Hangsaman Read Online Free PDF Page A

that you are a growing girl and I an old man, and that a basic sex antagonism, combined with a filial resentment, separates us, so that we cannot always be honest with one another as we have been up to now.”
    If it’s happening why does he tell me? Natalie thought briefly, and heard from far away the police detective demanding, “Are you prepared to confess that you killed him?”
    For a long minute her father looked at her, obviously expecting some answer which she was unable to give; Natalie, her mind moving swiftly, went back over what he had said: what had there been, for instance, which indicated what she was to say? Had he asked a question, perhaps? Made a false statement she was to correct? Praised her, to hear her disclaim modestly?
    â€œWell,” her father said at last, and sighed. “It is not necessary to discuss it in detail, my dear. You will soon know more about it than I do. And I shall learn from you.”
    He sat back in his chair, and stared reflectively down at the desk, his eyes reading absently the lines of Natalie’s notebook.
    â€œHandsome,” he said, and laughed. “Oh, Natalie, my dear.” And he shook his head helplessly.
    It was a dismissal. Nothing was to be further identified. As Natalie rose, her mind already moving ahead to the garden, to lunch, to the length of the day stretching ahead, her father pushed the notebook impatiently across the desk.
    â€œYou will be at the party this afternoon?” he asked, accenting the “you” just enough to make Natalie remember Bud’s refusal to come.
    â€œI guess so,” Natalie said lamely because she was wondering where Bud found the courage to announce publicly that he was not bound by family plans.
    â€œTry to help your mother, if you can,” her father said. “Entertaining is difficult for her.” He smiled up at Natalie, his mind already going on to more important things, the deep complex ideas that were his own work. “A fundamental hatred of people, I believe,” he added as Natalie went toward the door.
    *   *   *
    On Sundays the Waites regarded themselves as living in a carefree, bohemian fashion, although for the other six days of the week they lived like everyone else. Mrs. Waite was not allowed the services of her maid on Sundays, and on Sundays the Waites usually entertained, with what Mr. Waite confidently referred to as potluck, although it was Mrs. Waite who dealt with the pot—the only reason the Waites were able to keep a maid at all. Mr. Waite customarily invited anyone who pleased him over for Sunday afternoon at his house, and Mrs. Waite was expected to provide various manner of refreshments for Mr. Waite’s casual guests. This included, usually, one or another form of small sandwiches and canapés for any number of people—since Mr. Waite was never able to remember whether he had or had not invited any given person—and buffet supper afterwards; Mrs. Waite had thus established for herself a strict eight-o’clock Sunday bedtime, retiring at about the time Natalie and Bud were released from Sunday bondage and Mr. Waite was settling down with his convivial guests.
    Natalie and her mother spent Sunday mornings, after Natalie’s visit with her father, in the kitchen preparing for the day’s guests; Mrs. Waite thought of this as good training for her daughter, and Natalie, telling her father about her mother, had once remarked, “She makes the kitchen like a room with a sign saying ‘Ladies’ on the door.”
    The kitchen was, in fact, the only place in the house that Mrs. Waite possessed utterly; even her bedroom was not her own, since her husband magnanimously insisted upon sharing it. He shared also the dinner table and the services of the radio in the living room; he felt himself privileged to sit on the porch and to use a bathtub. In the kitchen, however, Mr. Waite amusedly confessed himself