Watchers

took away from the front door.
    Following her much too closely, virtually looming over her from behind, Art Streck said, “You’ve got a nice house here, Mrs. Devon. Very nice. I really like it.”
    “Thank you,” she said stiffly, not bothering to correct his misapprehension of her marital status.
    “A man could be happy here. Yeah, a man could be very happy.”
    The house was of that style of architecture sometimes called Old Santa Barbara Spanish: two stories, cream-colored stucco with a red-tile roof, verandas, balconies, all softly rounded lines instead of squared-off corners. Lush red bougainvillea climbed the north face of the structure, dripping bright blossoms. The place was beautiful.
    Nora hated it.
    She had lived there since she was only two years old, which now added up to twenty-eight years, and during all but one of them, she had been under
    the iron thumb of her Aunt Violet. Hers had not been a happy childhood or, to date, a happy life. Violet Devon had died a year ago. But, in truth, Nora was still oppressed by her aunt, for the memory of that hateful old woman was formidable, stifling.
    In the living room, putting his repair kit beside the Magnavox, Streck paused to look around. He was clearly surprised by the decor.
    The flowered wallpaper was dark, funereal. The Persian carpet was singularly unattractive. The color scheme—gray, maroon, royal blue—was unenlivened by a few touches of faded yellow. Heavy English furniture from the mid-nineteenth century, trimmed with deeply carved molding, stood on clawed feet: massive armchairs, footstools, cabinets suitable for Dr. Caligari, credenzas that looked as if they each weighed half a ton. Small tables were draped with weighty brocade. Some lamps were pewter with pale-gray shades, and others had maroon ceramic bases, but none threw much light. The drapes looked as heavy as lead; age-yellowed sheers hung between the side panels, permitting only a mustard-colored drizzle of sunlight to enter the room. None of it complemented the Spanish architecture; Violet had willfully imposed her ponderous bad taste upon the graceful house.
    “You decorate?” Art Streck asked.
    “No. My aunt,” Nora said. She stood by the marble fireplace, almost as far from him as she could get without leaving the room. “This was her place. I . . . inherited it.”
    “If I was you,” he said, “I’d heave all this stuff out of here. Could be a bright, cheery room. Pardon my saying so, but this isn’t you. This might be all right for someone’s maiden aunt . . . She was a maiden aunt, huh? Yeah, thought so. Might be all right for a dried-up maiden aunt, but definitely not for a pretty lady like yourself.”
    Nora wanted to criticize his impertinence, wanted to tell him to shut up and fix the television, but she had no experience at standing up for herself. Aunt Violet had preferred her meek, obedient.
    Streck was smiling at her. The right corner of his mouth curled in a most unpleasant way. It was almost a sneer.
    She forced herself to say, “I like it well enough.”
    “Not really?”
    “Yes.”
    He shrugged. “What’s the matter with the set?”
    “The picture won’t stop rolling. And there’s static, snow.”
    He pulled the television away from the wall, switched it on, and studied the tumbling, static-slashed images. He plugged in a small portable lamp and hooked it to the back of the set.
    The grandfather clock in the hall marked the quarter-hour with a single chime that reverberated hollowly through the house.
    “You watch a lot of TV?” he asked as he unscrewed the dust shield from the set.
    “Not much,” Nora said.
    “I like those nighttime soaps. Dallas, Dynasty, that stuff.”
    “I never watch them.”
    “Yeah? Oh, now, come on, I bet you do.” He laughed slyly. “Everybody watches ‘em, even if they don’t want to admit it. Just isn’t anything more interesting than stories full of backstabbing, scheming, thieving, lying . . . and adultery. You know what I’m saying? People sit and watch it and cluck their tongues and say, ‘Oh, how awful,’ but they really get off on it. That’s human nature.”
    “I . . . I’ve got things to do in the kitchen,” she said nervously. “Call me when you’ve fixed the set.” She left the room and went down the hall through the swinging door into the kitchen.
    She was trembling. She despised herself for her weakness, for the ease with which she surrendered to fear, but she could not help being