A Stranger in My Grave Read Online Free PDF Page A

You’ve let so many of your activities slide lately. Why did you drop your course in Russian literature?”
    â€œI couldn’t keep the names straight.”
    â€œAnd the mosaic you were making...”
    â€œI have no talent.”
    As if to demonstrate that there was at least some talent around the house, Stella burst into song while she washed the breakfast dishes.
    Mrs. Fielding went over and closed the kitchen door, not too subtly. “It’s time you started a new activity, one that will absorb you. Why don’t you come with me to the Drama Club luncheon this noon? Someday you might even want to try out for one of our plays.”
    â€œI doubt that very—”
    â€œThere’s absolutely nothing to acting. You just do what the director tells you. They’re having a very interesting speaker at the luncheon. It would be a lot better for you to go out than to sit here brooding because you dreamed somebody killed you.”
    Daisy leaned forward suddenly in her chair, pushed the dog’s paw off her lap, and got up. “What did you say?”
    â€œDidn’t you hear me?”
    â€œSay it again.”
    â€œI see no reason to…” Mrs. Fielding paused, flushed with annoyance. “Well, all right. Anything to humor you. I simply stated that I thought it would be better for you to come with me to the luncheon than to sit here brooding because you had a bad dream.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s quite accurate.”
    â€œIt’s as close as I can remember.”
    â€œYou said, ‘because I dreamed somebody killed me.’” There was a brief silence. “Didn’t you?”
    â€œI may have.” Mrs. Fielding’s annoyance was turning into something deeper. “Why fuss about a little difference in words?”
    Not a little difference, Daisy thought. An enormous one. “I died” had become “someone killed me.”
    She began to pace up and down the room again, followed by the reproachful eyes of the dog and the disapproving eyes of her mother. Twenty-two steps up, twenty-two steps down. After a while the dog started walking with her, heeling, as if they were out for a stroll together.
    We were walking along the beach below the cemetery, Prince and I, and suddenly Prince disappeared up the cliff. I could hear him howling. I whistled for him, but he didn’t come. I went up the path after him. He was sitting beside a tombstone. It had my name on it: Daisy Fielding Harker. Born November 13, 1930. Killed December 2, 1955 . . . .

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    But I cannot help it. My blood runs in your veins….
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    At noon jim called and asked her to meet him downtown for lunch. They ate soup and salad at a café on State Street. The place was crowded and noisy, and Daisy was grateful that Jim had chosen it. There was no need to force conversation. With so many others talking, silence between any two particular people seemed to go unnoticed. Jim even had the illusion that they’d enjoyed a lively lunch, and when they parted in front of the café, he said, “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo more skirmishes with your unconscious?”
    â€œOh no.”
    â€œGood girl.” He pressed her shoulder affectionately. “See you for dinner.”
    She watched him until he turned the corner to the parking lot. Then she began walking slowly down the street in the opposite direction, with no special destination in mind, only a strong desire to stay away from the house as long as she could.
    A rising wind prodded her, and on the tips of the purple moun­tains storm clouds were gathering like great plumes of black smoke. For the first time that day she thought of something unconnected with herself: Rain. It’s going to rain.
    As the wind pushed the storm clouds toward the city, everyone on the street was caught up in the excitement of the coming rain. They walked faster, talked