Her head is pounding, her eyes smart with tears. She is furious. She considers the panels of the old door—the solid oak door—and wonders what strength it would require, what anguish her fists would have to absorb, if she managed to smash it in.

She says, surprised at the calmness of her voice: “Sheila. Do you know the date?—Christmas? I only want proof that you’re all right, I just want to see you, and then I promise I’ll go away.”

But Sheila will not, will not reply.

And what humiliation, for Monica to be so exposed!—she, Monica, who has guarded herself so closely!

“Tell me to leave, then. Tell me to go to hell. As long as I know you’re all right, you aren’t sick . . . haven’t injured yourself. . . .”

She senses a movement behind the door, inches away. She hears Sheila draw breath to speak.

But there is no response.

Nothing.

So Monica says quietly: “I’ll leave. I think I can assume that you are all right—you can take care of yourself.” She pauses; steps back. “I won’t trouble you any longer, Sheila. Do you know, I’m sick to death of this, of you, of everything—I’m sorry we ever met—I don’t really know why we met. I never intrude where I’m not wanted so I’ll leave now, and please don’t contact me again.”

Her voice quavers with triumph, and with a delicious malice of her own. She knows she has won; and now it is a matter simply of leaving, descending the stairs with dignity, with grace, yet quickly enough, before she loses her advantage.

If I fall, if I hurt myself, she is to blame—she’ll regret it, Monica thinks. Her head aches violently and her cheeks are wet with tears though she hasn’t been aware of herself crying. But she reaches the bottom of the stairs without incident. And no one calls her back. And she can hear no sound at all except her breath—hoarse and raw—and the pounding of her blood.

Absurd, absurd, such pounding—!

“You’ll regret it,” she whispers.

III.

“Holiday”

1

Going home for a week would be a restful experience, Monica thought. A kind of convalescence, in secret.

A curative strategy, to go where no one knew her.

Of course she had to cancel several social engagements in Glenkill, and, for courtesy’s sake, she had to sound greatly aggrieved at doing so. She was aggrieved—these days, she carried grief into all the corners of her life—and it was no difficult matter to make people think that her regret had something to do with them.

In any case, she did not want to give offense.

She did not want to fail, here.