What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? by Henry Farrell Page B

Stitt’s key being fitted into the lock of the back door. After a moment the door opened then closed again. As Mrs. Stitt’s footsteps echoed through the kitchen, Blanche put her hand out to the doorjamb in an effort to keep from calling out.
    Again a door opened, this time the one to the downstairs hallway closet, and Blanche could visualize Mrs. Stitt putting away her hat and coat, taking down her cleaning apron, slipping it on, tying it around her waist. Any moment now the woman would be onher way upstairs. In anticipation, Blanche wheeled her chair back into the room. The footsteps resumed, approached through the lower hallway, crossed the living room and started up the stairs.
    Entering the upper hallway, Mrs. Stitt came briskly forward. At the sight of Blanche sitting there in her chair, she stopped in the doorway in an attitude of surprise.
    “Edna!” Blanche said.
    “You up already?” Mrs. Stitt asked. “With the house so quiet——”
    “Come in here,” Blanche said urgently, keeping her voice low. “Come in and close the door.”
    Mrs. Stitt started forward and then, catching sight of the unused bed, hesitated and looked back along the hall toward Jane’s room. “She up, too?”
    Blanche shook her head. “Edna, listen…”
    Mrs. Stitt, continuing to look down the hall, raised her hand in an abrupt gesture of warning. “Well, good morning,” she said flatly. “I thought I heard you stirring around in there.”
    Blanche went slack in her chair, weak with disappointment. Now she would have to wait; she would have to endure more of this dreadful anxiety.
    As Mrs. Stitt came into the room, Jane, tying the sash around her soiled wrapper, appeared, swollen-eyed, in the doorway behind her. Her slitted gaze went directly to the desk and the covered dinner tray. Without a word, she shuffled into the room, took up the tray and carried it hastily back in the direction of the door.
    Mrs. Stitt glanced around at Blanche. “What was it you wanted, Miss Blanche?” she asked.
    “Well,” Blanche fumbled, waiting for Jane to leave. “I——”
    In the doorway Jane stopped and turned, her gaze narrowed upon Mrs. Stitt. “You better come down and get breakfast,” she said.
    Mrs. Stitt’s face took on a faint flush of anger. “Just a minute,” she said. She turned back to Blanche.
    “It’s nothing important,” Blanche said resignedly. “You can take care of it when you bring my breakfast up.”
    “Okay,” Mrs. Stitt nodded.
    Turning to find Jane still there, she crossed swiftly to the door, moved out into the hallway and past Jane, pointedly refusing to relieve her of the tray or even to give any sign that she thought she ought to. Blanche was unable to hold back a sigh of defeat as Jane, casting a last fleeting glance in her direction, followed on down the hall and out of sight.
    Fifteen minutes later Blanche received her breakfast, but it was Jane who carried it up the stairs to her and not Mrs. Stitt. As on the previous morning, Jane put the tray down and removed the cover. It contained only the usual breakfast.
    Alone, Blanche forced herself to eat. Mrs. Stitt knew now that she wanted to talk to her; certainly she would return upstairs before she left the house. As the hours of the morning slipped past, however, and Mrs. Stitt still did not come, Blanche’s feeling of desperate uncertainty increased. Mrs. Stitt wouldn’t be back until Friday; if she didn’t get to talk to her this morning it would be nearly four days before the chance came again.
    Blanche closed her eyes, pressing back tears of fright and frustration. She had to get word out to Dr. Shelby today. She
had
to. She couldn’t stand any more of this. Whether there was any danger in it or not, she couldn’t bear the prospect of another day in this house alone with Jane. She glanced back at the clock on the stand and saw, with quickened alarm, that it was nearly eleven forty-five. Mrs. Stitt would be leaving in just fifteen