Read Online What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henry Farrell
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upon a weird and deadly kind of guessing game. Each tray brought in from now on would contain either some monstrous horror like the dead bird or a perfectlygood meal. It was up to Blanche to try to guess which was which. Her eyes fixed upon the tray, Blanche reached out to the wheel of her chair and began again to move forward. At least she knew now the kind of madness she was up against. That helped.
Within three feet of the desk she stopped. Leaning forward, she studied the confirmation of the white cloth over the tray, trying to determine what lay beneath it. The highest protuberance was surely a glass, a tumbler, but there was no clue to anything else. The odor now was much stronger, but it still alternated in her mind and upon her senses, first as the smell of roasted meat and then as the stench of moldering decay.
Forcing herself closer, she leaned forward and reached out her hand. But then she pulled it back sharply, thinking she had seen a movement, a faint, flickering alteration in the white folds of the cloth. She told herself it was only a trick of the light, the shadow of her moving hand. But her imagination had already begun to conjure up new horrors, things much worse than the dead bird at lunchtime. It insisted that the tray contained something alive—a live rat, writhing and kicking in a trap! Returning her hand to the wheel of her chair, she began to back away again toward the shadows.
For a moment she sat, breathless, watching the tray for further signs of movement, but there were none.
Of course not,
she scolded herself, angry with herself now for being a frightened, weak-willed fool,
what nonsense! There’s nothing alive under that cloth. Fool! You’ve simply worked yourself into another state of blind panic.
Very deliberately she took a long, deep breath and let it out again. Yes, she had been giving away to panic, and quite long enough, too. One brooding eccentric in the house was enough. She made herself face around to the tray again, made herself look at it steadily.
There was the possibility that she was right about Jane’s plan to starve her through terror. But only the possibility. It could justas easily be that Jane was only behaving in accordance with some distorted, childish impulse that had no precise meaning at all. In either case the thing to do was simply to refuse to be terrified, to return to the tray and remove the cloth and determine once and for all whether it contained her dinner or another horror. Even if it should turn out to be the worst of the things she feared, the shock could not possibly be as great as it had been the first time. Now she was forewarned.
Steeling herself, she moved back again toward the desk. She had not covered more than half the distance, however, when she stopped. She sat for a moment staring straight ahead and then all at once she collapsed forward and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t do it. Suddenly she knew it. She simply hadn’t the courage; Jane had won. Convulsively, helplessly she began to sob.
The first light of dawn, coming into the room by deflection, had been gray and oppressive, and Blanche, still huddled, as she had been through the night, in her wheel chair, had been fearful that the day would not be fine. Poor weather would spoil everything.
Since the dawn, however, she had dozed, and now, with the passing of more than three hours, there had been a sufficient gathering of warmth and brightness to reassure her. Turning, she looked back toward the door into the hallway. It was still closed. And the tray on the desk was still there. Jane, then, had not come into the room while she was asleep. She looked back toward the clock on the bedstand. It was nearing nine o’clock, now, the hour when Mrs. Bates usually made the first of her two daily visits to the garden.
Moving her chair as close as possible to the window, she set the brake. That done, she gripped the arms of the chair and started to pull herself up and forward.
Within three feet of the desk she stopped. Leaning forward, she studied the confirmation of the white cloth over the tray, trying to determine what lay beneath it. The highest protuberance was surely a glass, a tumbler, but there was no clue to anything else. The odor now was much stronger, but it still alternated in her mind and upon her senses, first as the smell of roasted meat and then as the stench of moldering decay.
Forcing herself closer, she leaned forward and reached out her hand. But then she pulled it back sharply, thinking she had seen a movement, a faint, flickering alteration in the white folds of the cloth. She told herself it was only a trick of the light, the shadow of her moving hand. But her imagination had already begun to conjure up new horrors, things much worse than the dead bird at lunchtime. It insisted that the tray contained something alive—a live rat, writhing and kicking in a trap! Returning her hand to the wheel of her chair, she began to back away again toward the shadows.
For a moment she sat, breathless, watching the tray for further signs of movement, but there were none.
Of course not,
she scolded herself, angry with herself now for being a frightened, weak-willed fool,
what nonsense! There’s nothing alive under that cloth. Fool! You’ve simply worked yourself into another state of blind panic.
Very deliberately she took a long, deep breath and let it out again. Yes, she had been giving away to panic, and quite long enough, too. One brooding eccentric in the house was enough. She made herself face around to the tray again, made herself look at it steadily.
There was the possibility that she was right about Jane’s plan to starve her through terror. But only the possibility. It could justas easily be that Jane was only behaving in accordance with some distorted, childish impulse that had no precise meaning at all. In either case the thing to do was simply to refuse to be terrified, to return to the tray and remove the cloth and determine once and for all whether it contained her dinner or another horror. Even if it should turn out to be the worst of the things she feared, the shock could not possibly be as great as it had been the first time. Now she was forewarned.
Steeling herself, she moved back again toward the desk. She had not covered more than half the distance, however, when she stopped. She sat for a moment staring straight ahead and then all at once she collapsed forward and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t do it. Suddenly she knew it. She simply hadn’t the courage; Jane had won. Convulsively, helplessly she began to sob.
The first light of dawn, coming into the room by deflection, had been gray and oppressive, and Blanche, still huddled, as she had been through the night, in her wheel chair, had been fearful that the day would not be fine. Poor weather would spoil everything.
Since the dawn, however, she had dozed, and now, with the passing of more than three hours, there had been a sufficient gathering of warmth and brightness to reassure her. Turning, she looked back toward the door into the hallway. It was still closed. And the tray on the desk was still there. Jane, then, had not come into the room while she was asleep. She looked back toward the clock on the bedstand. It was nearing nine o’clock, now, the hour when Mrs. Bates usually made the first of her two daily visits to the garden.
Moving her chair as close as possible to the window, she set the brake. That done, she gripped the arms of the chair and started to pull herself up and forward.
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