Nothing That Meets the Eye: The Uncollected Stories of Patricia Highsmith

  QUIET NIGHT

  Hattie pulled the little chain of the reading lamp, drew the covers over her shoulders, and lay tense, listening till Alice’s sniffs and coughs should subside.

  “Alice,” she whispered.

  No response. Yes, she was sleeping already, though she insisted she never closed an eye before the clock struck eleven.

  Hattie eased herself to the edge of the bed, slowly put out a white stockinged foot. She twisted around to look at Alice, of whom nothing was visible except a thin nose projecting between the ruffle of her nightcap and the sheet pulled over her mouth. She was quite still.

  Hattie rose gently from the bed, her breath coming short with excitement. In the semidarkness she could see the two sets of false teeth sitting in their glasses of water on the bed table. She giggled nervously.

  Like a white ghost she made her way across the room, past the Victorian upholstered settee. She stopped at the sewing table, lifted the folding top, and groped among the spools and pattern papers till she found the cold metal of the scissors. Then holding them tightly, she crossed the room again. She had left the door of the closet slightly ajar earlier in the evening, and it swung open noiselessly. Hattie reached a trembling hand into the blackness, felt the two stiff woolen coats, a few dresses. Finally she touched a fuzzy thing hanging next to the wall. She was giggling as she lifted the hanger down, and the scissors slipped out of her hand. There was a loud clatter, followed by some half-suppressed laughter. Hattie peeked round the door at Alice, motionless on the bed. Alice was rather hard of hearing.

  With her white toes turned up stiffly, Hattie clumped to the easy chair by the window where a bar of moonlight slanted, and sat down with the scissors and the Angora sweater in her lap. In the moonlight her face gleamed, toothless and demoniacal. She examined the sweater in the manner of a person who plays with a piece of steak with a fork before deciding where to put his knife.

  It was really a beautiful sweater. Alice had received it the week before from her niece. It was a birthday present, for Alice would never have indulged in such a luxury herself. She was happy as a child with it, and had worn it every day with her dresses.

  The scissors cut purringly up the soft wool sleeves, between the wristband and the shoulder. She considered. There should be one more cut. The back, of course. But only about a foot long so it should not be immediately visible.

  A few seconds later, she had put the scissors back into the table, hung the sweater in the closet, and was lying between the two feather mattresses. She heaved a tremendous sigh. She thought of the gaping sleeves, of Alice’s face the next morning. The sweater was utterly beyond repair and she was immensely pleased with herself.

  They were awakened at eight-thirty by the hotel maid. It was a ritual that never failed: three bony raps on the door and a bawling voice, with a hint of insolence: “Eight-thirty. You can get breakfast now.” Then Hattie, who always woke first, would poke Alice’s shoulder.

  Mechanically they sat up on their respective sides of the bed and pulled their nightgowns over their heads, revealing clean white undergarments. They said nothing. Five years of coexistence had dwindled their conversation to rock-bottom efficiency.

  This morning, however, Hattie was thinking of the sweater. She felt self-conscious, but she could think of nothing to say or do to relieve the tension. Hattie spent some fifteen minutes doing her hair. She had a braid nearly two feet long when she fixed it at night, and twice a day she would take it down for its hundred strokes. Her hair was her only vanity. Already dressed, she stood shifting uneasily, pretending to be fastening her snaps.

  But Alice seemed to take an age at the wash basin, gargling with her solution of salt and tepid water. She held stubbornly to salt and water in the morning, in spite of Hattie’s tempting bottle of red mouthwash sitting on the shelf.

  “What are you giggling at now?” Alice turned from the basin, her face wet and smiling a little. Hattie could say nothing, looked at the teeth in the glass and snickered again.

  “Here’s your teeth.” She reached the glass awkwardly to Alice. “I thought you were going down to breakfast without them.”

  “Now when did I ever go off without my teeth, Hattie?”

  Alice smiled in spite of herself. It was going to be a good day, she thought. Mrs. Crumm and her sister were back from a weekend, and they could all play rummy together in the afternoon. She walked to the closet in her stocking feet, a smile playing absently about her mouth.

  Hattie watched as she took down the powder blue dress, the one that went best with the beige Angora. She fastened all the little buttons in front. She took the sweater off the hanger and put one arm into the sleeve.

  “Oh,” she breathed painfully. Then like a hurt child her eyes squinted and her face twisted petulantly. Tears came quickly down her cheeks. “H-Hattie . . .” She turned to her and could say nothing else.

  Hattie smirked, uncomfortable yet enjoying herself thoroughly. “Well I do know!” she exclaimed. “Who might have done a trick like that!” She went to the bed and sat down, doubled up with laughter.

  “Hattie . . . Hattie you did this,” Alice declared in unsteady tones. She clutched the sweater to her. “Hattie . . . you’re just mean.”

  Lying across the bed, Hattie was almost hysterical. “You know I ­didn’t now, Alice. . . . Hah-haw! . . . Why do you think I’d . . . ?” Her voice was choked off with uncontrolled laughter.

  She lay there several minutes before she was calm enough to go down to breakfast. And when she left the room, Alice was sitting in the big chair by the window, sobbing, her face buried in the Angora sweater.

  Alice did not come down until she was called for lunch. She chatted at the table with Mrs. Crumm and her sister and took no notice of Hattie. She sat opposite Alice, silent and restless, but she was not at all sorry for what she had done. She could have endured days of indifference on Alice’s part, without feeling the slightest remorse.

  It was a beautiful day. After lunch, they went with Mrs. Crumm, her sister, and the hotel hostess, Mrs. Holland, and sat in Gramercy Park.

  Alice pretended to be absorbed in her book. It was a detective story by her favorite author, borrowed from the hotel’s circulating library. Mrs. Crumm and her sister did most of the talking. A weekend trip was of sufficient importance to provide a topic of conversation for several afternoons, and Mrs. Crumm was able to remember every item of food she ate on visits for days running.

  The monotonous tones of the voices, the warmth of the sunlight lulled Alice into half sleep. The page was blurred to her eyes.

  Earlier in the day she had planned to adopt an attitude toward Hattie. She should be cold and aloof, even hostile. It was not the first time Hattie had committed such an outrage. There was the ink spilt on her lace tablecloth four months ago, and her missing morocco volume of Tennyson. She was sure Hattie had it, somewhere. And that evening, she would calmly pack her bag, write Hattie a note, short but carefully worded, and leave the hotel. She could go to another hotel in the neighborhood, let it be known through Mrs. Crumm where she was, and have the satisfaction of Hattie’s coming to her and apologizing. But the fact of it was, she was not at all sure that Hattie would come to her, and this embarrassing possibility, plus a characteristic lack of enterprise prevented her taking such a dangerous course. . . . What if she had to spend the rest of her life alone? . . . It was much easier to stay where she was, to have a pleasant game of rummy in the afternoon, with ice cream and cookies, and to take out her revenge in little ways. It was also more ladylike, she consoled herself. She did not think beyond this, of the particular situations when she would say or do things calculated to hurt Hattie. The opportunities would just come of themselves.

  Mrs. Holland nudged her. “We’re going to get some ice cream now. Then we’re going back to play some rummy.”

  “I was just at the most e
xciting part of the book.” But she rose with the others and was almost cheerful as they walked to the drug store.

  She won at rummy, too, and she felt pleased with herself. Hattie, watching her uneasily all day, was much relieved when Alice decreed speaking terms again.

  Nevertheless, the thought of the ruined sweater rankled in Alice’s mind, prodded her with a sense of injustice. Indeed, she was ashamed of herself for being able to consider it as lightly as she did. It was letting Hattie walk over her. She wished she could muster a really strong hatred.

  They were in their room reading at nine o’clock. Every vestige of Hattie’s shyness or pretended contrition had vanished.

  “Wasn’t it a nice day?” she ventured.

  “H-m-m.” Alice did not raise her head.

  “Well,” she made the inevitable remark through the inevitable yawn, “I reckon I’ll be going off to bed.”

  And a few minutes later they were both in bed, propped up by four pillows, reading; Hattie with the newspaper and Alice with her detective story. They were silent for a while, then Hattie adjusted her pillows and lay down.

  “Good night, Alice.”

  “Good night.”

  Soon Alice pulled out the light, and there was absolute silence in the room except for the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional purr of an automobile. The timepiece on the mantel whirred and then began to strike ten.

  Alice lay open-eyed. All day her tears had been restrained and now, automatically, she began to cry. She wiped her nose on the top of the sheet. But they were not childish tears.

  She raised herself on one elbow. The darkish braid of hair outlined Hattie’s neck and shoulder against the white bedclothes. She felt very strong, strong enough to murder Hattie with her own hands. But the idea of murder passed from her mind as swiftly as it had entered. Her revenge had to be something that would last, that would hurt, something that Hattie must endure and that she, Alice, could enjoy.

  Then it came to her, and she was out of bed, walking boldly to the sewing table as Hattie had done twenty-four hours before . . . and she was standing by the bed, bending over Hattie, peering at her placid, innocent face through her tears and her short-sighted eyes. Two quick strokes could cut the braid, right near the head.

  But suddenly her fingers were limp, hardly strong enough to hold the scissors, much less slice through a rope of hair.

  She steadied herself on the bed table . . . Hattie, dear Hattie . . . Hattie meant well. Hattie was just mischievous. She laid the scissors on the table and gave a great sob.

  Hattie yawned and squinted her eyes open.

  “I . . . I was just getting a drink of water,” Alice said. She moved toward the basin.

  Hattie yawned and grunted.

  “Would you like some?”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Hattie murmured.

  She brought her a tumbler half full, and Hattie took it without a word as a child would. Alice felt her way around the bed and climbed in. She lay there looking at the ceiling with sore tear-pink eyes, and after a moment she heard Hattie set the glass down on the table.

  DOORBELL FOR LOUISA

  The mere sight of her name spelled “Trott” on the square white envelope whose flap was parsimoniously tucked in was almost enough to make Louisa Trotte throw it away without opening it. It was only an advertisement from the department store where she kept a charge account anyway. But because she seldom got mail of any kind, Louisa, standing by the long table in Mrs. Holpert’s dimly lighted hall, slipped the booklet out, slanted it toward the yellowish bulb in a candlelike wall fixture, and gave the fur coats a rather nearsighted, thoughtful, but quite detached attention. Slowly, a strand of copper-tinged brown hair pulled from the bun at the back of her neck, stood out horizontal, then drooped slightly.

  “H’lo, Miss Trott.”

  Louisa Trotte adjusted her glasses a little on the bridge of her long thin nose and peered into the Cimmerian darkness at the hall’s rear. “Good morning, Jeannie!” she called as a small pale blur moved closer.

  “Did you get a letter?” Jeannie asked, shyly twisting up the tail of her shift till it was above her navel.

  Louisa glanced at the big brown stairway, lest one of the male roomers be descending its carpeted steps, then went to Jeannie and pulled her dress down. She gave the child an impulsive hug that brought her soft stomach abruptly against her bony knees, then released her with a pat across the buttocks. “Yes, I’ve got a letter, Jeannie. Would you like to share it with me?”

  “I wan-nit,” Mrs. Holpert’s little granddaughter replied, and began twisting up her dress again.

  “Ju-ust a minute,” Louisa said, turning through the last pages as carefully as she had the first. One coat she rather liked, a black Persian lamb with generous, turned-back cuffs. But four hundred and forty-nine dollars!

  Closing her mind to the fur coats as abruptly as she closed the booklet, Louisa bent down and presented the latter to the little girl. “Here you are! Pick yourself out a nice warm fur coat and show it to me when I come home. All right?”

  “Awright.”

  From the back of the hall came the sound of a child’s coughing, distant and thin.

  “How’s your little sister?” Louisa asked, jerking straight the jacket of her black suit.

  “She’s worser,” Jeannie replied. “Gramma says.”

  “Is she?” Louisa did not like Eleanor so well as she did Jeannie, though perhaps that was ridiculous to say of a baby hardly three years old. “Well, you be careful you don’t catch it. Sweetie!” She caught Jeannie again, patted her head with a flat, bony hand, and turned toward the door.

  “Got any sugar lumps?”

  Louisa stopped and felt in the side pocket of her jacket. “I certainly have. Here!” She laid a wrapped lump in Jeannie’s chubby palm and watched the fingers with the incredibly tiny nails close over it. It was one of the lumps she saved from her lunch to give Al, the flower man’s horse, who was generally somewhere near on West End Avenue when she came home from work. But tonight there would be more sugar lumps.

  “Good-bye, Jeannie!”

  She strode across the polished, creaky floor toward the tall double doors with colored glass that opened to a square tile foyer, then through the next pair of doors onto the sunny brownstone steps. She walked briskly toward Riverside Drive and the bus stop one block north.

  “Trott indeed!” she murmured as she dropped the empty envelope into a wastepaper receptacle. Bad enough that American pronunciation had won the battle with the final e during the fifteen years she had been in the country, people could at least spell the name correctly.

  It was not that she was seriously disturbed by her name’s misspelling, for she was not vain or small-minded, but that she hated inefficiency and she had nothing else particularly to think of that morning. Her work was going smoothly at the office, and she had no eye for the changing colors of early autumn that showed in the strip of green park along the drive. Her long upward-sloping nose took no pleasure in the cool new air of eight-thirty in the morning.

  And somehow, too, the incompetence of the unknown addresser of her letter prompted her to think, dully and idly as she rode on the top deck of the bus, of other minor irritations in her life, of her liquor-loving brother who was wandering somewhere in Europe, of the increasing difficulties of living in New York on her modest salary, or the fact she had been forced to wait nearly ten minutes for Mr. Noenzi to come out of the bathroom that morning, and of the obliquely slanting handle that projected from the dark ventilator shaft in the ceiling over the tub—a clumsy thick stick of wood that looked violent and made the word murder enter her mind every time she saw it. It looked as though someone held the other end of it. But none of these annoyances troubled her gravely. They merely played around in her brain and caused a look of mild distraught
ness to be fixed on her face as she scanned the front page of the Times. To fret about things gave Louisa, unconsciously, a raison d’être.

  When the bus turned from Fifty-seventh Street onto Fifth Avenue, she dismounted and began to walk southward. She might have ridden the bus down to Forty-eighth Street, of course, but each morning, if it wasn’t raining, she walked the nine blocks for exercise.

  Her somewhat tall, somewhat angular figure, the figure of an unmarried, professionally efficient, tolerably content woman of forty-five, had gathered full speed by Fifty-fifth Street. The hem of her black suit’s skirt, widened at the bottom by a series of pleats six inches long all the way around, flounced spiritedly about her hustling bony legs, and the wisp of coppery brown hair that had slipped from the big tortoise hairpin undulated behind her with each aggressive step. Atop her head sat a round-brimmed little black hat with straight sides, unobtrusive and meaningless, a dutiful observance of convention. Her shoulders were tense and rather thrust forward beneath the black jacket whose tailoring was relieved by four closely set buttons down the front. Fifteen years of secretarial work had not much broadened her hips, though all her skirts slatted a little across her flat derriere.

  Besides classifying her, probably immediately, as a secretary, one thought of Europe when one saw Miss Louisa Trotte hurrying down Fifth Avenue of a morning. There was a more complex emanation from her oxford shoes, her old custom-made suit, and her copper-glinting bun than that of simple practicality. There was the look of an individual about her, and a stamp of romance and adventure that one sees sometimes in a good, well-used suitcase carelessly splotched with faded stickers. She would live, one thought, in a furnished room, for the mobility of a traveler sat lightly upon her, a room whose walls bore photographs of the Black Forest, a canal in Holland, a seaport in Denmark, or a fjord in Norway. Her bathroom would be down the hall in the quiet, irreproachably clean and respectable old house to which her instinct and training would have led her as surely as it leads a homing pigeon back to its base. One might have imagined her cultivating a small window box in spring, on fine Saturday afternoons sitting in a camp chair on the gritty triangle of roof outside her second-story rear window, a roof which overlooks the postage stamp garden of her landlady, drying her hair carefully with a white bath towel. For she would be selfish about her two free days a week, through long habit preferring her own company to that of the best of her few friends. Seeing her en route to work in the morning, one might have imagined her a few minutes earlier standing by an electric plate, dipping a sweet bun into a cup of black coffee and staring into space. And, if one had imagined all this about Louisa Trotte, one would have been almost exactly correct. Except that the pictures on her walls were small oil paintings by her aunt of Copenhagen Harbor and its surroundings, or Gloucester watercolors she had acquired on one of her summer vacations. The fading photographs of the Black Forest and the Spreewald, the strange, haphazard snapshots her brother had made in Holland, treasured just because they were by him, Louisa kept in a leather-bound album that had stayed only half full for the last ten or twelve years.