Steven Millhauser - Voices in the Night - Stories

She tells herself not to move a muscle, just lie there like a nice corpse, even as she throws the covers off and feels her bare soles on the rug. She only wants to listen, to make sure sure, before she wakes her husband up. A house makes many sounds, in the middle of the night, and though she’s completely sure the sounds she hears are the sounds of footsteps, she will be surer when she opens the bedroom door. Over her short nightgown she slips her silk robe, pulls the belt tight as she walks with immense caution to the door. What if the thief hears the turn of the knob, the click of the latch? In the hall she stops. She listens, hears nothing, hears something, hears nothing. At the top of the stairs she hears the sounds of footsteps, she’s sure now, absolutely sure, though to be perfectly honest it’s hard to hear anything over the thudding in her chest.

With her hand on the banister she begins to descend, placing first her left foot and then the right on each stair. The last thing she wants is for the thief to hear her as she comes slowly down the stairs, first her left foot and then the right. At the same time the one thing she wants more than anything in the world is for the thief to hear her, as she comes slowly down the stairs, first her left foot and then the right, so that he’ll flee with his sack of stolen goods, if thieves have sacks, what else would they have, and leave everybody in peace, if you can call it peace to be awake in a house where a thief’s been prowling around at three in the morning, stealing your things and driving you insane. It occurs to her that he might all of a sudden stop, if he hears her footsteps on the stairs. He’ll stop and wait for her, the foolish wife in the slinky robe, coming half naked down the stairs, that’s what he’ll do, and then she, and not her husband, will be the one lying on the floor with scratchy rope tied around her wrists and ankles, in the middle of the night, duct tape over her mouth, or maybe a cord around her neck, her nightgown up around her waist, policemen standing over her, studying her thighs, examining the pubic ridge with its coils of hair, before covering her with a sheet. Go back, go back, before it’s too late, go back, go back, let it all wait, but already she’s at the bottom of the stairs, facing the front hall, on her left the living room, dining room on the right. The windows of her house have tie-back curtains on both sides, covering the blinds and the window frames, but a faintness of light comes through, an easing of the dark, probably from the streetlamp next to the sugar maple. She can make out the shapes of parts of things, an arm of the couch, a corner of the hutch. The footsteps have stopped. The thief is waiting. Maybe he’s waiting for her to return upstairs, so that he can make his escape without having to throw a cord around her neck, if thieves have cords, and drag her behind the couch, if that’s what he’s planning to do, if she enters the room.

She eases her way into the living room, with its shapes of parts of things, its unblack dark. She’s a cat in the night, her fur alive, whiskers twitching. All at once she stops, with a hand raised to her open mouth, like that poster in the lobby of the movie theater, the woman’s body stiff with fear, the long robe half open, but it’s only a sound from outside the house, a car door slamming, the Kelly kid back from a date, or some other sound, a squirrel on a garbage pail. What if the thief is waiting for her? What if he’s sitting on the couch? There’s someone on the couch, she can see him there, a dark thief, waiting, or is it a throw pillow, she needs to calm down. Three o’clock in the stupid morning and she’s creeping around in the dark like a madwoman with her arm outstretched and her hair plunging along her cheeks. She should’ve pinned her hair up, or put a clip in it, as if anybody could see her, in the practically black dark. He has to be in here somewhere, she heard the footsteps, if they were footsteps, what else could they have been. She moves from couch to armchair, from armchair to lamp table, from lamp table to six-disc CD player, peering, touching, one hand clutching the thin robe closed at her throat. The new flat-screen is still on its stand, the silver dove on the mantel, nothing missing, everything in its place. Is he still in the house? She moves quickly now, into the dark dining room, where the cut-glass bowl still sits on the table, into the kitchen, where the cabinets remain shut. The thief must have heard her on the stairs. He’s fled, vamoosed, she’s saved the house. She’s won.

Back in the living room she checks the front door, locked tight, and turns around. She listens. He might have come in through a window. Might have come in here, there, who knows where. She moves through the downstairs rooms, checking the windows, all closed, checking the door in the kitchen, locked tight, that opens onto the porch. In the living room she throws herself down on the couch, head flung back against the top of a cushion. She has to be sure, surer than sure, before she can return to bed. What if he’s hiding in a corner? What if he finds her? Finds her, binds her, whacks her, sacks her, shhh. What if he’s outside, waiting? Better if she’d found a window smashed, drawers open, coasters and folded maps scattered across the floor, TV gone, cut-glass bowl gone. The muscles in her arms are clenched, as though she’s struggling to lift a heavy box. Her whole body is a fist.

After a while she swings herself out of the couch and goes to the front door. Beyond the door is the front yard, the sugar maple, the night. She stands for a few moments and unlocks the bolt. She opens the door and looks through the screen at the dark walk, the lawn. Through the leaves of the maple the light from the streetlamp seems to be shaking a little. The wife closes the door and stares at the lock. She does not turn it. If he’s coming he’s coming. Let him get it over with. She can’t stand it anymore. She climbs the stairs, slips into bed beside her sleeping husband, who has not moved. In the dark she lies awake, listening for the front door, listening for the footsteps, which might have stopped, though she can’t be sure.

In the morning, after her husband leaves for work, the wife moves through the house, opening drawers, looking in cabinets, checking closets. Her husband has told her about the open front door, he must have forgotten to lock it, robberies in the neighborhood, you can’t be too careful. It’s possible, she thinks, that the thief was hiding in a corner and slipped out of the house when she returned to her bedroom. He’s been in the living room, knows what’s there, the Chinese lamp on the table, the silver dove on the mantel, he’s bound to be back, bound to. It’s not a big house, they’re not rich, not by a long shot, but they’re comfortable, as the saying goes, they own lots of things, cameras and blenders and two sets of luggage and that nice box of chocolates, she’s not thinking clearly. She’s sure she heard the footsteps, though how sure can you be, in the middle of the night, and if they weren’t footsteps, but only the sounds a house makes, what good does that do her? If she’s made up the footsteps she might as well’ve made up everything, the husband at work, the house, the marriage, the time in first grade when she fell out of her chair and John Connor pointed at her and shouted: “You’re dead!” She touches her hand, her cheek. She’s there. She’s real. She is waiting for her husband to return from work. She is waiting for the night.

At night the wife lies awake beside her sleeping husband. His face is turned slightly away, and he breathes easily, peacefully. He has checked the doors, locked the windows, robberies in the neighborhood, why only the other day. Is he dreaming, her peaceful husband? Dreaming of her? In the dark she listens to the footsteps. The thief is walking carefully through the living room, stopping now and then before continuing on. He knows she’s there, knows she is listening. The footsteps are not the sounds a house makes, in the middle of the night, she’s sure of it this time, or as sure as anyone can be, under the circumstances. He has returned to complete what he was unable to complete the night before, because she stopped him, as he moved through the dark living room, she drove him away. She is the one who lies awake, she is the one who guards the house.