Read Online The Cry of the Owl by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online

book.”
    She went down to the kitchen for a screwdriver, and came back with a hammer and a box of screws also.
    Forty-five minutes later, when Robert came downstairs, he had reset two door latches, the window latch, and had taken down a precariously sagging glass shelf in the bathroom and fixed it to the wooden panel below the medicine cabinet. Jenny had to go up to see what he had done.
    “Gee, it’d take me a week to do all that!” she said.
    Robert noticed that she had put on perfume. “I brought some wine,” he said, suddenly remembering. He put on his overshoes and went out to the car for it. It was a bottle of white wine, which luckily went with chicken.
    They had been sitting at the table only five minutes when a car came up the driveway.
    “Gosh, a dropper-inner,” Jenny said, going to the door.
    Brakes squeaked, and a door slammed.
    “Greg, you pro-omised,” Jenny said, and Robert got to his feet.
    Greg came in the door unsmiling.
    “Greg, this is—this is—”
    “Robert Forester,” Robert said. “How do you do?”
    “How do you do?” Greg glanced at the table, at Jenny, then looked at Robert. “I thought I ought to meet you.”
    “Well, now you have. We’re in the middle of dinner, Greg.” Jenny looked miserable. “Can’t you go? Just for now?”
    Absolutely the wrong thing to say, Robert saw, because Greg’s eyes flashed with anger.
    “I didn’t mean to crash in in the middle of dinner, but I don’t see why I should go, either. Why don’t I wait in the living room?”
    Jenny made a hopeless gesture and turned toward Robert.
    Greg stomped into the living room in his stocking feet, his shoes evidently having come off in his rubber boots.
    “Greg, would you please wait upstairs?” Jenny said from the kitchen doorway.
    Robert smiled nervously. Her tone was one a sister might use to a brother she wanted a favor from. Greg was a big fellow, over six feet. Robert did not relish the thought of a fight with him.
    “No,” said Greg, and Robert heard the crackle of papers as he sat down on the sofa.
    At least Greg could not see them in the kitchen. Jenny sat down, and then Robert did. There were tears in her eyes. Robert shruggedand smiled at Jenny, picked up his fork and gestured for her to do the same. She lifted her fork, then put it down again. Then she went into the living room and put a record on the phonograph. Robert stood up as she came back to the table.
    “Would you like me to leave?” he whispered.
    “No. I wouldn’t like you to leave.”
    They ate in small bites but with determination. The
Swan Lake
ballet played on. The melodrama of the situation made it absurd to Robert, but Jenny was taking it so hard he couldn’t smile. He handed her the handkerchief from his breast pocket.
    “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said softly. “I’ll leave right away. You’ll never have to see me again.” He reached for her left wrist, gave it a comforting press and released it, but she grabbed his hand.
    “It’s so rude and unfair. Susie did it. I know she did. Damn her.”
    “But there’s nothing so tragic about it.” He pulled his hand free from hers, had to pull twice to free it. The coffee looked done, so he got up and turned it off. Jenny was bent over her plate. He touched her shoulder. “I’ll be going,” he said, then realized Greg was standing in the doorway. He had turned the music off.
    “Mr.—Mr.—”
    “Forester,” said Robert.
    “I’m not used to crashing in on people, but under these circumstances—You see, I happen to be engaged to Jenny.”
    “Yes, I know,” Robert said.
    Jenny turned around suddenly and said, “Greg, will you not make a scene?”
    “No. All right. I won’t,” said Greg, breathing hard with anger, “but I think I deserve an explanation.”
    “An explanation of what?”
    “Well—is
he
why you don’t want to see me? Don’t want to marry me?”
    “Greg, you just make it embarrassing!” Jenny said. “This is my house and