Mrs. Raymond Chambers settled her hat on her head, giving the crown a sharp, decisive pat to hold it in place. Outside, the weather had turned fine and sunny, a welcome change after two unendurable weeks of dreary rain and gray clouds, and this afternoon she was completely free: no committee or aid meetings, no dinner plans and no appointments of any kind. Her husband, the Honorable Judge Raymond Chambers (Ret.), was out of town and would not be home until later, and she intended to enjoy herself alone. She would begin, she thought, with a nice, brisk walk—and maybe an ice cream, the first ice cream of the year. She hesitated at the bedroom door, then tiptoed down the stairs and past the kitchen, where Mrs. Higgens was still washing the lunch dishes.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was almost too warm, but the air held a delicious hint of coolness that took the edge off the heat. Mrs. Chambers felt young and vigorous again as she strode along the avenue, glancing at the stores and boutiques as she passed. Spring had come here, too: the somber tones of winter had been replaced by vibrant navies and reds and greens. She paused to admire the sophisticated poise of the mannequin in a department store window, and shook her head when she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. Had she grown stouter over the past two months?
I should take walks more often, she thought, and with a twinge decided to ask Mrs. Higgens not to make her signature Lady Baltimore cake every Sunday. The thought of that sinfully sweet confection made her think again of ice cream, but in her new devotion to exercise and moderation she opted instead for the shaved-ice cart near the east entrance to the park. As she waited in line, the breeze died, and the shade began to seem much too sparse. By the time it was her turn to order, she was fanning herself with her gloves to keep from growing uncomfortably warm.
“I’ll have raspberry,” she told the shaved-ice man.
“No problem, ma’am,” he said with a grin. “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, “It’s lovely to see the sun again. But I wish the breeze would come back.”
The gentleman who was next in line bent forward. “Bet the heat’s good for business, though, isn’t it?”
“Shaved ice is very refreshing, sir,” the vendor replied as he counted out Mrs. Chambers’ change.
“Bet they come to you in sweaty hordes in the summer,” the man said, his mouth right next to her ear. “In sweaty, thirsty droves.”
He was practically leaning on her shoulder! She tried to pull away, but she was trapped between him and the cart.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Chambers said stiffly, “Kindly stop crowding me, sir.”
He chuckled softly, but he stepped back.
People are so vulgar these days, she thought, as she wrapped a napkin around the paper cone and walked away. She thought she could still feel his eyes on her as she went around the corner into the park.
The raspberry ice was vivid and cool on her tongue, and while she strolled along she savored it in small, ladylike nibbles. The meadow and esplanade thronged with mothers and children and nannies and couples, all just as intent as she on enjoying the weather and the park that afternoon. She paused to watch a family eating a picnic on the grass. The little boy looked just like her own Richard had at his age, and the older sister could have been Patty at fifteen. The mother was bouncing the crying baby on her knee while she tried to serve the food; first plate to Papa, of course, who was lounging on the grass and joking with his son. Mrs. Chambers wondered idly whose idea the picnic had been—whose idea it had been to have the father take the day off at all. Was that woman still hoping that one day, maybe today, her husband would look up and notice the strained smile on her face, and understand what it really meant?
More fool she, if so, Mrs. Chambers thought.
Looking back up the path, she saw the man who had crowded so close to her at the shaved ice stand, looking overdressed for the warmth in his dark coat and hat. His hands were empty, and she wondered how he had managed to finish his refreshment so quickly—she still had half of her ice left. Not eager to encounter him again, she hurried across the bridge and into the trees.
The air was much cooler in the shade. A vision came to her of the man in the dark coat creeping stealthily along the path behind her, keeping just out of sight among the trees, and she had actually glanced behind and quickened her pace before she caught herself.
Don’t be silly, Gloria, she thought firmly. You’re a boring middle-aged woman with grown children. Your own husband isn’t interested in you anymore; why would some strange man find you so fascinating? But she couldn’t help remembering the feeling of his breath on her neck, the slippery, insinuating growl in her ear.
Fewer and fewer people passed her, until she found herself alone on the narrow footpath. The shaved ice now tasted garish and overly sweet (and maybe it reminded her of the claustrophobic moment at the vending cart), but after walking for five minutes she still hadn’t found a trash receptacle. Pausing for a second, she tipped her head back and gulped down the last few bites of ice and syrup, then grimaced when a spasm of pain shot through her head. She swallowed and gasped, but the pain augered deeper.
Someone laid a hand on her arm. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
She jerked away, but it was just a young couple, their faces full of concern. She tried to smile reassuringly despite the frozen agony between her eyes.
“I’m fine, thank you. I just ate my shaved ice too fast.”
They nodded and passed by, and gradually the pain receded. Massaging her temple, she frowned after the couple. Had they really been worried, or had their eyes been perhaps a touch too interested, a bit too familiar? They had come from behind her; they could have passed through the meadow and run into that odious man . . . maybe he had mentioned her to them? She wished she were not alone. Her steps quickened, and she was glad when she came to the end of the trees.
The west side of the park had a plaza instead of an esplanade, and a garden instead of a meadow, with a sweeping series of terraces and stairs leading down from the footpath. Usually she admired the elegance of the view, but today the brightness of the sun reflecting from the pavement made her head swim and her stomach lurch. The steps were shallow, and were lined with crowds of gossiping young people, just out of school. Most of them ignored her as she picked her way slowly from terrace to terrace, but one girl turned from her group of friends and watched curiously as she descended. Mrs. Chambers felt her heart speed up slightly. She wondered where the man in the dark coat was now, and whether, in a minute or so when she was out of sight again, he would emerge from the trees and walk nonchalantly over to that girl. She could see them now, head to head, could see exactly how the girl would point down the steps to show the way the woman in the russet straw hat and navy crepe jacket had gone. Mrs. Chambers began to hurry. The steps were awkwardly wide, and she struggled to take them one at a time, clutching the handrail and praying she would not fall. Now the girl was getting up, still watching, and in that moment Mrs. Chambers didn’t care that her head hurt, didn’t care that others were turning to look; teetering on her shoes, she scuttled down the steps and out into the plaza.
Halfway to the park gates she turned and looked back. The girl was nowhere to be seen, either among the crowds on the plaza or in the gaggles of teen-agers on the terraces above. The moment of panic collapsed, and she thought how ridiculous it all was.
Gloria, she thought, you’re imagining things. That girl and the man in the dark coat have never met, and probably never will. Now you’ve gone and twisted your ankle on the stairs. These shoes were never made for running.
She realized that her fist was still clenched around the crumpled, sticky paper cone, and she dropped it in one of the garbage cans at the park entrance. Her gloves had been in the other hand, but besides being crushed and damp they had also somehow acquired a few purplish stains from the shaved ice, so she tucked them irritably away in her handbag. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she slowed to a halting walk. How to get home? She could never make it all the way back up the avenue on a twisted ankle. Limping to the curb, she hailed a cab, but at the sight of the cabbie’s grinning face she stumbled back and waved him on. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought, but how could she be sure the cab driver wasn’t on the lookout for her? The tram stop was just ahead, though, and yes, the tram was approaching. She moved to catch it, wincing as her ankle twisted under her again.
The car was full, and she told herself she felt comfortable and unobserved, but she couldn’t keep from scanning the faces of the other people aboard: a young mother and child, laden with shopping bags; a man in overalls who appeared to be on his way home from his construction job; a group of young people (none of them the girl); and several others whose faces were turned away or were hidden in the crush. No one seemed to be paying her any attention. She had almost relaxed when the young mother seemed to give her a furtive glance—a surreptitious flicker of the eyes, so quick she almost didn’t see it. Mrs. Chambers froze. In her mind a terrified litany began, with her head throbbing counterpoint—it’s true it’s true it’s true, dear God, it’s true. The motion of the car suddenly nauseated her, and she fought to maintain an outward appearance of calm. When the City Hall stop came, she pretended to ignore it, and then lurched to her feet and climbed down at the last second. Sure enough, when the mother saw her escaping, she tried to gather up her child and shopping bags to pursue her, but Mrs. Chambers had timed it just right. She stood there on the sidewalk until the tram was out of sight, so they would not be able to see which way she went.
Outside the police station she paused to bring herself under control.
You must remain rational, Gloria, she thought. You have to go in there and tell them everything. They’ll be able to help.
When the nausea and panic had drained away, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The few civilians she could see all looked either dirty or angry, and two of the dirtier and angrier women were standing at a long counter arguing with the desk sergeant. Their blouses were extremely low-cut, and she could see their grimy cleavage tremble as they gestured emphatically. Her unease immediately returned. She didn’t belong here, not in a police station, not with these criminals and—and prostitutes! At that moment, however, the two filthy women broke off their diatribe and stalked out of the station, pushing rudely past her as they went out the door.
The desk sergeant gave her a tired look. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
“I hope so,” she said. “There’s a—well, there’s a man, he was behind me in line to get shaved ice, and now he’s been following me, watching me, trying to catch me alone. I twisted my ankle running from him in the park.”
He pulled out a form. “Can you describe the man to me?”
“It’s hard to say,” she confessed. “I didn’t notice exactly. But he was wearing a dark coat and hat. He has several friends, and they’re all helping him.” She lowered her voice. “I think he may be part of a gang.”
The sergeant paused in filling out the form and frowned at her, then turned and called another policeman over. Handing him the form, he said, “Reynolds, this lady is complaining about a gang. Says they’ve been harassing her.”
Officer Reynolds was older and had a rumpled uniform. He glanced at the form, and then smiled reassuringly at her. “Ma’am, if you’ll come right this way I’ll be happy to take your statement.”
He led her past the counter to his own desk, and after offering to get her a cup of coffee or tea, he smiled at her again and took up his pen.
“So you say you’ve been followed, harassed by a man in a . . . a dark coat and hat, is that correct?”
She nodded. “He and his friends have been following me all afternoon. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Well, you’re safe here,” he said. “Now, what is your name?”
“Glo—” she began, then stopped and swallowed. “Why do you need my name?”
“We want to help you, ma’am, but I need to take down your information.” He shrugged. “Name, birth date, address. You know.”
His smile wasn’t so reassuring after all. A scene came abruptly and vividly into her head of this Officer Reynolds handing the man in the dark coat the form with her “information” on it, of the man in the dark coat knowing her name, knowing her address . . . No.
“I’m sorry for bothering you, officer,” she said as politely as she could. She got up and limped past the desks, past the long counter, past the grimy man who was now haranguing the desk sergeant. She was sure Officer Reynolds was still watching her as she pulled the heavy door open and went out.
Now she was really frightened. Her head spun and throbbed, and for a moment, she thought she would vomit. Leaning against the side of a building, she closed her eyes and tried to think. Her husband needed to know about this, needed to come home this instant and deal with the situation. With that thought, the nausea passed. The judge would know what to do.
Safely, anonymously ensconced in a telephone booth, she sat down and checked her coin purse. She had just enough.
The phone rang six times at his hotel room before he answered it.
“Hello?” His voice was thick and bewildered, as if he had been sleeping.
“Raymond,” she said, and then she was crying.
“Gloria? What is it? What’s wrong?” His deep, reassuring voice calmed her enough so that she could speak.
“Raymond, something is happening, there’s a man, I was out on my walk and he started following me, watching me. I went to the police but they—he was spying on me even there, and I had to go. It’s hard to explain, but I need you here. I can’t handle it anymore. I’m afraid.” The last part she almost whispered.
“Of course, darling,” he said, soothing and warm again. “I’ll be back in . . .” There was a pause and low murmur on his end of the line. “. . . in three hours,” he said. “I’ll come straight home. You wait for me there.”
“Is someone there with you, Raymond?”
“With me?” He sounded startled, almost afraid.
“Is there a man in the room with you? Why is there a man in your room?” Her voice was rising.
“Now, Gloria,” he said, “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s him, isn’t it? He’s there right now, isn’t he?” She was shouting now, panicked and furious. “He’s listening to every word you say. What is going on, Raymond?”
Mrs. Chambers slammed the receiver down on the hook, not waiting for his reply. She sat there in the booth for a moment, overcome with nausea, her teeth chattering and her hands shaking. Her temples pulsed with pain, her stomach churned, and her thoughts ran in panicked circles.
The judge with the man in the dark coat, the girl in the park, the mother and child on the tram, the man in the dark coat, Officer Reynolds, the couple on the footpath, the man in the dark coat—
Mrs. Chambers had only a vague idea of how she had arrived at her house, but now she was climbing the front steps, now she was fumbling with her key, now she was inside at last, and for the moment she was safe. She closed the front door and locked it, and then sagged against the wood for a moment, her muscles feeling weak and her head swimming. When she could stand straight again, she began making the circuit of the downstairs rooms, checking and latching all the windows and drawing all the curtains and drapes. She was wrestling with the deadbolt on the back door when Mrs. Higgens appeared in the hallway, brandishing a filleting knife in her wrinkled hand. They both started and screamed.
“Ma’am, it’s you!” Mrs. Higgens gasped. “When you disappeared without saying anything, and then—and then I was making the fish for dinner, and I heard someone moving around the house . . . ” Mrs. Higgens trailed off. “Ma’am, you look terrible. Are you all right?”
Mrs. Chambers gave the deadbolt a sharp blow and it finally shot into place. Massaging her hand, she tried to explain. “We have to keep him out, him and his friends. I had forgotten you were here, but you can help.” Seeing Mrs. Higgens’ expression, she held out her hands imploringly. “I don’t have anyone else. Even the judge is helping him. You have to help me lock him out, lock them all out.”
“Who?” Mrs. Higgens said. “Who is the judge helping? Who do we have to lock out? Are you sure you aren’t—I mean, you seem very tired, ma’am, and you really don’t look well.” She stepped closer, and tentatively touched Mrs. Chambers’ sleeve. “I could run you a bath upstairs. You could change out of that dress, maybe take a nap, and if you need me to, I could call your doctor—”
“No!” Mrs. Chambers snatched herself back from the alluring visions of a warm, scented bath, a refreshing nap, clean clothes. “I don’t have time for a bath, and we can’t know if the doctor’s on our side, or on his!” Mrs. Higgens was looking frightened and bewildered, and that knife was making Mrs. Chambers very nervous. This would not do. “I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Chambers said, swallowing down her nausea. “I’ve had a very rough afternoon, and I’m just upset. That’s all.” She tried to smile. “You know what might help? A nice, soothing cup of tea. Would you mind brewing up some chamomile? We could sit down in the kitchen for a moment and calm down. And then I’ll help you get dinner ready.”
Mrs. Higgens relaxed. “That sounds lovely, ma’am. I’ll get the tea started right away.”
The chamomile was in the pantry, of course, and once the housekeeper was inside, it only took a second for Mrs. Chambers to slam the door and wedge a chair under the handle. Mrs. Higgens seemed too confused to be one of his accomplices, but she was also a liability. Ignoring Mrs. Higgens’ first startled shout, then her tentative knocking and ever-more-hysterical entreaties, Mrs. Chambers gathered as much food as she could carry and stumbled upstairs to her bedroom.
There were no shutters or bars on the beautiful, wide windows, so she contented herself with latching them and pulling the heavy drapes. Her head felt like it was splitting down the middle, and her stomach was roiling, but she did not have time for that. She had only gotten one corner of the massive dresser against the door when someone began shouting and knocking outside. The voice was muffled, but she could hear her name.
“Gloria! Let me in! Gloria, I can explain! Mrs. Higgens, are you there?”
Raymond already, she thought dimly as she tugged at the dresser. He must have taken an earlier train, and then gotten a taxi at the train station, maybe even the same taxi she herself had passed up that afternoon. And with him, she had no doubt, would be her mysterious pursuer, the man in the dark coat.
At the thought of that fiend, that monster, at her front door, nausea swept over her, and she lurched to the bathroom, one hand over her mouth. Leaning over the toilet bowl, she brought up everything she had eaten that day—breakfast and lunch, and the purplish syrup from the shaved ice. Biting back dry heaves, she wiped her mouth and flushed the toilet. Her stomach quieted, and the pain in her head eased.
Outside, the shouting and banging had stopped, and the house was ominously silent. She finished pushing the dresser all the way against the door (wincing with each shove because of her hastily wrapped ankle and splitting headache) and then wedged the bed behind it. Somewhere, glass shattered, a far-away, imaginary sound. Mrs. Chambers spread a blanket in the corner farthest from the door, then paused to listen as frantic footsteps sounded in the room below. There was silence for a moment, then a distant clatter—perhaps the wooden chair falling on its side in the kitchen? She sank down on the blanket and thought of picnics in the park.
The footsteps again, heavy and rushed: on the stairs; on the landing; outside the bedroom door. Someone tried the handle, and a heavy weight thudded against the thick wood panel, but her barricade held.
“Gloria, are you in there?” Her husband’s voice sounded hoarse and strained. “Gloria, let me in! We need—we need to talk.”
She wondered if that man was waiting downstairs in the kitchen, talking with Mrs. Higgens, or if he was standing behind her husband right now, a sardonic smile on his face. She said nothing; she had nothing to say to him. Her stomach suddenly felt very empty, painfully so. She took an apple from the picnic spread before her on the blanket and bit into it. It was the last of the winter apples, and it was small and sweet and tart.
