John Betancourt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006

Mrs. Kent told the children to run along and then she took us up the back stairs. We went into a pretty little room with a low, slanted ceiling on the third floor. It was pink and the curtains were flowered. The bedspread was flowered, too. It matched the curtains.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kent.” I smiled at her. “It’s a very pretty room. I like it.”

She smiled back. Her eyes, as I said were brown, and her hair was red. It was long and pulled back with a jewelled clip around it. It hung down, below the clip. Her face was shaped like a heart and her mouth was red, too. She was so very pretty, I thought. I was going to like her very much.

Miss Ascot set my suitcase down. “You unpack, Julia,” she said, “and then come down and I’ll say good-bye to you.”

I was looking in the neat, clean dresser drawers when they shut the door. The drawers had flowered wall paper covering their bottoms.

“It’s just that she’s a bit childlike. An injury to her brain when she was young. We’ve trained her and are prepared to vouch for her. She is perfectly capable of earning her living. But it’s people like yourself, who are willing to take the Julias into their homes, who help the most. Home-life is what they need.”

Mrs. Kent answered but they were so far away by then that I couldn’t hear them.

I started to put my things in separate drawers, but they looked so lonesome that I put them all in one drawer like I did at the institute. Then I went downstairs.

There was a man with Mrs. Kent and Miss Ascot. He was a big man with grey and black hair that waved on his head and round blue eyes. He looked like if you poked him the air would come out.

“This is Mr. Kent, Julia,” said Miss Ascot and he shook my hand. His hand was damp. I wiped mine on the side of my skirt. I tried not to let anyone see, but he saw me. I knew because his big round eyes flattened out, just for a minute, to long slits.

“Now, Julia,” Miss Ascot put out her hand. Her hand was dry and kind of rough. It was square, like Miss Ascot. It was an easy hand to shake. “I explained about your salary and your afternoon off. Remember, you’re to be back by nine on your afternoon off.”

I nodded. She had told me a dozen times. I sometimes thought Miss Ascot was a little simple, the way she kept repeating things.

They all said good-bye then and I watched Miss Ascot disappear through the door, heard her go down the steps. I looked at the clock. Almost four. Time for Your Movie Theatre . I looked hopefully at the television set, but its face was blank.

Mrs. Kent gave a nervous little laugh. “Good heavens,” she said, “it’s almost four. I suppose we had better think about dinner, Julia.”

Mr. Kent yawned and started for the stairs. “Guess I’ll catch forty winks. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

Mrs. Kent took me to the kitchen. “Is Mr. Kent out of work?” I asked when she had given me potatoes to peel.

She looked up, startled. “Out of work? Oh — because he’s home in the daytime?” She laughed. She was such a pretty lady. “Paul is a newspaperman. He works at night. He’s what you call a reviewer. That is, he tells people whether a picture or a play or a TV show is good.”

I looked with pleasure on my nicely peeled potatoes. “But how does he know?”

She sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “He gives the readers his opinion.”

I started to ask if he got paid for it, but I looked around the shiny kitchen and decided he must. I made a note in my head to ask him about it. That was the kind of job I’d like. Watching television — and getting paid for it.

Dinner went all right and we got the children to bed. Mrs. Kent sighed then and walked heavily down the stairs. I followed her.

“Julia, you can go to bed now if you like. Mr. Kent went to the theatre this evening and I’m going to turn in early myself. I’m dead.”

I wanted to ask if I could watch the Buzzy Bisby Show, but I was afraid to — on the first night — so I went up to the third floor.

I listened carefully and when Mrs. Kent had gone to bed I sneaked back down. Keeping the volume low I watched clear through Steve Allen. It was wonderful!

I found this method worked very well. I heard Mrs. Kent tell Miss Ascot on the phone that I was very willing. “No, she hasn’t pestered me about the TV at all. She said Howdy Doody was her favorite program and the children usually watch it anyway so she has permission to see that. So all things considered, everything is fine.”

Just fine. I knew I was going to like it there. No one paid much attention to me, except Mrs. Kent. And every night — the television.

But then Mr. Kent began to stay home every evening.

He stayed home in the living room. He had bottles of things in there and he lay on the sofa and drank from them. He never even watched the television at all.

I stood it for three nights. Then I went down. I wore my best dress like a party and I brushed my hair very carefully. It is pretty hair when it’s brushed. It looks like yellow cotton candy.

Mr. Kent was lying on the sofa, his eyes shut. He hadn’t shaved. His face looked dark and scratchy. He was breathing hard. A glass was on the floor beside him.

“Mr. Kent.”

He opened his eyes. He had to look for me before he saw me.

“If it wouldn’t annoy you, Mr. Kent, could I turn on the set? I’ll keep it low and not bother you at all.”

“Good God,” he said, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “Get the hell out of here. Can’t a man have a little peace in his own home?”

I looked at the set. It was a shame. Nobody enjoying it. Nobody at all. I turned to go.

“Just a minute.” He sat up and his round eyes looked glittery. “Maybe you can stay. Nobody else will keep me company. She goes up to her chaste and virginal bed.” He swallowed the rest of the drink in his glass. “Just because a man gets fired — hell, it was no job anyway. The novel, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll write the novel. Sit down, Julia. Here — have a drink.”

I looked at the bottle. The brown stuff in it did not look as though it would taste good. But, perhaps if I went along with him, he would turn the set on.

He poured a drink for me. I was right. It did not taste good but I drank it. He was talking about a lot of things I didn’t understand like “cold-hearted bitch” and “nobody realizes that I’ve got talent.” During this time he had two more drinks and I began to get nervous. It was almost time for Steve Allen. We might miss it.

“Come here, Julia,” he said suddenly, patting the sofa cushion beside him. I put my glass down and went over. My head felt funny.

I stood next to him and he pulled me down beside him. “You may be sub-normal, but you’ve got an above-average shape.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think about, Julia? What do you think of us?”

I found his arm was heavy. I couldn’t sit up straight so I leaned back and he moved closer.

“I’m happy here, Mr. Kent. This is the first time I’ve lived in a home. Mrs. Kent is good to me.”

His round face floated over mine. “Mrs. Kent is good to nobody. Not unless they’ve got something she wants. Then she’s as sweet as honey. You wouldn’t be that way, would you, Julia?”

His other arm moved on my shoulder, down.

“Mr. Kent.” I tried to sit up.

“What do you want, Julia?”

“Mr. Kent. The television?”

“Sure,” he said. “In a minute.”

It didn’t take long. Then, like he promised, he got up and turned the set on. The blackness went and exciting people came and went, singing, laughing, dancing. It was wonderful — as always. I forgot Mr. Kent.

And so it was all right again. I could come down freely. Mr. Kent was most always there. But it didn’t matter. We understood each other.