Bedelia by Vera Caspary

stronger. It tore across the fields and over the small hills, whipped around the house, churned up the river, sent drafts whistling down the chimney. Walls, doors, and storm windows could not shut out its fury.
    â€œDon’t let the storm worry you, dear. It’s always like this. The house seems to shake on its foundations, but it’s firmly built, it’s stood for a hundred and nine years, and will probably be standing when our grandchildren come of age.” This failed to move Bedelia, and Charlie added, “If you’re afraid of the river, I guarantee you it won’t flood us. This isn’t the season, and since we put in the stone terrace . . .”
    â€œWe could leave tomorrow morning.”
    â€œWhatever has got into you?”
    â€œI want us to go,” she said, leaning across the table and turning her eyes upon him with full awareness of their appeal. All of her will was concentrated in the need to dislodge his objections and get her own way.
    â€œMy dear,” he said, in the patient monotone of a parent pleading with a stubborn child, “I can’t just pack up and leave because you get a sudden idea that you want to go away. I haven’t the slightest understanding of this whim, for I told you the winter here would be severe and you said you’d enjoy the new experience. We may be snowbound for a few days, but otherwise we’ll suffer no discomfort. The house is warm and secure and there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    â€œDon’t you love me?”
    â€œWhat a question! This has nothing to do with love. I’ve got my business; it’s important for me to get the Bridgeport job done well. My future depends on it.”
    â€œWe could go to Europe.”
    â€œYou sound insane.”
    She nodded.
    â€œThis is the maddest thing I’ve ever heard. In the middle of winter.”
    â€œThe Viktoria Luise sails next Thursday. We could stay in New York until then.”
    Charlie was too intent upon his own arguments to wonder why or how she possessed this information. He talked about his home, his work, and his bank account. He had spent a lot of money that year, traveled, married, bought the automobile, Bedelia’s wardrobe, and done over the house. Of his mother’s legacy little remained. Their income depended mainly upon his work. He had explained this to Bedelia before they were married so that she should not think she was getting a rich husband, and she had laughed, telling him how poor she had been, and how rich he seemed to her, and how little it mattered.
    â€œPlease, Charlie.”
    â€œHave you gone mad?” Although he tried not to show it, Charlie had become angry. His voice betrayed him.
    Bedelia was crying. The tears overflowed her eyes and sobs shook her shoulders. Charlie’s anger melted. He ran around the table to her, embraced her, touched his lips to her wet cheeks. To this physical assurance of his love she yielded at once, resting in his arms and enjoying his strength. But her sobs did not cease. She was torn by her sorrow, inconsolate, like a child who knows no cause for its racking grief. Charlie led her to the stairs, half-carried her to the bedroom, seated her in the pink chair while he uncovered the bed. She remained in the chair while he ran about collecting her night things and rubbing her forehead with cologne.
    While he tended her, Charlie asked and found a satisfying answer to the question of her conduct. Other women woke atmidnight and asked for dill pickles; some craved strawberries in January. Charlie thought about the week just ended, the excitement of the holidays, the work of preparing the Christmas party, the shock of his attack, the doctor’s uncertainty and the tragic memories which all of this must have awakened in her. The day, too, had been filled with small annoyances. Most terrifying of all to a person accustomed to milder climates must be the thundering of the winter storm, the