The Witching Hour Read online

  Matt frowned. He put the cup back on the table. “Try to feel exactly like that again.”

  Obediently Abbie concentrated. Her face worked. Finally she sagged in her chair. “I cai — I can’t. I just don’t feel like it.”

  “You’re going back to your father!” Matt snapped.

  The cup rocked.

  “There!” Matt said quickly. “Try it again before you forget!”

  The cup spun around.

  “Again!”

  The cup rose an inch from the table and settled down.

  Abbie sighed. “It was just a trick, wasn’t it, Mr. Wright? You aren’t really going to send me back?”

  “No, but maybe you’ll wish I had before we’re through. You’ll have to work and practice until you have full, conscious control of whatever it is.”

  “All right,” Abbie said submissively. “But it’s terrible tiring work when you don’t feel like it.”

  “Terribly,” Matt corrected.

  “Terribly,” Abbie repeated.

  “Now,” Matt said. “Try it again.”

  Abbie practiced until noon. Her maximum effort was to raise the cup a foot from the table, but that she could do very well.

  “Where does the energy come from?” Matt muttered.

  “I don’t know,” Abbie sighed, “but I’m powerful hungry.”

  “Very,” Matt said.

  “Very hungry,” Abbie repeated. She got up and walked to the cupboard. “How many ham sandwiches do you want, two?”

  Matt nodded absently. When the sandwiches came, he ate in silence, thoughtfully.

  It was true, then. Abbie could do it, and she had to be unhappy to have full power and — presumably — full control.

  “Try it on the mustard,” he said.

  The jar only rocked and toppled over on its side.

  “I’m so full,” Abbie explained contentedly. She had eaten three sandwiches.

  Matt stared at the yellow jar, unseeing. It was quite a problem.

  All afternoon Matt was very kind to Abbie. He helped her dry the dishes, although she protested vigorously. He talked to her about his life and about his studies at the University of Kansas. He told her about the book and how research was part of a professor’s life.

  “Psychology,” he said, “is only an infant science. It isn’t really a science at all but a metaphysics. It’s a lot of theorizing from insufficient data. The only way you can get the data is by experimentation, and you can’t experiment because psychology is people, living people. Science is a ruthless business of observation and setting up theories and then knocking them down in laboratories. Physicists can destroy everything from atoms to whole islands; biologists can destroy animals; anatomists can dissect cadavers. But psychologists have no true laboratories; they can’t be ruthless because public opinion won’t stand for it, and cadavers aren’t much good. Psychology will never be a true science until it has its laboratories where it can be just as ruthless as the physical sciences. It has to come.”

  Matt stopped. Abbie was a good listener; he had forgotten he was talking to a hill girl.

  “Tell me more about K.U.,” she sighed.

  He tried to answer her questions about what the coeds wore when they went to classes and when they had dates and when they went to dances. Her eyes grew large and round.

  “It would be romantic,” Abbie sighed. “How far do they let a fellow go if they ain’t — aren’t serious?”

  He puzzled about her question for a moment. “I guess it depends on the girl.”

  Abbie nodded. “But I can’t understand why they go to the university.”

  “They want an education, just like the men.”

  “And then what do they do?”

  “Some of them got jobs.”

  “They don’t get married?” Abbie exclaimed.

  “Most of them — and mostly within a year of graduation if they don’t get married before.”

  Abbie nodded wisely. “Oh … they go to the university to find a fella.”

  Matt chuckled. “So it’s been said. The university is a great pool of eligible bachelors — some ten, eleven thousand of them.”

  “All those purty clothes. All those men. They must be awful — very slow not to get married right after they get there. Four years! They’d be twenty-one, twenty-two. Can’t they get married at home without waiting so long?”

  “They meet a better class of men at the university, men who will have chances at exciting careers, men who will make more money.”

  “Oh,” Abbie said. She shrugged. “That’s all right, I guess, but it’s a terrible long time to wait.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I just want to get married,” Abbie said.

  “To anybody?”

  “Maybe once I’d a said yes. Not now.”

  “I just can’t understand why the fellows aren’t swarming around you like bees.”

  “I reckon sometimes the honey’s hid too good,” Abbie said softly, “and sometimes it’s too hard to get to even when a fellow knows it’s there.”

  “I can’t believe that. I reckon the fellows around here just don’t have good judgment.”

  So it went. Matt paid Abbie little compliments on her appearance, and she blushed and looked pleased. He bragged expansively on the supper she cooked and swore that he had never tasted better spoon bread — and as for the peach pie! Um-m-m! (And that was true.)

  Abbie had never been happier. She almost danced around at her tasks. Everything worked well for Abbie. Things cooperated. The dishes were done almost as soon as they were started.

  Matt walked out on the porch. He sat down on the edge. “Come on out,” he called. Abbie settled herself beside him, quietly, not touching him, her hands in her lap.

  The cabin was built on the top of a ridge. It was night, but the moon had come up big and yellow, and they could look far out over the valley. Silvery, in a dark green setting of trees, the lake glimmered far below. The day had been hot, but up here the breeze was cool.

  “Ain’t — isn’t it purty?” Abbie sighed, folding her hands.

  “Pretty,” Matt said automatically.

  “Pretty.” Abbie sighed.

  They sat in silence. Matt sensed her nearness. It stirred him. There was something intensely feminine about Abbie that was very appealing at times, in spite of her plain face and shapeless clothes and bare feet and lack of education. Even her single-minded ambition was a striving to fulfill her true, her basic function. In a way it was more vital and understandable than all the confused sublimations of the girls he had known.

  Abbie, at least, knew what she wanted and what she would pay to get it. What she wanted was simple and uncomplicated, and she was willing to pay all she had. She would make someone a good wife. Her one goal would be to make her husband happy. She would cook for him and clean for him and bear his strong, healthy children with a great and thrilling joy. She would be silent when he was silent, unobtrusive when he was working, merry when he was gay, infinitely responsive when he was passionate. And the wonder of it — the transcendent wonder — was that she would be fulfilling her finest function in doing it; she would be serenely happy, blissfully content.

  Matt hastily lit a cigarette. He glanced at her face by the light of the match. She was staring peacefully out over the valley.

  “What is courting like here in the hills?” he asked.

  “Sometimes we walk,” Abbie said dreamily, “and look at things together and talk a little. Sometimes there’s a dance at the schoolhouse. If a fella has a boat, you can go out on the lake. There’s huskin’ bees an’ church socials an’ picnics. But mostly, when the moon is ashinin’ an’ the night is warm, we just sit on a porch an’ hold hands and do whatever the girl’s willin’ to allow.”

  Matt reached out and took one of her hands and held it in his. It was cool and dry and strong. It clung to his hand.

  She turned her face to him, her eyes searching for his face in the darkness. “Do you like
me a little bit, Mr. Wright?” she asked softly. “Not marryin’-like, but friendly-like?”

  “I think,” Matt said, “that you’re the most feminine girl I’ve ever met.” (And that was true.)

  Almost without volition on either part, they seemed to lean together, blending in the night. Matt’s lips sought her pale little-girl lips and found them, and they weren’t pale or little girlish at all, but warm and soft and passionate. Matt felt her lips part and her little tongue came out timidly and touched his lips. Matt broke away, breathing quickly.

  Abbie half-turned to nestle against his shoulder, his arm held tightly around her. She sighed contentedly. “I reckon I wouldn’t be unwillin’,” she said, “whatever you wanted to do.”

  “I can’t understand,” Matt said, “why you didn’t get married long ago.”

  “I guess it was me,” Abbie said. “I wasn’t rightly satisfied with any of my fellows. I’d get mad at them for no reason at all, and then something bad would happen to them and pretty soon no one would come courtin’. Maybe I expected them to be what they wasn’t. I guess I was-n’t really in love with any of them. Anyways, I’m glad I didn’t get married up.” She sighed.

  Matt felt the stirrings of something that felt oddly like compunction. What a louse you are, Matthew Wright!

  “What happened to them — your fellows?” he asked. “Was it something you did?”

  “Folks said it was,” Abbie said. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. “They said I had the evil eye. I don’t see how. There isn’t anything wrong with my eyes, is there?” She looked up at him; her eyes were large and dark blue, with little flecks of silvery moonlight in them.

  “Not a thing,” Matt said. “They’re very beautiful.” (And that was true.)

  “I don’t see how it could have been any of my fault,” Abbie said. “Of course, when Hank was late that evenin’, I told him he was so slow he might as well have a broken leg. Right after that, he was nailin’ shingles on a roof, and he fell off and broke his leg. But I reckon he’d have broke it anyways. He was always right careless.

  “And then Gene, he was so cold I told him he should fall in the lake and warm up. But a person who does a lot of fishin’, I guess he falls in a lot anyways.”

  “I guess so,” Matt said. He began to shiver.

  “You’re shivering, Mr. Wright,” Abbie said. “Let me go get your jacket.”

  “Never mind,” Matt said. “It’s about time for bed anyway. You go in and get ready. Tomorrow — tomorrow we’re going to drive to Springfield for some shopping.”

  “Really, Mr. Wright?” Abbie said incredulously. She got up, her eyes shining. “I haven’t never been to Springfield.”

  “Really?” Matt said. “Go on in now.”

  She went in. She was almost dancing.

  Matt sat on the porch for a few minutes longer, thinking. It was real funny what happened to fellows that disappointed Abbie. Real funny.

  When he lit a cigarette, his hand was shaking.

  Abbie had a way of being many different persons. Already Matt had known four of them: the moody little girl with braids down her back shuffling along a dusty road or bouncing gleefully on a car seat; the happy, placid housewife with cheeks rosy from the stove; the unhappy vessel of strange powers, tearful and reluctant; the girl with the passionate lips in the moon-streaked darkness. Which one was Abbie, the true Abbie?

  The next morning Matt had a fifth Abbie to consider. Her face was scrubbed and shining until it almost rivaled her eyes. Her braided hair was wound in a coronet around her head. She was wearing a different dress, made of a shiny blue quilted material with a red lining. Matt scanned his small knowledge of dress materials. Taffeta? The color did terrible things to her hair. The dress had a V-shape neck and back and fitted better than anything she had worn yet. On one hip was a large artificial rose. Her stockingless feet were enclosed in a pair of black, patent-leather sandals.

  My God! Matt thought. Her Sunday best! I’ll have to walk with that down the streets of Springfield. He shuddered, and resisted the impulse to tear off that horrible rose.

  “Well,” he said, “all ready?”

  Abbie blushed, “Are we really going to Springfield, Mr. Wright?”

  “We are,” Matt said, “if the car will start.”

  “Oh, it’ll start,” Abbie said confidently.

  Matt gave her a thoughtful sidelong glance. That was another thing.

  After the usual hearty breakfast, with fried potatoes on the side, they got into the car. It started without hesitation.

  The drive was more than fifty miles, half of it over dirt roads that were roller-coaster washboards, and they drove it in silence. Every few miles Matt would glance at Abbie out of the corner of his eye and shudder. As excited as she was, like a child, Abbie was contented to sit quietly and enjoy the ride, particularly when they swung off the dirt road onto highway 65.

  When they came into Springfield, Abbie’s face was alive with wonder. She stared at the buildings as if they had sprung magically into being especially for her. Then she began to inspect the people walking along the streets. The women received her closest attention.

  Suddenly Matt noticed that Abbie was very quiet. He glanced toward her. She was still, staring down at her hands resting in her lap.

  “What’s the matter?” Matt asked.

  “I guess,” she said, her voice a little unsteady, “I guess I look pretty funny. I guess you’ll feel ashamed having me along. If it’s all right with you, Mr. Wright, I’ll just sit in the car.”

  “Nonsense,” Matt said heartily. “You look fine.” The little devil, he thought. She has an uncanny talent for understanding things. She’s either unusually perceptive or — what? “Besides, I’ll need you to try on some clothes.”

  “Clothes, Mr. Wright!” She seemed to find it hard to speak. “You’re going to buy some clothes?”

  Matt nodded. He parked the car in front of Springfield’s biggest department store. He came around to Abbie’s door and helped her out. For a moment Abbie’s face was level with his; her blue eyes met his dark ones in a look that Matt refused to analyze. They walked into the store, Abbie holding his arm tightly. He could feel her heart beating. Matt stopped to study the directory.

  “Second floor,” he said.

  Abbie held back as Matt started off. “Kin we — can we look around here — for just a second?” Abbie asked.

  Matt glanced at her and shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  Abbie started off determinedly toward some unseen destination, leading Matt down innumerable aisles. All the way to the back of the store they went and emerged miraculously into the kitchenware department. Abbie stopped on the threshold, gazing rapturously at the gleaming pots and pans and beaters and knives and gadgets, as if they were jewels. She dismissed with a glance the stoves and electrical appliances, but the cooking utensils brought forth long sighs. After a moment she moved among them, staring at them, touching them with one timid finger. She made little crooning sounds deep in her throat.

  Matt had to drag her away.

  They were almost to the stairs when Matt noticed that she was hugging something to her breast. He stopped. He stared aghast. She was holding a tiny frying pan of shiny aluminum and dully gleaming copper.

  “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

  “Back there,” she said innocently. “They got so many. They’ll never miss a little thing like this.”

  “But you can’t do that?” Matt moaned. “That’s stealing.”

  “‘Tain’t stealing when they got so much and I got so little.”

  “You’ve got to take it back!” Matt made a futile grab for the frying pan. Abbie hugged it to her with both arms.

  “Don’t take it away from me!” she wailed. “Please don’t make me take it back!”

  Matt glanced around nervously. So far no one seemed to be watching them. He turned back to Abbie. “Sh-h-h!” he said. “Be quiet now. Please be quiet.” He looked at her plead
ingly. She hugged the frying pan tighter. “All right,” be sighed. “Stay here! Don’t move! Don’t say anything!”

  Quickly he walked back to kitchenwares. He caught the attention of the clerk. “How much are those?” he asked, pointing to the frying pans.

  “Twenty-four-fifty, sir. Shall I wrap one up?”

  “Twenty-four-fifty!”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “We have some cheaper ones in all aluminum — ”

  “Never mind,” Matt said hurriedly. He pulled out his billfold. “Here. Give me a receipt and a sack.”

  The clerk picked up a frying pan.

  “No, no,” Matt said, “I don’t want one. I just want a receipt and a sack.”

  “But, sir,” the man said bewilderedly. “You said — ”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Matt said. “Just give me a receipt and a sack!”

  The clerk rang up the sale, tore off the receipt, dropped it in a sack and handed it to Matt with a dazed expression on his face.

  “Anything else, sir?” he asked automatically.

  “I hope not,” said Matt, and hurried away. When he looked back, the clerk was still staring after him.

  Abbie was standing by the stairs where he had left her.

  “Put the frying pan in here,” he whispered.

  She gave him a look of admiration. “Oh, that was real clever of you.”

  Matt mopped his forehead. “Yes, wasn’t it?” He took her arm and hurried her up the stairs. At the top Matt stopped and looked around. Abbie stared at the racks upon racks of dresses.

  “I never knew,” she whispered, “there was so many dresses in the world.”

  A saleswoman finally approached them. Matt drew the saleswoman to one side, leaving Abbie standing among the dresses.

  “The girl over there,” he said. “I want you to take her to the beauty parlor and give her the works. Haircut, shampoo, facial, eyebrows thinned and shaped, makeup — no permanent. Then get her a new outfit from the skin out. Can you do all that?”

  The saleswoman looked pleased. “This is the kind of assignment we dream about.”