Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

To Stella, without her glasses, the wrinkle masque seemed to have performed as advertised. She made up carefully with just the right touch of blusher to her cheeks. Her eyelids matched the blue of her gown. When she cast her eyes down modestly, her false eyelashes tickled her cheekbones. A final cloud of hairspray, a few strategic dabs of cologne, and Stella felt regal and ready.

She swept down the carpeted stairs, pausing in mid-descent to peer at her domain. The heavy drapes were drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. The tea tray twinkled in the half-light on a low table set before the loveseat. Roses massed in a silver bowl sent their fragrance throughout the house swirling on the cool, centrally conditioned air. All that was needed was music.

Stella floated into the room, tingling with anticipation, and placed a stack of Mantovani records on the spindle of the stereo. Everything was perfect. Too bad Owen didn’t appreciate her delicacy and good taste. He seldom came into this room and when he did he fidgeted about so clumsily that Stella feared for the safety of her collection of porcelain figurines. He left smelly cigar butts in her dainty china ashtrays. Just as well, she thought, that he preferred to spend his time in the basement rec room where he could smoke his filthy cigars and munch on limburger and onion sandwiches and watch television with his feet up on the furniture.

On the crest of the surging Mantovani strings, the doorbell rang. Stella peeped between the drawn drapes and saw dear Francis’ ancient Volkswagen parked in the drive. Such an undignified car for such a truly noble person. Stella could visualize Francis behind the wheel of a Lincoln Continental, at the very least. She glided to the door, her stomach in and her chin high.

“Good afternoon, dear lady. This single rose is not more glorious in its bloom than she to whom I bring it.”

“Oh, Mr. Lafferty. Francis. Dear me!” It crossed Stella’s mind that the single rose bore a striking resemblance to those carefully nurtured and tended by her neighbor up the road. But she chased the traitorous notion away. After all, it was the thought that counted. “Won’t you come in?”

Stella took the proffered rose and promptly received a thorn in her thumb. She cried out in pain.

“What is it, dear lady? Does this envious rose dare to prick the thumb of beauty? Away with it!” Francis X. Lafferty snatched the stem from Stella and tossed it into the umbrella stand. “Let me see the wound. Ah, there. We’ll have it well in no time.”

A drop of bright blood appeared on Stella’s thumb, and a gleaming white handkerchief materialized in Francis X. Lafferty’s hand. His long fingers gently encircled her pudgy paw as he swaddled the injured thumb. Stella could have fainted with delight. She would gladly have bled gallons just to keep his hands holding hers.

“How thoughtless of me,” he murmured. “I meant to bring you happiness and have caused you only pain.”

“Oh, dear me. It doesn’t hurt a bit. Well, hardly at all. And now your handkerchief is stained.”

If Stella had been infatuated before, she was besotted as she examined Francis X. Lafferty’s blood-spotted handkerchief — so clean, and of such fine linen. But laundered so often the threads had parted here and there. Her confined bosom heaved with the indignity of threadbare handkerchiefs and rackety old cars. Dear Francis should have nothing but the best. And she, Stella, would give it to him, could give it to him, if only Owen...

Stella giggled. Francis was pressing his warm lips to her hand.

“Oh, my goodness,” she squealed. “Kiss it and make it well.”

“If only I could, dear lady. If only I were free to kiss away all your cares. What joy it would give me to see the flowers of contentment bloom in your eyes. If I dared hope...”

“Ah, um,” said Stella. “Shall we have some tea?”

Stella was rinsing teacups when Owen and Ronnie burst into the kitchen, dispelling her daydream of exotic ocean voyages with Francis X. Lafferty in the deck chair beside her. Dear Francis had done well by the petit fours, she noticed.

“We won, Grandma! We won!” shouted Ronnie, swinging his brand new bat.

“Nine to six!” exclaimed Owen. “What a game! You should have been there, Stella! Hey, what are you all dolled up for? That’s some bathrobe you got on!”

“It’s not a bathrobe. It’s a hostess gown. I had a tea party. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, go put your running shoes on, old girl, and let’s play ball! ”

“Me! Play ball! You must be out of your mind, Owen Crump.”

“Play ball, Grandma! Let’s play ball,” cried Ronnie, thumping his bat on the floor.

“Aw, come on, Stella. I bought a baseball and Ronnie’s got his new bat. Let’s just hit a few out in the back yard.”

“Please, Grandma. It’s a real Louisville bat. Look at it!”

“Well, all right,” said Stella. “But just for a few minutes. I’ve never played baseball.”

Reluctantly, Stella ascended the stairs and dragged her old gardening clothes out of the closet. She could hear Owen out in the yard, giving Ronnie instructions on how to hold the bat, when to swing. How different her life could be, she thought, as she tied the laces of her tennis shoes. Oh, things were comfortable enough here. She really couldn’t complain about that. But she’d never been anywhere or done anything really exciting. And Owen was so dull and boring, content to spend the rest of his life pottering about, going to ball games, having nights out with his cronies from the box factory. Stella knew that in Owen’s hands their lives were safe and secure. But, oh, so predictable and dull.

“Stella! Hurry up! We’re waiting for you.”

“I’m coming,” she muttered. “Baseball! At my age! Well, I’ll give them exactly ten minutes.”

“Me up first!” shouted Ronnie, swinging the bat in a wide wobbly arc. “Here’s old Tony Perez comin’ to the plate!”

“Hold on a minute, sport,” said Owen. “Let’s have ladies first. Show your Grandma how to hold the bat.”

“Aw, okay. Here, Grandma. Put your one hand here and your other hand here, and stand like this, and hit the ball. That right, Grandpa?”

“It’ll do for starts,” said Owen. “Now I’ll pitch and, Ronnie, you be catcher.”

“Okay. Here’s old Johnny Bench behind the plate.” Ronnie turned his red cap backwards and squatted down behind the flat stone Owen had placed to mark the position of home plate.

Stella felt awkward and ridiculous with her plump hands wrapped around the unwieldy bat, her feet apart and her rump pointing northeast.

“Now, Stella,” said Owen, “I’ll pitch ’em slow and easy. Don’t worry if you don’t hit anything. But just in case you do, that’s first base over there. A home run is anything that goes beyond the driveway on that side and the rhododendron hedge over there. If you do happen to hit the ball, maybe you should let Ronnie run for you. Ready? Batter up!”

“I’ll do my own running, Owen Crump,” muttered Stella. The contrast between her undignified position of the moment and the sweet flattery that had poured into her ear an hour ago caused Stella’s cheeks to burn with indignation. Francis X. Lafferty had sipped his tea and told her, “You are one of the rare ones, dear lady. But I fear your true worth is known only to a few. Your husband is a lucky man. How I would like to... but, no, let that remain unsaid.” And now look at her, standing out here like a dummy with a baseball bat in her hands, about to make a fool of herself.

Owen went through an elaborate windup and Stella watched his gyrations through narrowed eyes. The ball left his hand and she swung as she had seen so many batters swing, slicing the air hard and clean. The loud crack was a shock to her. The impact shivered her arm clear to the shoulder and set her glasses jiggling. Too surprised to run, she stood and watched the ball fly straight and true, watched amazement take possession of Owen’s face in the split second before the ball, with all the force of Stella’s yearning behind it, hit him squarely between the eyes. Stella heard a soft, sickening thud.