Who are you? Who said you could just come in here?
Mr. Jackson—
Get out. Before I call the authorities.
Mr. Jackson, I live here. You remember me.
I never saw you before in my life.
But Mrs. Jones invited me, the girl said.
Mrs. Jones is dead.
No. Your daughter. That Mrs. Jones.
Then where is she? he said.
I don’t know. At a meeting, I think. She said she’d be here by now.
That’s a filthy lie.
He stepped into the room and began to move toward her. The girl stepped back. Suddenly he brought his arm up and slapped her face with his open hand and slapped her again. Her nose began to bleed.
Mr. Jackson, she cried. Don’t. She was backed up against the shower door, turned a little to the side, with one hand over her stomach to protect herself in case he should try to hit her somewhere other than the face. Don’t. Please. You don’t want to do this.
I’ll do it again. You better get out of here.
I will. If you just step out for a minute, I’ll leave.
He stood still, waiting. His eyes were wild. It’s at the bank, he said. You’ll never touch it in your life.
What? No. If you’ll just step back.
I have it. Not you. You don’t have the key.
Yes, I know. But just wait outside. Just for a minute. Will you do that?
Why should I?
I want to dry my face.
He looked at her. I can’t take much more of this, he said. He surveyed the bathroom, his eyes still wild and red. At last he shuffled his feet, backing out.
Immediately she locked the door and he stayed outside, muttering. She could hear him guarding the door, waiting for her. For an hour she stayed in the bathroom. She put the lid down and sat down on the toilet and held toilet paper to her nose and all the time she could hear him talking and arguing in the hallway. It sounded as though he had seated himself against the wall.
. . .
He was still there when Maggie Jones came home after eleven. She came into the hall and found him sitting on the floor. Oh, Dad, she said. What have you done?
She’s in there, he said. I got her trapped. But she won’t come out.
Mrs. Jones? the girl called. Is that you?
That’s her, he said. That’s her yapping in there.
Dad, Maggie Jones said, she lives here. That’s Victoria. Don’t you remember? She turned toward the door. Honey, are you okay?
I don’t know what I did, the girl said through the door. I don’t know what upset him.
I know. It’s all right. I know you didn’t do anything, honey.
She wants my key. That’s what she wants.
No, now Dad. That’s not so. You know it isn’t. Come on. Let’s get you to bed.
That’s what they all want.
She raised her old father by the arm and led him back to his room. He came along docilely now. She helped him out of his clothes and removed his shoes and set them on the floor beside the bed and he stood naked in the hot room, his arms at his sides, his skin sagging at the elbows and knees, his thighs as skinny as sticks. His old gray buttocks had fallen forlornly. He stood like a child waiting for what she would do next. She helped him step into his pajamas and buttoned his top, then he lay down in the bed. She covered him with the blankets.
Dad, she said. She brushed his wispy hair flat on his head. You can’t do that again. Please. You can’t. Listen to me now.
Do what? he said.
Please, she said. Just don’t do that. That girl has enough trouble.
She can’t get to it anyway.
No. Hush now. We’ll talk in the morning. Try to sleep. She bent and kissed him and held her face against his cheek for a long while. He began to relax. She smoothed her hand over his eyes and he closed them. She continued to caress his face. At last he was asleep. Then she went back into the hall. She found the girl in the makeshift bedroom at the back of the house, standing at the dresser. The girl looked large-eyed and very tired and pale in the long white nightgown. Just a young high school girl with dark hair, with something swollen beginning to show at her stomach.
Did he hurt you? Maggie Jones said.