The Return Read Online Free PDF Page B

seemed to know them from
way back. That afternoon, we talked about all sorts of things. I started by
telling them about what had happened to me in town, then they talked about their
past lives and their work: one had been a teacher, the other a hairdresser, and
both had quit their jobs, although from time to time, they said, they looked
after kids with problems. At some point, I found myself talking about how the
house should be guarded around the clock. The women looked at me and agreed with
a smile. I regretted having put it like that. Then we ate. I hadn’t prepared the
meal that night. The conversation lapsed into silence broken only by the sound
of our jaws and teeth working, and the scuffling of the dogs outside as they
raced around the house. Later, we started drinking. One of the women, I don’t
remember which, talked about the roundness of the earth and protection and
doctor’s voices. My mind was elsewhere, I wasn’t following. I guess she was
referring to the Indians who had once inhabited those mountain slopes. After a
while I couldn’t stand it any more, so I got up, cleared the table and shut
myself in the kitchen to wash the dishes, but I could hear them even there. When
I went back to the living room, the younger woman was lying on the sofa, half
covered with a blanket, and the other one was talking about a big city; it was
as if she were talking up some big city, saying what a great place it was to
live, but in fact she was running it down; I could tell, because every now and
then both of them would start sniggering. That was something I never got with
those two: their humor. I found them attractive, I liked them, but
something about their sense of humor always seemed false and forced. The bottle
of whiskey I’d opened after dinner was half empty. That bothered me; I had no
intention of getting drunk, and I didn’t want them to get drunk and leave me
out. So I sat down with them and said that we had to talk a few things over. What things? they asked, pretending to be surprised, or maybe they weren’t just
pretending. This house has too many weak points, I said. We’ve got to do
something about it. What are they? asked one of the women. OK, I said, and I
started by reminding them how far it was from town, how exposed it was, but I
soon realized they weren’t listening. If I was a dog, I thought resentfully,
these women would show me a bit more consideration. Later, after I realized that
none of us were feeling sleepy, they started talking about children and their
voices made my heart recoil. I have seen terrible, evil things, sights to make a
hard man flinch, but listening to the women that night, my heart recoiled so
violently it almost disappeared. I tried to butt in, I tried to find out if they
were recalling scenes from childhood or talking about real children in the
present, but I couldn’t. My throat felt like it was full of bandages and cotton
swabs. Suddenly, in the middle of that conversation or double monologue, I
had a premonition and I started moving stealthily toward one of the
windows in the living room, a ridiculous little bull’s-eye window, in a
corner, too close to the main window to serve any useful purpose. I know that at
the last moment the women looked at me and realized that something was
happening; all I had time to do was put my finger to my lips, before pulling
back the curtain and seeing Bedloe’s head, the killer’s head, outside. What
happened next is hazy. And it’s hazy because panic is contagious. The killer, I
realized immediately, had started running around the outside of the house. The
women and I started running around inside. Two circles: he was looking for a way
in, trying to find a window left open, while the women and I went around
checking the doors and shutting the windows. I know I didn’t do what I should
have done: gone to my room, got my gun, gone outside and made him surrender. Instead I found myself thinking that the dogs were still out there, and