of published reviews.

You'll See! is an original work of fiction. All characters, locations and incidents are creations of the writer's imagination. Any resemblances to actual happenings, or to persons living or dead are strictly coincidental.

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You’ll See!

Chapter 1 Town

day 1, Sat Aug 24, a score of years past

Light filtered through bedroom curtains and Charly woke, sensing something gone wrong. Her eyes wandered over cracked ceiling plaster in their morning ritual, her ears scanned the frequencies for early sounds—house noises, faint bird calls.

Nothing else, not even…

Yikes, no alarm! She panicked before remembering it was Saturday. Thank Heaven—the one day she could gain blesséd extra sleep.

Her eyes drifted shut once more.

…and she lay on the beach, her flowing golden hair melding with silver-white sands—the sun hot, a cool sea-breeze rustling the palms. The waves, the soughing of the wind, the distant calls of seabirds—all seemed a conspiracy to lull her half asleep.

Adrian leaned close, his deeply-tanned left pectoralis major gently brushing her right deltoid.

He spoke in a husky whisper: Come away with me, Elise—now. Don't return to your five-star hotel—we'll simply swim out and sail away.

His yacht swung at anchor, masts dipping to the eternal rhythm of the trade winds.

A mere two days we've spent with each other, he said, but two days with you is like eternity with any other woman. Come with me! I want you to see the black volcanic sands of Maui, the crystalline beaches of Bora-bora, the Great Barrier Reef—track lemurs and aye-ayes on Madagascar, view Cape Horn by moonlight, watch the giant sea-turtles come ashore at… I dunno—the Galapagos, or wherever.

The child, she protested.

Child! What child? I refuse to believe your slim youthful figure has ever borne a child. Besides, he laughed softly, a child aboard a romantic cruise for two? How inappropriate!

But the child, Adrian! She's calling me!

Don't obsess, Elise. There's no child, no child, no child…

She jerked erect, panicking a second time until she remembered—letting her eyes re-close, wondering why she'd again wakened.

"Momma! Are you awake, Momma? Momma!"

Now she knew.

Uhhh-hh… Uh, I am now, I guess. Can't you stay in bed awhile, Honey?

I'm hungry, Momma.

No you're not, Frankie—you aren't hungry in the morning.

I am today, Momma—real hungry… Momma?

Wait a second, she muttered. Gimme couple minutes to wake up. Get dressed or something.

She allowed herself the luxury of one heartfelt groan before sliding her legs off the bed. Blast! Why couldn't she sleep late on the one day possible? Frankie never wanted to get up on weekdays—almost always balked.

She pulled on the first clothes at hand and lurched downstairs to prepare a facsimile of breakfast.

The milk carton was almost empty, forcing a choice between cereal or hot chocolate for the girl. After consideration she decided to water it to stretch. Thin milk wouldn't hurt anything—nutrition would remain, though the flakes would be a bit mushier, the instant chocolate thinner. Frankie wouldn't notice or care.

Absolutely got to shop today.

One more blasted chore! She needed to review bills and figure how to stretch her measly pay—and the car was running on fumes.

Lord help us!

* * *

With breakfast, such as it was, completed and Frankie playing out of doors, she put the bills on the dining room table and started figuring, quickly becoming discouraged. One can of Coke remained in the fridge. She plumped into the recliner in the living room to let the frazzle fade away, pausing between sips to make the moment last, her eyes ambling languidly over stained wallpaper and worn carpet.

Soon she drained the can. Good, in a way—wouldn't have to lift her arm again. Her eyelids drifted down and she again lay by the sea—the sun veiled by high clouds, a light breeze blowing cool, waves plashing on the shore, land crabs scuttling past, sweat trickling down her ribs…

How odd, though. The sand seemed brittle, crunching as Adrian strode near. In the background his yacht engine thrummed. Crunch, thrum—cruncchh, thrumm—crunchchch, thrummmmmmmmm…

"Momma!"

What the devil now?

* * *

At his wife's house—ex-wife now—Trask had planned to leave by daylight but couldn't sleep, so got up around one AM and tried to read and watch TV. Neither worked—simply wound him up worse, and he hadn't slept well this week and more. At three he took a quick shower, packed the last of his things and headed to the garage.

Near the doorway his hip brushed a dinky side table, jostling a figurine. He pictured himself hurling it at the far wall, but cool dignity won out. Dropping house-keys on the table, he went through the door and into his truck, heading east away from the suburbs toward open country.

Time passed un-noticed, his thoughts jumbled with recriminations and might-have-beens. But around seven fatigue overcame anger and chagrin, and he looked for a place to stop. Driving slower to minimize his erratic course when tired, a sparse traffic bunched-up behind while waiting for safe stretches to pass. More daring or impatient drivers charged by him with horns blaring and gestures flying. He searched eagerly—then desperately—for a rest area or pull-off, the country devoid of human constructs other than infrequent houses or barns on the occasional strip of flat land.

Near nine o'clock traffic thinned. A faded wooden sign proclaimed, West Baker/Little League/Champs 1986, and he entered a town of two-story clapboard houses with front porches overlooking small neat lawns. The Israelites never greeted the Holy Land more rapturously than he did the parking spaces of this oasis. He held his course a few blocks into the business section, to be rewarded by sight of a diner.

The truck angled into a diagonal parking slot—bumping the curb and stalling. Shutting off the ignition, he rested his head on the steering wheel until startled awake sometime later. He slid out and slammed the door—opened it to retrieve the keys, reopened to push the lock button and slam once more.

Rubbing a groove impressed into his forehead, he stumbled up a few steps into a narrow eatery, dropping onto a low stool by the counter. Elbows on worn formica, he knuckled his eyes until vision became binocular, becoming aware of a skinny woman of a certain age standing before him in a white nylon uniform and tiara, and doing a pretty good imitation of a bored waitress.

D'you have coffee? he croaked.

Not in the morning, Hon—only for dinner. A couple of older men down the counter chuckled. What kind you want—express-o, Turkish, Irish, latty? This drew more chuckles. While he tried to think of an appropriate comeback she produced a mug, filled it, placed a creamer and sugar dispenser near him. Anything else?

He winced at the effort of deciding. Uh… no, not yet.

You be sure and let me know, Hon. She took position on a stool at the far end of the counter. The regulars smiled, content with the latest scene in the daily comedy.

He added cream and measured out four spoonfuls of sugar, stirring with deliberation. Cautiously raising the cup in both hands, he drank and began a rapturous approach to full consciousness. Nectar of the gods, he thought, vaguely aware the same phrase had entered his mind the day before and—had he realized—almost every morning of his adult life.

He guzzled the coffee and signaled his need for another. She sauntered over and re-filled his cup, asking, Want me to leave the pot?

Unsure whether his leg was being pulled, he grunted a safe reply. No—guess not. How much d'I owe you?

She sighed and scribbled a check.

He focused and saw $.81, fumbled for his wallet and took out a dollar, then added another, preferring to have this comedienne mock him as a rube rather than a piker.

He sipped this cup, dragging out time while mulling a decision. He'd driven enough, and you couldn't run away from troubles, supposedly. If he wanted a change of scene this seemed as good a place as any. Hills beguiled him after a lifetime in tamer scenes, and the town—what little he'd seen—had a comfortable old-fashioned feel, like stepping a couple generations into the past. An ideal place of exile for a double loser.

Completion of the second cup brought a partial return of alertness, and he swiveled to chance a remark to the gents on his left. They looked cordial enough, lounging in faded overalls and checked shirts, one with a red I-H cap and the other exhibiting a rakish blue beret, both showing a couple day's growth of grizzled whiskers on reddened and wrinkled faces.

Scuse me, he essayed. Is there any place to stay around here?

They turned full-face to give the question proper consideration.

Waall, drawled I-H cap, ya got the motel down the other end a town.

Er, I'm thinking longer term.

Plenty salesmen stay at the motel, said Beret, but was you figurin' a bed an' brekfuss, maybe?

He considered. Sure, that'd be alright.

Ya got Kelly's on Maple, but she might be full this time a year. Then there's the Overlook place.

Aw, fergit that, said I-H, it's way ta hell an' gone. He'd never find it.

Well, not like there's a lotta choices, fer cryin' out loud.

What about Biscoe? The waitress put her oar in. Wasn't she startin' a B 'n B?

He pulled out a pen and searched his pockets for a piece of paper. Waitress, up from her seat with interest in the discussion, pushed a napkin toward him. He felt suffused with gratitude, and had he not been so tired and somber might have given her a smile.

Kelly's, you say? And he wrote the directions to Maple Street—on the east side of town, south of Main. Overlook?

But they declined for him. Too hard to get to.

What's the last one—Bristow?

Nah, Biscoe—out Undercliff way.

How'd you spell it?

This gave them pause. Undercliff? Beret asked. Er Biscoe? And getting a nod he spelled, B-I S-K-O-…dubya? That seemed the best bet. Yeah, couldn't be too far off.

Ya go down Main here ta the light, I-H instructed him, and left on River fer two er three blocks.

Three, said Beret.

Only if you count that alley, said Waitress.

Then back west on Walnut Street fer a mile, mile 'n a half. Walnut turns inta Undercliff outa town. Ya see Bigley Road goin' off north, and ya got a brown house on the far corner. Can't miss it. The only one around, and yer past the cliff into a big cove. You'll see.

Here. Take a piece of toast to chew on, Waitress urged him, offering a remaindered half-slice from Beret's plate.

As he exited she said to the men, Afraid he'd conk out on the road if he didn't have somethin' to gnaw on.

Sure, said I-H. That's why I didn't wanta send him ta Overlook. He'd fall asleep an' slide off that steep road, an' we'd have the wrecker out fer sure.

The stranger remained their topic of conversation until another wonder showed.

Is that fool haulin' a hay-wagon through town? exclaimed I-H, as a large trailer pulled by a tractor hove into view.

Hope he ain't gonna turn at the light—he'll scrape somebody fer sure, opined Beret.

Ain't that old man Clarke? said Waitress. Halfway into second childhood anyways.

~

Chapter 2 House

day 1 Sat Aug 24

He found Kelly's on Maple Street with no trouble, a colorful Queen Anne on a terraced lot above a street lined with pin-oaks. Inside the front door a squatty woman with up-swept bleached hair greeted his ring with a questioning look.

Yes?

Mrs Kelly?

Huh? No, it's Trotter—Kelly is my Christian name. What you want?

He felt she feigned ignorance. I'm looking for a room.

Her apparent puzzlement deepened. We don't have any rooms, she exclaimed. We're full. Did you have a reservation?

Worn out, and never having been inclined to suffer fools gladly, the woman's hoity-toity attitude woke his temper.

"Reservation? For this joint?" He spun round and leaped off the porch.

What? she directed at his back. What do you mean? Wait!

He blindly reversed into the street, forcing a passing car into a panic stop. Stupid witch, he thought, dividing the epithet between the Trotter harridan and the perfectly innocent driver of a small Chevy. Waving an apology to the latter, he accelerated down the street and around the corner to Main, where he paused to get his bearings.

Back to the light—can't go wrong if I get to the light.

His mood had started to mellow under the influence of sweet coffee and friendly strangers, but plunged once more, and he thought of abandoning this now hostile-seeming town and moving on. Dragging fatigue decided for him—no way could he hit the road again. At the light he mulled his directions before deciding north was to the right, and continued up River Street to look for Chestnut or Walnut or whatever-the-nut it might be.

Here stood a vista of comfortable-looking homes on wide lots—early century four-squares and bungalows—many sporting dried-out flower beds and cement drives leading to detached rear garages. After a long block he spotted Poplar, then the alley, Carter Drive. The next sign restored his humor—partly broken off, it read only _lnut.

Walnut boasted but a couple blocks of houses before the blacktop wore down to a collection of patches and potholes, transitioning into Undercliff—dusty gravel bordered by woods and fields of soybeans or stunted field corn. The road soon earned its name as a rise near the north berm grew into a steep hillside that crowded and nearly overhung the way. A few seeps of water oozed between sandstone strata, giving rise to vibrant green appliques of weeds and bushes.

The road—now running on a firm, well-drained bed—became nearly smooth as pavement, darker river gravel replaced by bright sand and lucky-stones. To his left a steep meadow dropped into the bed of a stream that glinted between willow scrub and sycamores where a few black and white cows took advantage of the shade.

After a goodly mile the cliff tapered down and ran off north to join a more distant ridgeline, leaving a flat, gently-rising stretch of untilled land. A narrow track meandered to the right, and well beyond the corner stood his goal. He almost drove past in surprise. Nothing looked the least bit commercial—no sign, no parking lot… and no upkeep. He stopped on the road.

He viewed a two-story blockish affair—hip roof glistening with asphalt daubing, two brick chimneys sticking up. Speckled-brown fake brick siding, ragged near the bottom, was worn in random spots to expose a black base. Beneath the eaves ran a wide face-board carrying scrolled brackets, both painted dark brown in misdirected empathy with the siding. At one corner a recessed porch displayed floor and trim painted a thin chalky white. No plantings except weeds masked a sandstone foundation.

The hulk sat almost atop Undercliff—only forty feet or so back—and a haze of road dust coated it and the dried-up lawn and everything else on the front side. The house, the yard, the driveway, the road—dust.

He pulled into an unpaved drive, gravel crunching beneath the tires. His tired foot slipped from the brake to strike the accelerator, accidentally gunning the engine as he shut down.

A big droopy catalpa shaded the southeast corner, and underneath a little girl played before the porch, using a tablespoon to transfer dirt from one hole to another. As he pulled in she stood and sidled toward the steps. She wore a faded pink sleeveless top over shorts made from cut-off jeans. Light brown hair hung over her face, and blue eyes peeped above a mouth showing evidence of either chocolate or dirt. Hands and knees and bare feet were dark with dirt, her legs scratched and dusty.

Mounting the porch she yelled, "Momma! Somebody's here. Momma!"

The screen door banged as he exited his vehicle, and with dragging feet shambled toward his prospective hostess.

Get your sandals on, Frankie, that personage ordered. Staring big-eyed, the girl scuffed into grubby flip-flops.

He turned his eyes to this other female, an apprehensive-looking roundish young woman of medium height with short dark uncombed hair, wearing a man's oversized checked shirt, the sleeves crudely torn off above her elbows, the tails hanging over faded denim capris. On her feet were unlaced sneakers, once white but now a dingy gray. Frayed holes demonstrated the positions of some of her toes.

What a frump!

The target of his eyes saw a scruffy figure leaning against a battered red truck, its passenger door rusted through and a fender dinged. The man was solid-looking and tall enough, perhaps, if he stood up straight. His unshaven face was rectangular, and his hair the shade she imagined people meant when they said sandy. Denim shirt and khaki trousers appeared to have been slept in, and his left hand gripped a brownish felt hat.

Must think he's Indiana Jones.

What do you want? she called. Need directions?

He stepped toward her and stumbled over a pebble, steadying himself with a hand on the truck hood.

Drunk this early? she wondered.

I'm looking for a place to stay. In town they said you kept a bed and breakfast.

"Who told you that?" she challenged.

The diner—couple old-timers. The waitress said…

Oh! Well, I don't have anything set up yet. And where would I get the money? Why don't you try the motel?

The man stood unmoving. Are you alright? she said.

Tired—drove all night. He tried to chuckle. Want longer- term.

There's Kelly's… and that new place on the far side of town.

Kelly's is full. Didn't much like her, anyway.

She felt stirrings of accord. That broad is something else! Maybe… Niggling thoughts of greed and hope played in her mind, prompting a bit of audacity.

Well I'm sure not ready, but I can show you a room if you want… But it's not ready.

He swayed again. S'okay. I'm dog tired and just need to lie down.

Her face doubtful, she hesitated before turning to lead him into the house.

The door opened to the dining room, cluttered with a battered pedestal table and mismatched straight chairs, a low homemade bookcase by the far wall. Papers were scattered across the tabletop, stacks of un-ironed clothes filled the chairs, an ancient craftsman light fixture hung by its chain from the ceiling. Wallpaper still hinted its presence under beige paint.

To the left, the living room held a torn couch and beat-up recliner chair opposite an old console TV. An end table exhibited empty Coke cans and a plate of crumbs. Pink flowers flaunted across gray wallpaper, while a matching border sagged indolently.

Both floors were covered in a sculptured green pattern dating from the avocado era of decorating. Worn and frayed, the carpet was ripe for destruction.

Stairs stacked with old newspapers and magazines led up from the dining room. He and she mounted and went through a door with a crooked hinge to a carpet-less upper hall, where she led to the northwest room, probably the stuffiest in the house on late summer afternoons. The room's sole furnishing was a metal-framed bed with box spring and mattress. Two bare windows faced west and one north, and a door showed in the south wall.

She surreptitiously brushed a dead fly off the mattress. Haven't got it ready yet, I’m afraid.

Dismayed but determined to rest he said, Okay. You have screens? For the windows? The air felt hot—stifling.

Oh! It was more a cry than an exclamation. I’m so sorry—the storms are still up. She turned to him. I can't… I can’t handle the ladder carrying one of those. I’ll have to get someone to… Take too long—and who would she get in any case? She had to ask him. Or can you…? Her hands fluttered.

He nodded

"I’m terribly sorry."

It’s alright. Just so he could lie down.

If you're sure you still want it, I'll get bedding and vacuum-up. I’m sorry about those storms—do you mind?

It's okay. He leaned toward the bed.

You'll need a chair—you can take one from the dining room. And there's a dresser in the jun… in the storage room or maybe in the barn.

Kay.

She thumbed over her shoulder. That's the closet. She pivoted and spied the girl peeping through the doorway. Frankie, I'm going to take your curtains for here, and make new ones for you.

Mo-o-om!

New curtains! Won't that be nice? You can pick the color.

But people can look in, the girl whined. I'll be umbarrast, she told the floor.

That's silly. Who's going to climb up to look in your windows? There's never anyone around, and it's only for awhile.

"That's what you always say!" Frankie fled down the stairs and out the screen door.

Kids! Flustered by what she knew he knew was surely a valid accusation, she rushed to say, I'll get started here. Why don't you get your stuff?

How much?

She wasn't ready for the question, her daydreams stopping short of setting a price. And God knows this place is no bargain.

Uh… two-fifty?

A month?

She lit up. So like a man to chisel a woman, and probably for the fun of it. Her voice hardened. Two-fifty's what I said.

He stared, and she glared back at him.

I'll take it… for four hundred.

Wha…?

You'll go broke—less than ten bucks a day.

But I…

You can't operate for so little. Just take it!

She became contrite, babbling to cover her confusion. Well, things are a bit helter-skelter so I didn't want to… But I'll get them straightened up quick as… quickly. And Frankie won't bother you—she, she's generally well-behaved.

He opened his wallet to count out four fifties. Have to give you a check for the rest.

A gift from Heaven. Thank you! A check will be fine—no problem at all. She suppressed a grin, cramming the bills in her shirt pocket. Let's get started in here. Go get your stuff while I straighten up. She rushed off.

When she returned upstairs he'd set down a suitcase and duffel bag, and seemed to be noticing the sheets she carried, a flowery feminine pattern in lavender and yellow.

I'm sorry—these are all I have washed.

Doesn't matter. I only want to lie down.

He looked and sounded pitiful, and she felt a stab of pity. But rest was not to be his—before the top sheet had been tucked she straightened with a gasp.

I forgot! I need to shop if we want to eat.

I ate breakfast. I only want to take a na…

"And I've got to get to the bank before it closes. Oh, shoot! What else do we need? What do you want for breakfast?"

Doesn't mat…

We've got to get going. Frankie! she yelled down the stairway. "Get washed, and put on something decent. Hurry!" She turned back to him, thinking, Can't leave him in the house alone. Lord knows we've nothing worth stealing, but… She didn’t know him from Adam's off ox.

You come along, too, she insisted. You can buy what you want.

I'm gonna lie down.

No, no! she cried, half hysterical. "You'd better come, too, so we can… so we can talk things over. It won't take long. Do you want to wash up? Downstairs. Frankie! Use the kitchen sink! Can you write that check now? Make it to C Biscoe. And don't take time to change—we've got to hurry." She scurried down the hall to the adjacent room.

He scowled at her receding back.

~

Chapter 3 Quite the Gentleman

day 1 Sat Aug 24

He slumped in the passenger seat of the woman's car—with Frankie in the rear, now wearing clean clothes and sneakers. The girl had been forced into socks and long pants to save the time needed for a wash job on feet and legs, but her hands and face looked clean, and she ran a comb through tangled hair while her mother started the car.

Air conditioning on the fritz, I'm afraid—sorry.

Silent and sullen, he kept track of her from the corner of one eye. His new landlord wore a better-fitting oxford shirt. Still a man's outfit, he grumbled to himself. But her hair had been combed and she didn't look as sloppy.

Driving one-handed down the gravel road she glanced again at his check. "Oh-oh! You misspelled my name. I suppose it won't matter, though—they know me well enough. Charles Trask. Imagine that! My name's Charly, too."

He quickly looked out the side window to hide his expression. Frankie and Charly—good Lord! She could name her place The Dyke House.

I go by Chuck. Flat enunciation hid his feelings.

Charly's only a nickname. Mine's actually Charlotte.

Surprised, he half-smiled at her. That's nice.

Old fashioned. She'd never liked it.

That's why it's nice.

Can I get candy, Mom?

No candy.

Aw…

No candy—maybe ice cream.

Yay! That's better yet.

You'll have to be quiet in the store—no begging and no running around!

Frankie slumped. I'll behave, she drawled in a long-suffering voice.

They rolled onto the paved street. I'll stop at the bank first if you don't mind, Mr Trask.

He was asleep.

* * *

She deposited his check, and after a wary inspection the cashier told her to wait a week before drawing against the funds. Then to the gas station where she enjoyed being able to fill the tank rather than putting in her usual five-dollars-worth.

At the grocery store, feeling quite amiable toward her benefactor, Charly decided to let him sleep, and parked so the sun wouldn't hit him. She and Frankie bought freely for the first time in many moons, while she tried to guess what type of food this Trask guy would prefer. The habit of frugality was too deeply ingrained to allow much splurging, however—ice cream and chocolate sauce for Frankie, blueberries and whipping cream for herself were the only luxuries. They over-filled the cart, but most of the purchases were staples.

She felt a pang of dismay when surrendering two fifties to the clerk in return for a five and a few singles. Oh well—easy come, easy go. But she resolved to stretch the rest of the money over a full month.

You need school clothes, she told the girl, and I ought to get a set of decent linens for his bed. And the car needs to be worked on. She sighed. We're not out of the woods yet, Sweetie.

Frankie goggled her eyes at her mother. "We're not even in the woods, Mom—we're in to-o-wn." The girl skipped and twirled across the empty parking lot

* * *

Trask stirred when the trunk slammed on the groceries, but continued comatose during the trip until Charly pulled into her drive and stopped near the back steps. When she returned from unlocking the door he sat sideways on the edge of the seat—rubbing his face, gritty from the ride along the dusty road with his head half out the window. He watched listlessly as she went to the trunk, then creaked to his feet to take one of the bags from her arms.

Don't bother, she said, Frankie and I can get everything. You take your nap.

I'm okay now, he muttered. You go in and I'll bring this stuff.

She allowed herself to be persuaded.

She glanced over her shoulder to check his progress. Quite the gentleman, she supposed, but his attitude made her uncomfortable. First the extra money and now this display of chivalry. And he'd taken his hat off when they met. Guys she knew didn't normally act this way.

What's he up to?

~

Chapter 4 Simple Enough

day 1 Sat Aug 24

Charly called several times before sending the girl to wake Trask—the sky had darkened and dinner couldn't be delayed longer. She herself felt reluctant to do anything smacking in the least of intimacy, including knocking on his bedroom door.

The dining room table had been cleared and wiped and covered by a worn tablecloth—her only one. The room had been straightened, hastily vacuumed and dusted, and two light bulbs replaced in the hanging fixture—one stolen from the living room. A small picture now hung over the fist-sized dent in the east wall. Tomorrow she'd get the living room and kitchen. Thank goodness the bathroom was as clean as could be reasonably expected.

Then the upstairs, when? And the basement? Too much—put that off for… maybe forever, she giggled to herself.

Amazing where her energy had come from. Perhaps the myth about cocaine on money was true—she'd been pepped-up by something.

* * *

"Mister? Mister! MISTER! Frankie shrieked. Hey! Arncha gonna WAKE UP?" She kicked the door in frustration.

Trask slept through lunch, but faintly-heard knocking and calling caused him to open his eyes one by one and rise to a sitting position, half awake. The kicking did the trick. Red hot with sleepy resentment he leaped to the door and ripped it open, his face twisted in rage. The girl cowered by the opposite wall, eyes wide with fright.

Immediately penitent, he thought furiously how to save the situation. Boo! he squeaked in falsetto. No such luck—her eyes filled with tears.

"You scared me!" she accused.

Trask sank to one knee. I'm sorry, he half-pleaded, half-growled. A joke—I thought you'd like it.

"I don't!" she sobbed, turning and racing down the stairs.

Brat! Having slept fully dressed he only needed to slip on shoes, then descended slowly, to be greeted at the bottom by a tableau of shocked mother and tearful outraged child. Resentful but recognizing the need for a degree of tact, he manufactured an excuse.

I don't have any kids—how should I know she'd get frightened?

He took his time washing up, re-entering the room to find them sitting stiffly at