The Cry of the Owl Read Online Free PDF

the kitchen. Robert walked slowly,thinking even now that he could turn back, and knowing he would go on. Faintly, he heard classical music from the house—not Schubert, which had first come to his mind. He thought it was a symphony of Schumann’s. He went quickly past the glow of the living-room window, went round the basketball goal, then toward the small trees behind the house. He had hardly reached the trees when the kitchen door opened and steps sounded on the wooden porch. The girl’s steps, he was sure of that. She turned in the direction of the basketball board. She was carrying a big basket. A white muffler blew out behind her in the wind. She set the basket down, and he realized she was going to burn trash in the wire basket that was slightly behind and to the left of the driveway. In the wind, it took her a minute or so to make the paper catch. Then the flame was going, lighting up her face. She was facing him, staring down at the fire. Perhaps thirty feet separated them. She took the basket and emptied the rest of it onto the fire, and the flame went so high she had to step back. Still, she stared at the fire with the absent fascination he had seen on her face many times when she paused in something she was doing in the kitchen.
    Then suddenly she lifted her eyes and she was looking directly at him. Her lips parted and she dropped the basket. She stood rigid.
    In an involuntary gesture of surrender and apology, Robert opened his arms. “Good evening,” he said.
    The girl gasped and seemed on the brink of running, though she did not move.
    Robert took one step toward her. “My name is Robert Forester,” he said automatically and clearly.
    “What’re you doing here?”
    Robert was silent, motionless also, one foot advanced for a step he did not dare to take.
    “Are you a neighbor?”
    “Not exactly. I live in Langley.” Robert felt he had to throw himself at her mercy, and if he found none, then that was that. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Robert said, still holding his arms a little out from his sides. “Would you like to go into your house?”
    But the girl didn’t move. She seemed to be trying to fix his face in her memory, but the fire had died down now. The darkness was thickening between them. And Robert no longer stood in the light of the kitchen window.
    “Just stand there,” she said.
    “All right.”
    She walked slowly, leaving her basket, watching him all the while. And Robert, so that she could keep him in view, moved forward so that he passed the corner of the house. The girl stood on the little porch with her hand on the knob of her door.
    “Your name is what?”
    “Robert Forester. I suppose you’re going to call the police.”
    She bit her underlip, then said, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    The doorknob squeaked in her hand, but she did not open the door.
    “I suppose you want to call the police. Go ahead and call them. I’ll wait.” He moved so that he was in the faint light that came from the kitchen’s side window, and he looked calmly at the girl. It was all fitting, he thought—letting himself be seen on a night when he hadsworn not to come, standing in a fire’s glow when he might easily have stepped back in the dark at the other side of the house, then promising the girl he’d wait for the police.
    “I don’t want to call the police,” she said softly and earnestly, in a way he had seen her but never heard her talk, “but I don’t want a prowler around my house. If I could be sure you’d never bother me again—”
    Robert smiled a little. “You can be sure.” He was glad to be able to promise her something. “I’m very sorry that I’ve frightened you before. Very sorry. I—” His unplanned words came to a halt.
    The girl shivered in the cold. She did not take her eyes from his face, but now her eyes did not look frightened, only intense and puzzled. “What were you going to say?”
    “I would like to apologize. I