Snowbound by Bill Pronzini Page A

said finally, “Yes, what is it, Mrs. Hughes?”
    She found words then and pushed them out diffidently. “May I come inside? It’s terribly cold out here.”
    He hesitated, and then shrugged and moved aside so that she could step in past him. The cabin was warm, fire in the hearth; but it smelled of liquor and stale cigarette smoke, and when he closed the door, cutting off the scream of the wind, it seemed too quiet. She was conscious of the snow that had blown into the room, that still fell fluttering from her parka; she wanted to say something apologetic about it, but the only words that came to her were acutely inane: I’m getting snow all over your floor.
    Cain was standing with his back to the door, watching her, waiting silently for her to tell him why she was there. Instead, Rebecca said, “Quite a storm, isn’t it?” and those words seemed just as inane as the other, unspoken ones. She began to feel awkward and incredibly silly.
    He said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”
    “Well—I hope I’m not intruding. I mean, you’re not . . . busy or anything, are you?”
    “As a matter of fact, I was.”
    “Oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. . . .”
    “It doesn’t matter. What did you want to see me about?”
    “Nothing in particular. I just . . . I thought you might like to have some company tonight.”
    His barlike eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh? Why?”
    “I don’t know, I just thought you might. I’m alone too this evening, you see, my husband is . . . away, and it seemed like a good idea to—” She broke off, realizing how wrong that sounded; she looked away from him and then said almost desperately, “I was feeling lonely, and I wanted someone to talk to.”
    “Why me, Mrs. Hughes?”
    “I had the idea you might be lonesome too, that’s all.”
    Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. “I’m not lonesome,” he said harshly. “I live the way I do by choice.”
    “Does that mean you don’t like people?”
    “I prefer my own company.”
    “Would it be prying if I asked why?”
    “Yes, it would.”
    “Well I’m sorry.”
    “Do you make a habit of calling on men you hardly know when your husband is away and you’re feeling lonely?”
    “Of course not. . . .”
    “What would he say if he knew you’d come here tonight?”
    Rebecca felt her cheeks begin to flush. “What are you getting at? Do you think I came for some . . . special reason?”
    “Did you?”
    “No. I told you, I only wanted some companionship.”
    “You won’t find it here, in any variety.”
    “So you’re inviting me to leave.”
    “To put it bluntly, yes.”
    Bitter, defensive anger welled inside her; words tumbled out unchecked, mirroring her thoughts. “Oh, we can really put it bluntly if you like. We can say, ‘You’re a bitch, Mrs. Hughes, I don’t want anything to do with you, Mrs. Hughes, find someone else to go to bed with, Mrs. Hughes.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
    Cain seemed to wince slightly. His voice a little softer, he said, “There’s no need to—”
    “Of course, how thoughtless of me to bring it out into the open like that. Well, I’ll just be going. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Cain. It’s been very pleasant; it isn’t every day I get to feel like a cheap whore.”
    She moved gropingly to the door, fumbled at the latch, and got it open. The sudden gust of wind and snow was like a slap. She ran out and across the yard and down the road: staggering and reeling in a surrealistic coalescence of white and black, the sound of it now raging in her ears like mocking, hysterical laughter.
    When she reached the house, an interminable time later, she was asthmatically breathless and trembling uncontrollably. Inside, she stripped off parka and scarf and mittens and boots and flung them into the closet; ran upstairs and into the bedroom. Slacks and sweater and undergarments were icy-damp against her skin, and she shed them urgently and located the warmest