An Independent Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A

imagine a ship trying to slide through the Golden Gate. It could drop anchor and wait until the fog lifted, or at least until daylight; but recalling her father’s years as a shipowner, she knew the price of a ship’s day lost in passage.
    She dropped into memories. It was not hard to remember her father, his commanding voice, low and resonant, and still at times amazingly gentle.
    Then true awakening came, hard and sharp, and her body responded to the sound of a footstep outside her bedroom door. Barbara stiffened, fear quickening her heartbeat, fear that she tried desperately to control, clenching her fists and easing herself. The old house was full of sounds, boards creaking, boards tightening in the cold air of night, and possibly she had heard no more than that.
    She was not easily given to fear; her life had been too violent, too shredded. She had resisted the parade of salesmen who had tried to sell her this or that security system. “I have nothing worth stealing,” was her response. She was sixty-nine years old, and she had consistently rejected the notion, offered by her friends, that she should keep a gun in the house.
    The sound again, and this time she was certain. It was a footstep, no doubt about that. She leaped out of bed, threw on her robe, and reached for the telephone.
    The bedroom door opened, and a voice said, “Lady, don’t pick up that phone!” He had a gun in his hand, not pointed at her, but simply held as an exhibit. He was a tall, slender man, blue jeans and a black sweatshirt, a mask with eyeholes, and tightly curled hair cropped close. Dark skin showed beneath the mask. He wore sneakers.
    Barbara was herself now. She heard his words against the lonely hooting of the foghorns. Her hands had stopped shaking. She pushed her white hair away from her face and tried to speak calmly.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI’m a thief. What do you think I want? Open your robe.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI want to see what you look like.”
    â€œI’m seventy years old.”
    â€œShit, lady. Do what I tell you.”
    She opened her robe. Staring appraisingly at her body, visible through the thin nightgown, he nodded. “You’re stacked,” he said approvingly.
    â€œI have AIDS,” she said. She had thought of that invention recently, anticipating the possibility that she might someday face rape. But so had all her friends. The man grinned.
    â€œWhat the hell, it’s San Francisco,” he said. “I’m not a rapist, I’m a thief.”
    â€œThank God.”
    â€œWhere do you keep it?”
    â€œKeep what?”
    â€œJewels, gold, any damn thing I can sell.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Barbara asked. She was in control of herself now, wrapping her robe around her and tying the sash.
    â€œOh, Jesus—lady, you’re weird. Fuck my name. Let me get what I came for and get the hell out of here. I don’t want to get mean with you. I don’t want to shoot you, so don’t push me.”
    â€œThere’s a television downstairs.”
    â€œI’m not breaking my back with any lousy television. You got any cash?”
    Barbara sat down on the bed. She felt that it gave her an advantage, that it was a bit more difficult to shoot or beat someone sitting down—at the same time wondering where she got the notion.
    â€œSuppose my husband came in. Would you shoot him? Would you shoot both of us?”
    â€œYou got no husband, lady. Don’t fuck with me.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThere’s a hundred and twenty dollars or so in my bag.”
    â€œWhere’s the bag?”
    She pointed to a chair. He found the bag, a large brown leather purse with a shoulder strap. Not taking his eyes off her, he picked up the bag and tossed it at her. “Empty it on the bed.”
    The contents spilled out on the comforter, a change purse, a wallet, an