The Premonition

Christmas was on a Wednesday this year. On the preceding Thursday, at dusk, Whitney drove across the city to his brother Quinn's house. He had a premonition.

Not that Whitney was a superstitious man. He wasn't. Nor was he one to interfere in others' domestic affairs, especially his elder brother's. It could be dangerous even offering unsolicited advice to Quinn.

But Whitney had had a call from their youngest sister, who'd had a call from another sister who'd had a call from an aunt who'd been visiting with their mother. Quinn had started drinking again, he'd threatened his wife, Ellen, and perhaps his daughters, too. It was a familiar story, and depressing. For the past 11 months Quinn had been attending AA meetings, not regularly, and with an attitude of embarrassed disdain, but yes, he'd attended meetings and had quit drinking, or, at any rate—and here opinion differed depending upon which family member you spoke with—he'd cut down substantially on his drinking. For a man of Quinn's wealth and local prominence, the eldest of the Paxton sons, it was far more difficult, everyone agreed, than it would be for an ordinary man, to join AA, to admit he had a drinking problem, to admit he had a problem with his temper.

Whitney had had a premonition the night before, and a feeling of unease through the day, that Quinn might lose control, might this time seriously injure Ellen, even his daughters. Quinn was a big man, in his late 30s, trained at the Wharton School, with an amateur expert's knowledge of corporate law, socially gregarious, good-natured. Yet he used his hands to express himself, and sometimes those hands hurt.

Several times that day Whitney had called his brother's house, but no one answered the telephone. A click, and the familiar husky tone of the answering tape: Hello! This is the Paxton residence. We regret that we cannot come to the phone light now. But—The voice was Quinn's, hearty and exuberant, yet with an undercurrent of threat.

When Whitney called Quinn's office, Quinn's secretary said only that he wasn't available. Although Whitney identified himself each time as Quinn's brother, and though the secretary surely knew who he was, she refused to give out any more information. "Is Quinn at home? Is he out of town? Where is he?" Whitney had asked, trying not to sound upset. But Quinn's secretary, one of his faithful allies, said only, quietly, "I'm sure Mr. Paxton will be in touch with you over the holidays."

Christmas Day at the elder Paxton's enormous house on Grandview Avenue, amid all the relatives! In such a frenetic atmosphere, how could Whitney take Quinn aside to speak with him? By then, too, it might be too late.

So, although he wasn't the type to interfere in others' marriages, still less in his brother's private life, Whitney got into his car and drove across the city, out of the modestly affluent neighborhood of condominiums and single-family homes where he'd lived for years, his unambitious bachelor's life, and into the semirural neighborhood of million-dollar homes where Quinn had moved his family a few years ago. The area was known as Whitewater Heights—all the houses were large, luxurious and screened from the roads by trees and hedges; none of the lots was smaller than three acres. Quinn's house was his own design, an eclectic mixture of neo-Georgian and contemporary, with an indoor pool, sauna, an enormous redwood deck at the rear. Whitney never drove his Volvo up the curving gravel drive, parked it in front of the three-car garage, approached the front door to ring the doorbell without feeling that he was trespassing and he'd be made to pay, even when invited.

So he felt, now, distinctly uneasy. He rang the doorbell, he waited. The foyer was darkened and so was the living room. He'd noticed that the garage doors were shut and neither Quinn's car nor Ellen's car was in the driveway. Was no one home? But did he hear a radio? He was thinking that the girls had school the next day; the holiday recess wouldn't begin until Monday. It was a school night, then. Shouldn't they be home? And Ellen, too?

Waiting, he drew a deep breath of the cold night air. It was below freezing, yet no snow had fallen. Apart from the Christmas lights of a few houses he'd passed entering Whitewater Heights, he had no sense of an imminent holiday; he could see no Christmas decorations inside Quinn and Ellen's house. Not even an evergreen wreath on the front door ... no Christmas tree? At the elder Paxton's house on Grandview Avenue, an enormous fir tree would be erected in the foyer, and there was always quite a ceremony trimming it. The annual ritual was still celebrated, though Whitney no longer attended. One of the privileges of adulthood, he thought, was keeping your distance from the font of discomfort and pain. He was34 years old now.

Of course, he would spend Christmas Day with the family. Or part of the day. Impossible to avoid, so long as he continued to live in the city of his birth. Yes, and he'd deliver his share of expensively wrapped presents, and receive his share; he'd be gracious as always with his mother and courteous with his father; he understood that he'd disappointed them by failing to grow into the kind of son Quinn had grown into, but, amid holiday festivities, so many people and so much cheerful noise, the hurt would be assuaged. Whitney had lived with it so long, perhaps it was no longer actual hurt but merely its memory.

He rang the doorbell again. He called out, cautiously, "Hello? Isn't anybody home?" He could see, through the foyer window, a light or lights burning toward the rear of the house; the music seemed to have stopped. In the shadowy foyer at the foot of the stairs were boxes—or suitcases? Small trunks?

Was the family going on a trip? At such a time, before Christmas?

Whitney recalled a rumor he'd heard a few weeks ago, that Quinn had spoken of traveling to some exorbitantly costly exotic place, the Seychelles, with one of his woman friends. He'd discounted the rumor, believing that Quinn, for all his arrogance and his indifference to his wife's feelings, would never behave so defiantly; their father would be furious with him, for one thing. And Quinn was sensitive, too, of his local reputation, for he'd toyed with the idea over the years of one day running for public office. Their greatgrandfather Lloyd Paxton had been a popular Republican congressman and the name Paxton was still a revered one in the state. The bastard wouldn't dare, Whitney thought.

Still, he felt a tinge of fear. A further premonition. What if Quinn had done something to Ellen and the girls, in a fit of rage? An image flashed to Whitney's mind of Quinn in his blood-smeared chef's apron, barbecuing steaks on the sumptuous redwood deck at the rear of the house. Quinn, last Fourth of July. A double-pronged fork in one hand, his electric carving knife in the other. The whirring of the electric gadget, the deadly flash of the blades. Quinn, flush-faced, annoyed at his younger brother for having come late, had waved him up onto the deck with the strained ebullience of a man who is on the verge of drunkenness but determined not to lose control. How masterful Quinn had seemed, six feet three inches tall, 200 pounds, his pale blue eyes prominent in his face, his voice ringing! Whitney had obeyed him at once. Quinn in his comical apron tied tight around his spreading waist, the wicked-looking carving knife extended toward Whitney in a playful gesture: a mock handshake.

Whitney shuddered, remembering. The other guests had laughed. Whitney himself had laughed. Only a joke, and it was funny.... If Ellen had seen, and shuddered, too, Whitney had not noticed.

This image, Whitney tried to push it out of his mind. Thinking, though, that it isn't just desperate, impoverished men who kill their families; not just men with histories of mental illness. The other day Whitney had read an appalling news item about a middle-aged insurance executive who had shotgunned his estranged wife and their children.... But, no, better not think of that now.

•

Whitney tried the doorbell another time. It was working: He could hear it. "Hello? Quinn? Ellen? It's me, Whitney—" How weak, how tremulous, his voice. He was convinced that something was wrong in his brother's household; yet, at the same time, how Quinn would scorn him, if Quinn were home, for interfering; how furious Quinn would be in any case. The Paxtons were a large, gregarious but close-knit clan, and little sympathy was felt for those who stirred up trouble, poked their noses where they weren't wanted. Whitney's relations with Quinn were cordial at the present time, but two years ago, when Ellen had moved out of this house and begun short-lived divorce proceedings, Quinn had accused Whitney of conspiring behind his back. He'd even accused Whitney of being one of the men with whom Ellen had been unfaithful. "Tell the truth, Whit! I (continued on page 108)Premonition(continued from page 92) can take it! I won't hurt her, or you! Just tell the truth, you cowardly son of a bitch!"—so Quinn had raged. Yet even in his rage, there had seemed an air of pretense, for of course Quinn's suspicions were unfounded. Ellen had never loved anyone but Quinn, the man was her life.

Not long afterward, Ellen had returned to Quinn, bringing their daughters with her. She had dropped the divorce proceedings. Whitney had been both disappointed and relieved—disappointed because Ellen's bid for freedom had seemed so necessary, and so right; relieved because Quinn, his family restored to him, his authority confirmed, would be placated. He'd have no further reason to be angry with his younger brother, only, as always, he was mildly contemptuous.

"Of course I wasn't serious, suspecting her with you" Quinn had said, "I must have been drunk out of my mind."

And he'd laughed, as if even that prospect had been unlikely.

Since then, Whitney had kept a discreet distance from Quinn and Ellen. Except when they were thrown together unavoidably, at Paxton family occasions, like Christmas Day.

Now Whitney was shivering, wondering if he should go around to the back of the house and try the door there; peer inside. But if Quinn was home and something was wrong, might not Quinn be dangerous? The man owned several hunting rifles, a shotgun, even a revolver for which he had a permit. And if he'd been drinking.... Whitney recalled that policemen are most frequently shot when investigating domestic quarrels.

Then, vastly relieved, he saw Ellen approaching the door—was it Ellen? There appeared to be something wrong with her—this was Whitney's initial though confused impression, which he would recall long afterward—for she was walking hesitantly, almost swaying, as if the floor were tilting beneath her. She was vigorously wringing her hands, or was she wiping them on an apron? Clearly she was anxious about the doorbell, whoever was waiting on the stoop. Whitney called out, "Ellen, it's just me, Whitney!" and saw her look of profound, childlike relief.

Was she expecting Quinn? Whitney wondered.

It was flattering to Whitney, how quickly Ellen switched on the foyer lights, and how readily she opened the door to him.

•

Ellen exclaimed, softly, "Whitney!" Her eyes were wide and moist and the pupils appeared dilated. There was a look of fatigue in her face, yet something feverish, virtually festive, as well. She seemed astonished to see her brother-in-law, gripping his hand hard, swaying slightly. Whitney wondered if she'd been drinking. He had watched her now and then at parties, sipping slowly, even methodically, at glasses of wine, as if willing herself to become anesthetized. Never had he seen her intoxicated, nor even in such a peculiar state as she appeared to be in now.

Whitney said apologetically, "Ellen, I'm sorry to disturb you, but you haven't been answering your phone, and I was worrying about you."

"Worried? About me?" Ellen blinked at him, smiling. The smile began as a quizzical smile, then widened, broadened. Her eyes were shining. "About me?"

"And the girls."

"The girls?"

Ellen laughed. It was a high-pitched, gay, melodic laugh of a kind Whitney had never heard from her before.

Swiftly, even zestfully, Ellen shut the door behind Whitney and bolted it. Leading him into the hall by the hand—her hand was cool, damp, strong-boned, urgent—she switched off the foyer lights. She called out, "It's Uncle Whitney, girls! It's Uncle Whitney!" Her tone suggested vast relief, and a curious hilarity beneath the relief.

Whitney gazed down upon his sister-in-law, perplexed. Ellen was wearing stained slacks, a smock, an apron. Her fair brown hair was brushed back indifferently from her forehead, exposing her delicate ears; she wore no makeup, not even lipstick, and thus looked younger, more vulnerable than Whitney had ever seen her. In public, as Quinn Paxton's wife, Ellen was unfailingly glamourous—a quiet, reserved, beautiful woman who took obsessive care with grooming and clothes, and whose very speech patterns seemed premeditated. Quinn liked women in high heels—good-looking women, at least—so Ellen rarely appeared in anything other than high heels, even at casual gatherings.

In flat-heeled shoes of the kind she was wearing this evening, she seemed smaller, more petite than Whitney would have guessed. Hardly taller than her elder daughter, Molly.

As Ellen led Whitney through the house to the kitchen at the rear, all the rooms were darkened, and in the dining room, as in the foyer, there were boxes and cartons on the floor. She spoke to him in that bright, high-pitched voice, as if she were giving a speech, and drawing him out, for others to hear. "You say you were worried, Whitney? About me, and the girls? But why?"

"Well, because of Quinn."

"Because of Quinn? Really!" Ellen squeezed Whitney's hand and laughed. "But why because of Quinn, and why now? Tonight?"

"I'd been speaking to Laura, and she told me he'd started drinking again. He'd been threatening you again. And so I thought—"

"It's kind of you, and of Laura, to care about me and the girls," Ellen said. "It's so unlike the Paxtons. But then, you and Laura aren't really Pax-tons yourselves, are you? You're"—she hesitated, as if the first word that came to mind had to be rejected—"on the periphery. You're...." And here her voice trailed off into silence.

Whitney asked the question most urgent to him, hoping he didn't betray the apprehension he felt, "Is Quinn here?"

"Here? No."

"Is he in town?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"On a business trip."

"Oh, I see." Whitney breathed more deeply. "And when is he coming back?"

"He's going to send for us, in Paris. Or maybe Rome. Wherever we are, when he finishes up his business, when he has time for us."

"Are you going away, too?"

"Yes. It's all very recent. I was running around all morning, getting the girls' passports validated. It will be their first time out of the country, except for Mexico. We're all very excited. Quinn wasn't enthusiastic at first, he had complicated business dealings in Tokyo, you know Quinn, always negotiating, always calculating, his brainnever stops—" But here Ellen paused, laughing, as if startled. "Well, you know Quinn. You are his brother, you've lived in his shadow, how could you not know Quinn? No need to anatomize Quinn!"

Ellen laughed again, squeezing (continued on page 227)Premonition(continued from page 108) Whitney's hand. She appeared to be leaning slightly against him, as if for balance.

Whitney had to admit he was profoundly relieved. The thought that his brother was in no way close at hand, in no way an active threat, that restored Whitney's composure considerably.

"So. Quinn has flown off, and you and the girls are following him?"

"He has his business dealings, you see. Otherwise, we'd all have gone together. Quinn wanted us to go together." Ellen spoke more precisely now, as if repeating memorized words. "Quinn wanted us to go together, but it wasn't practical, under the circumstances. After Tokyo he thought he might have to fly to—I think it's Hong Kong."

"So you're going to miss Christmas here? All of you?"

"I've done my Christmas shopping, though! I won't feel guilty about not participating. The girls and I just won't be at your parents' to watch our presents being opened," Ellen said cheerfully, with a peculiar emphasis, as if she were trying not to slur her words. "Of course, we're going to miss you all. Oh, terribly! Your dear father, your lovely mother, all Quinn's family—yes, we're going to miss you terribly. And so will Quinn."

Whitney asked, "When did you say Quinn left, Ellen?"

"Did I say? He left last night. On the Concorde."

"And you and the girls are leaving—"

"Tomorrow! Not on the Concorde, of course. Just regular coach. We're tremendously excited, as you can imagine."

"Yes," Whitney said guardedly. "I can imagine."

Whitney deduced that Quinn had gone off with his latest woman friend, to the Seychelles, or wherever. He'd managed to convince his credulous wife that he was on one of his "confidential" business trips, and she seemed satisfied by—grateful for?—the explanation.

How women crave being lied to, being deluded! Poor Ellen.

Whitney thought: I'm not the one to enlighten her.

"How long did you say you're going to be gone, Ellen?"

"Did I say?—I don't remember, if I did!" Ellen laughed.

And she pushed gaily through the swinging doors into the kitchen, leading Whitney by the hand, as if in triumph.

•

"It's Uncle Whitney!" Molly cried.

"Uncle Whit-ney!" Trish cried, clapping her rubber-gloved hands.

The kitchen was so brightly lit, the atmosphere so charged, gay, frenetic, Whitney halfway thought he'd stepped into a celebration of some kind. This, too, he would remember afterward.

Ellen helped him remove his overcoat as his pretty nieces beamed upon him, giggly and breathless. Whitney had not seen them in six months, and it seemed to him that each had grown. Molly, 14 years old, was wearing a slovenly shirt, jeans and an apron knotted around her thin waist; white plastic-framed sunglasses with amethyst lenses hid her eyes. (Was one of the eyes blackened? Shocked, Whitney tried not to stare.) Trish, 11 years old, was similarly dressed, but with a baseball cap reversed on her head. When Whitney entered the kitchen she'd been squatting, wiping something off the floor with a sponge. She wore oversized yellow rubber gloves, which made a sticky, sucking sound as she clapped her hands.

Whitney was fond, very fond, of his nieces. Their girlish mock-rapturous delight in his visit made him blush, but flattered. "Great to see you, Uncle Whitney!" they cried in unison, and, giggling, "Great to see you, Uncle Whitney!"

As if, Whitney thought, they'd been expecting someone else? He tasted cold, wondering if perhaps Quinn had not gone, after all. Ellen was hurriedly removing her stained apron. "It's ideal that you've dropped by tonight, Whit," she said warmly. "You are the girls' favorite uncle by far. We were all thinking how sad it is that we wouldn't be seeing you on Christmas Day!"

"And I'd be sorry not to see you."

A distinctly female atmosphere in the room, Whitney thought; with an undercurrent of hysteria. A radio was tuned to a popular music station, and from it issued the simplistic, percussive, relentlessly shrill music young Americans loved, though Whitney could not see how Ellen tolerated it. All the overhead lights were on, glaring. Surfaces gleamed, as if newly scrubbed. The fan above the stove was turned up high, yet the kitchen still smelled—of something rich, damp, sour-sweet, cloying. The very air was overheated, as if steamy. Scattered about were empty cans of diet Coke and crusts of pizza; on the counter near a stack of gift-wrapped packages was a bottle of California red wine. (So Ellen had been drinking! Whitney saw that her eyes were glassy, her lips slack. And she, too, had a bruise, or bruises, just above her left eye.) What was remarkable was that most of the available space in the kitchen, including the large butcher-block table at the center, was taken up with packages and Christmas wrapping paper, ribbons, address labels. Whitney was astonished to realize that, on the very eve of their ambitious trip abroad, his sister-in-law and nieces had given themselves up to a frenzy of Christmas preparations. How like women, to bethinking of others at such a time! No wonder their faces were so bright and feverish, their eyes glittering manic.

Ellen offered Whitney a drink, or would he prefer coffee? "It's so cold out. And you'll have to go back out in it!" Ellen said, shivering. The girls shivered, too, and laughed. What was so funny, Whitney wondered? He accepted the offer of a cup of coffee if it wasn't too much trouble, and Ellen said quickly, "Of course not! Of course not! Nothing is too much trouble now"

And again the three of them laughed, virtually in unison. Do they know, Whitney wondered, that Quinn has betrayed them?

As if reading Whitney's thoughts, Trish said, "Daddy is going to the Sea Shell Islands. That's where he's going."

Molly said, with a little laugh, "No, silly, Daddy is going to Tokyo. Daddy is in Tokyo. On business."

"Then he's going to meet us. On the Sea Shell Islands. 'A tropical paradise in the Indian Ocean.'" Trish ripped off her stained rubber gloves and tossed them onto a counter.

"The Seychelles Islands," Ellen said, "but we're not going there, any of us." She spoke pointedly to Trish, voice slightly raised. She was making coffee with quick, deft motions, scarcely paying attention to the movements of her hands. "We're going to Paris. Rome. London. Madrid."

"'Paris. Rome. London. Madrid.'" The girls toned in near unison.

The fan whirled loudly above the stove. But the close, steamy air of the kitchen was very slowly dispelled.Ellen chattered about the upcoming trip, and Whitney saw that the bruises on her forehead were purplish-yellow. If he were to ask her what had caused them, she would no doubt say she'd bumped her head in an accident. Molly's blackened eye—no doubt that was an accident, too. Whitney recalled how, many years ago, at a family gathering on the lawn of the Paxtons' estate, Quinn had suddenly and seemingly without provocation slapped his young wife's head—it had happened so swiftly few of the guests had noticed. Red-faced, incensed, Quinn said loudly, for the benefit of witnesses, "Bees! Goddamn bees! Trying to sting poor Ellen!"

Eyes smarting with tears, Ellen recovered her poise, and deeply embarrassed, hurried away into the house. Quinn did not follow.

No one followed.

No one spoke of the incident to Quinn. Nor did they, so far as Whitney ever knew, speak of it to one another.

The Paxtons were a close-knit family, for all their size. Whitney uneasily anticipated the comments that would be made on Christmas Day when Quinnand his family were absent, willfully absent, it would seem. He wondered, but did not want to ask, if Ellen had spoken with his mother yet, to explain, and to apologize. Why hadn't they waited until January to take a vacation? Quinn and his woman friend, too?

No, better not ask. For it was none of Whitney Paxton's business.

Ellen gave Whitney his coffee, offered him cream and sugar, handed him a teaspoon, but the spoon slipped from her fingers and fell clattering to the damp floor. Double-jointed Trish stooped to pick it up, tossed it high in the air behind her back and caught it over her shoulder. Ellen said crossly, "Trish!" and laughed. Molly, wiping her overheated face on her shirt, laughed, too.

"Don't mind Trish, she's getting her period," Molly said wickedly.

"Molly!" Ellen cried.

"Damn you!" Trish cried, slapping at her sister.

Whitney, embarrassed, pretended not to hear. Was little Trish really of an age when she might menstruate? Was it possible?

He raised the coffee cup to his lips, with just perceptibly shaking fingers, and sipped.

•

So many presents! Ellen and the girls must have been working for hours. Whitney was touched, if a bit bemused, by their industry, for how like women it was, buying dozens of gifts that in most cases no one really wanted, and in the case of the affluent Paxtons, certainly did not need; yet fussily, cheerfully, wrapping them in expensive, ornate wrapping paper, glittering green and red Christmas paper, tying big ornate bows, sprinkling tinsel, making out cards—To Father Paxton, To Aunt Vinia, To Robert, were a few that caught Whitney's eye—with felt-tip pens. Whitney saw that most of the packages had been wrapped and neatly stacked together; no more than a half-dozen remained to be wrapped, ranging in size from a small hatbox to an oblong container made of some lightweight metal measuring perhaps three feet by two. One unwrapped present appeared to be a gift box of expensive chocolates in a gilt-gleaming canister, metallic, too. Everywhere on the counters and the butcher-block table were sheets and strips of wrapping paper, ribbon remnants, rolls of tape, razor blades, scissors, even garden shears. On a green plastic garbage bag on the floor, as if awaiting removal to the garage or disposal, was a heterogeneous assortment of tools—claw hammer, pliers, another garden shears, a butcher knife with a broken point and Quinn's electric carving knife.

"Uncle Whitney, don't peek!"

Molly and Trish tugged at Whitney's arms, greatly excited. Of course, Whitney realized, they didn't want him to discover his own Christmas present.

Yet he said, teasing, "Why don't I take my own present tonight and save you the trouble of mailing it? If, that is, you have one for me."

"Of course we have one for you, Whit dear." Ellen said reprovingly. "But we can't give it to you now."

"Why not?" He winked at the girls. "I promise not to open it till Christmas Day."

Because—we just can't."

"Even if I promise, cross my heart and hope to die?"

Ellen and the girls exchanged glances, eyes shining. How like their mother the daughters were, Whitney was thinking, with a pang of love, and loss-these three attractive, sweet-faced women, like benign Fates, his brother Quinn's family and not, not ever, his. The girls had Ellen's fair, delicate skin and her large, somber, beautiful gray eyes. There was little of Quinn, or of the Paxtons, in them, only a twisty sort of curl to their hair, a pert upper lip.

They were all giggling. "Uncle Whitney," Molly said, "we just can't."

The remainder of the visit passed quickly. They talked of neutral matters, of travel in general, of Whitney's undergraduate year in London; they did not speak of, nor allude to, Quinn. Whitney sensed that, for all their high spirits and their obvious affection for him, they were eager to be alone again, to finish preparations. And Whitney was eager to be gone.

For this was Quinn's house, after all.

•

Like the kitchen, the guest bathroom had been freshly cleaned; the washbowl, the toilet bowl, the spotless white bathtub fairly sparkled from a thorough scrubbing with kitchen cleanser. And the fan whirred energetically overhead, turned to high.

And there was that peculiar odor—a cloying, slightly rancid odor, as of blood. Washing his hands, Whitney puzzled over it uneasily, for it reminded him of something—but what?

Suddenly, then, the memory returned: Many years ago, as a child at summer camp in Maine, Whitney had watched the cook cleaning chickens, whistling loudly as she worked—ducking the limp carcasses in steaming water, plucking feathers, chopping and tearing off wings, legs, feet, scooping out, by hand, moist slithery innards. Ugh! The sight and the smell had so nauseated Whitney that he had not been able to eat chicken for months.

With a thrill of repugnance, he wondered now if the blood-heavy odor had to do after all with menstruation.

His cheeks burned. He didn't want to know, really.

Some secrets are best kept by females, among females. Yes?

•

Then, as Whitney was about to leave, Ellen and the girls surprised him: They gave him his Christmas present, after all.

"Only if you promise not to open it before Christmas!"

"Only if you prom-isel"

Ellen pressed it upon him, and delighted, Whitney accepted it: a small, agreeably lightweight package, beautifully wrapped in red and gilt paper, of about the size of a box containing a man's shirt or sweater. To Uncle Whitney with love—Ellen, Molly, Trish. Quite pointedly, Quinn's name had been omitted, and Whitney felt satisfaction that Ellen had taken revenge of sorts upon her selfish husband, however petty and inconsequential a revenge.

Ellen and the girls walked with Whitney, through the darkened house to the front door. He noticed slipcovers on the living-room furniture, rolled-up carpets, and again, in the shadowy foyer, a number of boxes, suitcases and small trunks. This was a preparation not for a brief vacation but for a very long trip; apparently Quinn had tricked Ellen into agreeing to some sort of wild plan, to his own advantage, as always. What this might be, Whitney could not guess and was not about to inquire.

They said goodbye at the door. Ellen, Molly and Trish kissed Whitney, and he kissed them in turn, and breath steaming, feeling robust and relieved, he climbed into his car, setting the present in the seat beside him. Girlish voices called after him, "Remember, you promised not to open it till Christmas! Remember, you promised," and Whitney called back laughingly, "Of course I promise." An easy promise to make, for he had virtually no interest in whatever they'd bought for him. There was the sentiment, of course, which he appreciated, but so little interest did he have in these annual rituals of gift giving, he arranged for his own presents to be sent out gift wrapped from a department store for all occasions requiring gifts; if items of clothing given him didn't fit, he rarely troubled to exchange them.

Driving back home across the city, Whitney felt pleased, however, with the way things had turned out. He'd been brave to go to Quinn's house—Ellen and the girls would always remember. He glanced at the present beside him, pleased, too, that they'd given it to him tonight, that they'd trusted him not to open it prematurely.

How characteristic of women, how sweet, that they trust us as they do, Whitney was thinking; and that, at times at least, their trust is not misplaced.

"Might not Quinn be dangerous ? The man owned several rifles and a shotgun, even a revolver."