The Polka Dot Nude by Joan Smith Page B

the bedroom. The lamp wouldn’t have any fuel; I knew it as surely as I knew the power would stay off all night.
    Incredibly, it had two inches of pale liquid visible in its dusty, transparent base. I lit the wick and dashed through the dark cottage to dowse the burning paper in the sink. I stumbled back through the dark for the lamp, put the shade on, and went into the living room, trembling but relieved. There’s no reason to be scared, I told myself sternly. You’re no more likely to be attacked in the dark than with the lights on. Except that it was so impenetrably dark out there, with no streetlights, and no moon. A man could walk right up to the door unseen. It was the Neanderthal in black leather from the bar who came to mind. He wouldn’t even have to lurk behind a tree or bush.
    A menacing rattle of thunder sounded in the distance, followed by a ragged streak of lightning that, for one brief instant, cast charcoal treetops into relief against the silver sky. At least I wasn’t one of those chickens who was afraid of thunder and lightning.
    There was really nothing to be afraid of. I’d just sit down, read the book, watch some TV. Idiot! The power is off. All right, sit down calmly and think. There, I think the rain is letting up. It’s not pounding as hard as it was. You haven’t read today’s newspaper. If you put the lamp on the table and the paper right beside it, you can see well enough to read. There was nothing in the paper about Rosalie Hart, and for me that summer, the wars in distant lands, the murders and rapes and other flowers of civilization had lost their significance. I flipped through the paper, but my mind was on my book.
    Deprived of coffee, I went to the kitchen, lamp in hand, to get a glass of milk. Damn! Two inches left in the carton. If I drank it, I’d have to have black coffee in the morning, since the cream was gone. No beer. Last can of Coke then. I’d have to go into town tomorrow. I went back to the sofa and made a list: milk, beer, cream, Coke. It sounded like a liquid diet, so I added rye bread and apples. Maybe some oranges, for vitamin C. The trouble was, you had to eat the sour, messy things. If the lights didn’t come on soon, I’d miss Rosalie’s funeral on TV. Terrific, a perfect ending to this perfect first day of summer.
    There was another roll of distant thunder, another flash of silver light, causing me to remind myself I wasn’t afraid of storms. I wondered if Simcoe was out of power too, or if I’d maybe blown a fuse, in which case there wouldn’t be any power till I replaced it. The best view of Simcoe’s cottage was from my bedroom window. My tall form reflected in the windowpane, the light making me look like a picture of Florence Nightingale. There were two oil lamps burning in Simcoe’s place. Back to the living room to add candles to my list, and a flashlight. The rain was definitely slackening now; it was hardly more than a patter. Or was that just water dripping from the trees?
    I went to the window to check. It was impossible to tell, with so many rivulets racing down the pane. I leaned closer, and froze in that posture, staring, praying I was imagining it—that pair of eyes, not my own. A white moon of face floated in space, there at the window, just about level with mine. It was too dark to discern fine details. Black hair, a slash of shadow across the eyes—then it was gone.
    I jumped back and let out a scream so high only a bat could appreciate it. For some seconds I stood still, everything but my vocal cords frozen solid with terror. It felt as if my very heart were still. My screams bounced off the walls, reverberated, rang. It was a few minutes before I could think. My first rational thought was of escape. My second was that to escape, I’d have to go out that menacing door, where he was. Probably waiting for me with an ax in his hand. Guns were too civilized for this wilderness.
    I thought of crawling out a window at the back, running