Seed on the Wind

When the bell rang again at the end of twilight she went at once to the button and pressed it several times, then switched on the light and opened the hall door. She recognized his footsteps on the stairs. He appeared on the landing and came down the hall to where she waited at the open door and stood there looking at her, offering no greeting, his hands in the pockets of his heavy woolen ulster, which was turned up and buttoned around his throat and covered with snow.

“Hello, this is a surprise,” Lora had said as he reached the top of the stairs, and now she spoke again:

“You’d better shake your hat and coat, they’re covered.”

He took them off and shook them thoroughly, and preceded her through the door. She followed him into the front room, where he threw his hat and coat on a chair and turned to look at her; she stood almost in the center of the room, with the light from the ceiling fixture shining directly on her; impudently she stood straight in the fullest light.

“Where were you at two o’clock?” said her father.

“I was here. I’ve been here all day.”

“You didn’t answer the bell. Who was with you?”

Her heart jumped a beat. I see, that’s it, she thought, I never thought of that. She shook her head:

“No one.”

“Is anyone here now?”

“Of course not.”

She was looking straight into his eyes, and his gaze met hers. Neither wavered. But suddenly his eyes slanted off downwards, and slowly descending their focus became successively her nose, then her chin, her throat, the pass between her breasts, her abdomen, the apex of her thighs. It was a complete and deliberate violation, and she stood without moving a muscle and watched him do it, knowing only that she should not so stand and submit, she should strike him dead, at the least tear out his shameless eyes and leave the glaring empty sockets as testimony of his punishment. There was a crooked twist to his mouth, and it reminded her of the way Pete looked the day she told him about the baby. That was an insane idea, she thought; certainly there was no resemblance between her father and Pete Halliday, inside or out. Let him look, let him get his eyes full. That was what she had stood under the light for.

“Who was it?” he said.

She shook her head.

“Who is he?”

Well, she thought, what’s the use, I can settle that.

“He’s gone away. To the war. He’s been gone a long while.”

His mouth twisted up again, but he said nothing.

“Cecelia told you all about it I suppose.”

This he disregarded. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, took a long breath, and said calmly:

“We’re going home on the six-twenty. That’s an hour; you’ve got twenty minutes to get ready.”

“There isn’t any six-twenty.”

“There is the way we’re going.”

Lora didn’t move. “But why go home? I don’t see—”

“Good god,” he burst out, “you don’t mean to say you’re going to argue about it!” At once calm again, he added, “Your mother is at home waiting for you.”

For a long instant she hung on the edge of final and desperate rebellion. This sudden and unexpected proposal bewildered her. Why home; what could be his idea in that? Certainly it sounded harmless enough, but she was suspicious of it. Indeed, now that she saw his face, his unreal composure, his eyes that were hiding behind a film she could not penetrate, she realized that anything he proposed or did would be suspicious, and she wished with all her heart that she had had the courage to act on her impulse of yesterday, after Cecelia’s departure, to pack up and go — lose herself a thousand miles away. Then suddenly all that seemed tommyrot, mere weak hysteria; after all, what else would a father do but take his daughter home, that was natural enough. She remembered her room there, large and airy and comfortable, with windows on the south and east so that the morning sun always came in to greet her, with two big easy chairs and the shelves of books on either side of the fireplace, where she could have a blaze whenever she wanted it, the winter wind whistling around the corner and through the trees, or, in summer, the breeze rustling their leafy branches so close to the open window that they seemed about to come in and dance around the room; and the wide soft bed, all her own, so wide it didn’t matter which direction she lay there was plenty of room, and so soft — oh, that was the bed, for any purpose whatever...

She let her father take her home. He sat on a chair waiting while she packed a suitcase and a bag. After ten minutes had passed he kept looking at his watch and calling to her to hurry, so that she forgot several items which she thought of afterwards on the train; but two things she did not forget: the miniature wardrobe she had assembled during the preceding two months and the contents of the handkerchief drawer. Since Pete’s departure it had again grown to respectable proportions, but it was all in twenties, so she could stuff it into her stocking just above the knee. She made sure it was safe; that was her only insurance against fate.