They Call Me Patrice

She pulled the second letter out, took in everything about it with a sort of hypnotic fascination. It had been posted late; past twelve last night. Where in this city? By whom? She could see a furtive, ghostly hand in the dark reaching out to post the letter, then withdrawing again into the shadows. But she couldn’t see a body, couldn’t see a face.

Open it while you have the courage.

The paper made a shredding sound, her fingers were so hasty and erratic.

One more word this time.

“Where are you from?”

She stood up suddenly, stumbling a little over her chair.

“Patrice, aren’t you going to have your coffee?”

“I’ll be right back,” she called back from the stairs. “I forgot something.”

She got into her room and closed the door after her. Then she gave way. Not to tears — to anger, helpless anger.

She flailed upraised fists against the air. Her voice was low and choking, distracted, tormented beyond sanity. “Who are you yourself? Who? Why don’t you come out? Why don’t you come out in the open, where I can see you? Why don’t you come out and give me a chance to fight back?”

Then she stopped, wilted, all emotion spent. A sudden, new determination had come in the wake of anger. There was only one way, only one way to rob the attacks of all power to harm—

She was running down the stairs now, fast, headlong, holding the sheet of paper in her hand. She flared into the dining-room, her mouth a thin line of determination.

She moved swiftly around the table, stopped short at Mother Hazzard’s elbow. The accusing paper landed in front of her, right-side down.

“I want to show you this,” she said brittlely. “I want you to see this.”

“Just a moment, dear. Let me find my glasses.” Mother Hazzard probed here and there among the breakfast things. “I know I had them with me before, when I was reading the paper with Father.” She glanced over at the buffet on the opposite side of her.

She stood there waiting beside the older woman. She looked at Hughie. He smiled his gum-revealing smile at her. He flapped his spoon at her, entire fist folded possessively around it. Home. Peace.

She reached over to her own place across the table, picked up the department-store circular, put it in the place of the anonymous letter.

“Here they are, in my pocket. Right on me the whole time.” Mother Hazzard adjusted them, looked down at the table. “Now what was it, dear?”

Patrice stripped the brochure from its jacket and pointed. “This dressmaker’s pattern here. Isn’t it interesting?” She clenched her hand, down at her side.

Chapter Six

Quietly and deftly she moved about the dimly-lighted room, packing her clothes. Hugh lay sleeping in his crib, and the clock said almost one. There’d been movement and voices in the halls until about 11:30 and she hadn’t dared move any sooner.

She put on the hat and coat she’d left in readiness across the foot of the bed. She picked up her handbag, fumbled in its contents until she found a key, the key to this house, and put it down on the dresser. Then she brought out a small change-purse and shook it. A much-folded cluster of currency fell out, and a sprinkling of coins. She swept them all together, and then left them there on top of the dresser, all but a five-dollar bill.

She went over to the crib and kissed the child lightly. “I’ll be back for you in a minute,” she whispered. “I have to take the bag down first. I can’t manage you both on those stairs, I’m afraid.”

The clock said a little after one now.

She softly opened the door, and carried the valise outside with her. She started down the stairs valise in hand, with infinite caution.

Suddenly she stopped, and allowed the bag to come to rest on the step beside her. Father Hazzard and Dr. Parker were standing in the lower hall by the front door. She hadn’t heard them until now, for they hadn’t been saying anything. They broke the silence now, as she stood there unseen, above the bend of the stairs.

“Well, good night, Donald,” the doctor said, and she saw him put his hand to Father Hazzard’s shoulder as though in consolation, then let it fall heavily away again. “Get some sleep. She’ll be all right.” He opened the door, then he added: “But no excitement, no stress of any kind from now on, you understand that, Donald? That’ll be your job, to keep all that away from her. Can I count on you?”

“You can count on me,” Father Hazzard said forlornly.

The door closed, and he turned away and started up the stairs, to where she stood riveted. She moved down several steps around the turn to meet him, leaving the valise behind her, with her hat and coat hastily flung over it.

He looked up and he saw her, without much surprise, without much of anything except a sort of stony sadness. “Oh, it’s you, Patrice,” he said dully. “Did you hear him? Did you hear what he just said?”

“Who is it — Mother?”