Read Online Something Is Out There by Richard Bausch - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Bausch
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the bathroom, slipping out of her clothes as she went. It was all delicious action, bright with purpose and anticipation. In the bathroom, she folded the clothes and set them on top of the hamper. On the wall opposite the shower stall was a print of four Indian maidens washing clothes in a stream, the pristine rush of blue-white water over stones. Behind them was an orderly procession of trees, mountains, and sky. She looked at the picture as if it belonged to someone else. Everything was under way; it was going to happen. She turned to the mirror and put a dash of light-pink lipstick on, standing naked at the sink, and, with a few soft strokes of her fingers, arranged her hair.
In the bedroom, she opened the closet, brought out a robe, and draped it over herself. She stopped in the hallway, held on to the wall, inhaling and letting it out slowly, repeating this five times, counting.
Movement was best. She went into the living room and lifted a blade of the closed window blinds only a fraction of an inch to look out at the street. Phyllis Copperfield, crazy Phyllis, a woman who lived by the clock, had come out of her house with the baby in a running stroller. She wore spandex slacks, and had a bandanna around her head, her hair tied in a ponytail that swung from side to side when she walked. At the top of the street, she began to run, and she was gone.
Phyllis had been one of her chief worries. They had been friendly, and Phyllis knew things, had gleaned something of Diana’s dissatisfactions. Phyllis herself was by her own account going slowly crazy. Her husband was often out of town—sometimes for weeks at a time—and she was alone with a baby whom she hadn’t wanted and whose demands made her miserable and sleepless. She would say terrible things about her husband, her mother, the baby, neighbors, herself, and they would have been off-putting if they weren’t also funny. About the husband, whom Diana had seldom seen, she was particularly brutal: he was a man whose sex appeal improved the farther away he was; on the telephone, calling from another time zone, he was astounding. Up close, you wanted to think up a trip for him to make. A thousand miles away, he was rockets and flares. Home, he was slippers and boxer shorts with a pattern of clover on them, and beers, burps, and the rest, too. Away, he was all the primary colors. Up close, he was beige.
It was disturbing how often Phyllis’s jokes about her life struck through Diana as containing truths about her own.
• • •
Now she poured coffee for herself, and sat on the sofa in the living room, one leg crossed carefully, languidly, over the other, slowly sipping the coffee. He would be no more than twenty minutes. And abruptly she decided that she wouldn’t greet him like this, drinking coffee, so she hurried to finish it, put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher, and returned to the bathroom, where she ran her fingers through her hair again, and brushed her teeth.
She was waiting at the door when he pulled up. He parked down the street a little and walked back, carrying a small briefcase, keeping to the sidewalk. There was a stockiness about him that hadn’t shown in the photographs online. He wore a gray sport coat, light-colored jeans, a black T-shirt. She opened the door and stood back for him, and when he came through, she experienced a coursing of blood to her head. She closed the door and engaged the deadbolt, watching her own trembling fingertips. She had never felt such excitement. He put the briefcase down and faced her where she leaned against the door. For a moment, neither of them spoke. His eyes trailed down her body and then back up. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
She breathed, “I told you how tall I am.”
He smiled. “You look taller.”
They moved together into the living room and he looked at everything, removing the sport coat. “Nice house.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “My God, we’re
In the bedroom, she opened the closet, brought out a robe, and draped it over herself. She stopped in the hallway, held on to the wall, inhaling and letting it out slowly, repeating this five times, counting.
Movement was best. She went into the living room and lifted a blade of the closed window blinds only a fraction of an inch to look out at the street. Phyllis Copperfield, crazy Phyllis, a woman who lived by the clock, had come out of her house with the baby in a running stroller. She wore spandex slacks, and had a bandanna around her head, her hair tied in a ponytail that swung from side to side when she walked. At the top of the street, she began to run, and she was gone.
Phyllis had been one of her chief worries. They had been friendly, and Phyllis knew things, had gleaned something of Diana’s dissatisfactions. Phyllis herself was by her own account going slowly crazy. Her husband was often out of town—sometimes for weeks at a time—and she was alone with a baby whom she hadn’t wanted and whose demands made her miserable and sleepless. She would say terrible things about her husband, her mother, the baby, neighbors, herself, and they would have been off-putting if they weren’t also funny. About the husband, whom Diana had seldom seen, she was particularly brutal: he was a man whose sex appeal improved the farther away he was; on the telephone, calling from another time zone, he was astounding. Up close, you wanted to think up a trip for him to make. A thousand miles away, he was rockets and flares. Home, he was slippers and boxer shorts with a pattern of clover on them, and beers, burps, and the rest, too. Away, he was all the primary colors. Up close, he was beige.
It was disturbing how often Phyllis’s jokes about her life struck through Diana as containing truths about her own.
• • •
Now she poured coffee for herself, and sat on the sofa in the living room, one leg crossed carefully, languidly, over the other, slowly sipping the coffee. He would be no more than twenty minutes. And abruptly she decided that she wouldn’t greet him like this, drinking coffee, so she hurried to finish it, put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher, and returned to the bathroom, where she ran her fingers through her hair again, and brushed her teeth.
She was waiting at the door when he pulled up. He parked down the street a little and walked back, carrying a small briefcase, keeping to the sidewalk. There was a stockiness about him that hadn’t shown in the photographs online. He wore a gray sport coat, light-colored jeans, a black T-shirt. She opened the door and stood back for him, and when he came through, she experienced a coursing of blood to her head. She closed the door and engaged the deadbolt, watching her own trembling fingertips. She had never felt such excitement. He put the briefcase down and faced her where she leaned against the door. For a moment, neither of them spoke. His eyes trailed down her body and then back up. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
She breathed, “I told you how tall I am.”
He smiled. “You look taller.”
They moved together into the living room and he looked at everything, removing the sport coat. “Nice house.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “My God, we’re
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