Bill Pronzini - Snowbound

The window seemed suddenly to develop a magnetic pull for her eyes. After a moment she stood from the table and went there and saw again the diffused yellow light in the cabin. She looked at it for a full minute, and then she thought: Well, I could go up there, I could go up and talk to him for a while; there’s nothing wrong in that. Just two people, landlord and tenant, talking together on a stormy, lonely winter night. And she was curious about him, there was that too.

She kept on standing there, thinking about it-and then she walked into the hall, to where the coat closet was located near the Dutch-doored front entrance. You’d better not do it, she told herself-and knew that she was going to do it anyway. She opened the closet and put on fur-lined snow parka and fur-lined ski boots (presents from Matt in one of his contrite and attentive moments); then she tied a scarf tightly around her head, put the parka’s hood over it, drew on a pair of wool mittens. And went out into the blizzard before she could change her mind.

The tails of her parka and the flared legs of her slacks slapped and ballooned in the chill white wind as she crossed the front yard to Lassen Drive. She started up the road, struggling through the dry shoulder drifts. The cold numbed her lips and her cheeks; the night and the snow pressed down on her, sealing her in a thrumming vacuum. Finally, she reached the cabin and stepped off the road, bracing herself against the heaving wind, moving toward the dull warm light in the facing window.

As she drew opposite, she could see beyond the ice-frosted glass, and Cain was there, sitting there in the window. He was smoking, looking down at the table: remote, grim-visaged in his thick grayish beard. Rebecca stopped abruptly, and she was less sure of herself now, less convinced that coming here was a good idea. What did she know about Zachary Cain, after all? He was a complete stranger, she hadn’t spoken twenty words to him since he’d arrived in Hidden Valley; what could she say to him tonight, where would she begin? She thought of retracing her steps to the road, leaving as quickly as she had come. But she did not move. Home to the big, empty house had no appeal; being alone tonight disturbed her more than the unknown qualities of Zachary Cain.

The wind slackened and began to gust, and the cold penetrated her clothing to chill her skin. Through the hazy window, she saw Cain rub one hand over his face and through his unkempt hair-a tired, despondent gesture that cemented her resolve. She moved forward again to the front door.

Rebecca knocked loudly several times. When there was no immediate response, she thought he hadn’t heard above the sound of the storm and reached up to knock again. And the door opened with a jerky suddenness, and Cain stood holding it against the force of the wind, peering out at her with red-flecked eyes. There was a surprise in his gaze, but it dulled and faded almost instantly. She saw pain there, too, and what might have been irritation. He did not look drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking.

She tried a tentative smile and felt the tightness of it on her mouth. He did not return it-except for his eyes, his face was totally impassive-and the doubts began to wash over Rebecca again. Her mind seemed to have gone blank; she could not think of anything to say. She had a foolish impulse to turn and run away into the snow-riddled night.

Cain said finally, “Yes, what is it, Mrs. Hughes?”

She found words then and pushed them out diffidently. “May I come inside? It’s terribly cold out here.”

He hesitated, and then shrugged and moved aside so that she could step in past him. The cabin was warm, fire in the hearth; but it smelled of liquor and stale cigarette smoke, and when he closed the door, cutting off the scream of the wind, it seemed too quiet. She was conscious of the snow that had blown into the room, that still fell fluttering from her parka; she wanted to say something apologetic about it, but the only words that came to her were acutely inane: I’m getting snow all over your floor.

Cain was standing with his back to the door, watching her, waiting silently for her to tell him why she was there. Instead, Rebecca said, “Quite a storm, isn’t it?” and those words seemed just as inane as the other, unspoken ones. She began to feel awkward and incredibly silly.

He said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well-I hope I’m not intruding. I mean, you’re not… busy or anything, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“It doesn’t matter. What did you want to see me about?”

“Nothing in particular. I just… I thought you might like to have some company tonight.”

His barlike eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh? Why?”

“I don’t know, I just thought you might. I’m alone too this evening, you see, my husband is… away, and it seemed like a good idea to-” She broke off, realizing how wrong that sounded; she looked away from him and then said almost desperately, “I was feeling lonely, and I wanted someone to talk to.”

“Why me, Mrs. Hughes?”

“I had the idea you might be lonesome too, that’s all.”

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. “I’m not lonesome,” he said harshly. “I live the way I do by choice.”

“Does that mean you don’t like people?”

“I prefer my own company.”

“Would it be prying if I asked why?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Well I’m sorry.”

“Do you make a habit of calling on men you hardly know when your husband is away and you’re feeling lonely?”

“Of course not…”

“What would he say if he knew you’d come here tonight?”

Rebecca felt her cheeks begin to flush. “What are you getting at? Do you think I came for some… special reason?”

“Did you?”

“No. I told you, I only wanted some companionship.”

“You won’t find it here, in any variety.”

“So you’re inviting me to leave.”

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

Bitter, defensive anger welled inside her; words tumbled out unchecked, mirroring her thoughts. “Oh, we can really put it bluntly if you like. We can say, ‘You’re a bitch, Mrs. Hughes, I don’t want anything to do with you, Mrs. Hughes, find someone else to go to bed with, Mrs. Hughes.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Cain seemed to wince slightly. His voice a little softer, he said, “There’s no need to-”

“Of course, how thoughtless of me to bring it out into the open like that. Well, I’ll just be going. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Cain. It’s been very pleasant; it isn’t every day I get to feel like a cheap whore.”

She moved gropingly to the door, fumbled at the latch, and got it open. The sudden gust of wind and snow was like a slap. She ran out and across the yard and down the road: staggering and reeling in a surrealistic coalescence of white and black, the sound of it now raging in her ears like mocking, hysterical laughter.

When she reached the house, an interminable time later, she was asthmatically breathless and trembling uncontrollably. Inside, she stripped off parka and scarf and mittens and boots and flung them into the closet; ran upstairs and into the bedroom. Slacks and sweater and undergarments were icy-damp against her skin, and she shed them urgently and located the warmest nightgown she owned-a heavy flannel-and put that on and got into bed. The shaking refused to abate; her teeth chattered, her body crawled with chills. She tried to smoke a cigarette, could not get it lighted, and finally threw it to the floor, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Cold, cold, trembling, cold…

And after a while, when it became unbearable, she turned her face into the pillow and slid one hand down beneath the covers and pulled the hem of her gown up over her hips; parted her thighs and began to massage herself harshly with her fingertips-a kind of rhythmic self-flagellation. In less than a minute, she climaxed; and her body, at last, was still.