What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell

out to the cloth and pulled it aside. As she did so Blanche quickly averted her eyes.
    She remained quite still, even after Jane’s footsteps had faded away through the hallway and down the stairs. But then, knowing that she would have to sooner or later, she made herself turn and look in the direction of the desk.
    For a moment she could only stare. She had been so certain that she was to be confronted with a sight of sickening repugnance that it was several moments before her mind adjusted to the fact that what she was staring at was only her usual breakfast, a poached egg, orange juice, buttered toast and tea.
    From below stairs came the familiar sounds of Jane going about the business of getting her own breakfast just as usual.
    Just as usual
. The phrase leapt out at her from the bulk of her thoughts, presenting itself before her in sharp definition.
Just as usual,
Jane had brought her breakfast which,
just as usual,
was the same breakfast she had every day. And now,
just as usual,
Jane was downstairs fixing her own breakfast. In the face of so much “usualness,” the terror of the afternoon and night before seemed suddenly to pale. With a lagging glance toward the door, she reached into her pocket and took from it the note she had written in the dark, haunted reaches of the night:
    … forced to ask your help… a very serious matter… need desperately to reach my doctor… as quickly as possible… a matter of life and death… Please… please… please…
    Her eyes skimmed the note, then turned back to the open window. After the sight of poor Jane, poor futile-looking Jane, in her dirty wrapper, with her messy hair and her swollen eyes, the note seemed wildly melodramatic. But still… With an air of resolution she wheeled herself back to the window, boosted herself up out of the chair and reached for the grillwork.
    Down below Mrs. Bates had nearly reached the flower beds beneath the window. She approached them from the left, taking great care to give ample water to the hedge that fronted along the street. Blanche drew the note forward to the grille and waited. She had thought it out carefully; unless Mrs. Bates actually saw the note falling she might assume it was only a scrap of paper which had blown into the yard during the night and overlook it. She would have to wait, then, until the woman was fully turned in her direction. Holding herself upright, Blanche tried, as shewaited, to project herself into Mrs. Bates’s mind; she tried to imagine the woman’s first reaction when she saw the note fluttering down from the window, what she would think when she picked it up and read it.
    Naturally she would be surprised. But then—after that first moment of surprise—would she think it was some sort of joke? Oh, no, no, she couldn’t do that! Not with a note that said someone needed a doctor. But would she be willing to take the responsibility of calling the doctor as the note asked? She might be one of those women too shy or too cautious to take a hand in the affairs of their neighbors. Actually Blanche knew nothing of Mrs. Bates; she had no clue at all to the sort of person she might be. Craning forward, she studied the figure down below more closely. Suppose she was the kind of woman who liked always to be at the center of the excitement, who might try to interfere personally instead of calling Dr. Shelby. Or—suppose she was a notoriety seeker and called the newspapers!
    The newspapers! Blanche drew back from the window as if from a threatened blow. Suppose her note did find its way to the newspapers and they printed it? Suddenly she saw it quite clearly, photographed and reproduced in the evening papers—along with a résumé, no doubt, of her career, ending with the accident which had ended that career. They might even uncover some of the information about the accident that the studio had managed to suppress, a few small details.…
    She let go of the grille and eased herself down into her chair. She saw