Watchers

which was all she needed. Then she stripped off the wallpaper.
    Throughout that dizzying weekend, she’d felt as if the revolution had come, as if her life would never be the same. But by the time she had redone her bedroom, the spirit of rebellion had evaporated, and she had left the rest of the house untouched.
    Now this one place, at least, was bright, even cheerful. The walls were painted the palest yellow. The drapes were gone, and in their place were Levolor blinds that matched the paint. She had rolled up the dreary carpet and had polished the beautiful oak floor.
    More than ever, this was her sanctuary. Without fail, upon passing through the door and seeing what she had wrought, her spirits lifted and she found some surcease from her troubles.
    After her frightening encounter with Streck, Nora was soothed, as always, by the bright room. She sat at the drawing board and began a pencil sketch, a Preliminary study for an oil painting that she had been contemplating for Some time. Initially, her hands shook, and she had to pause repeatedly to regain sufficient control to continue drawing, but in time her fear abated.
    She . was even able to think about Streck as she worked and to try to imagine just how far he might have gone if she had not managed to maneuver
    him out of the house. Recently, Nora had wondered if Violet Devon’s pessimistic view of the outside world and of all other people was accurate; though
    it was the primary view that Nora, herself, had been taught, she had the nagging suspicion that it might be twisted, even sick. But now she had encountered Art Streck, and he seemed to be ample proof of Violet’s contentions, proof that interacting too much with the outside world was dangerous.
    But after a while, when her sketch was half finished, Nora began to think that she had misinterpreted everything Streck had said and done. Surely he could not have been making sexual advances toward her. Not toward her.
    She was, after all, quite undesirable. Plain. Homely. Perhaps even ugly. Nora knew this was true because, regardless of Violet’s faults, the old woman had some virtues, one of which was a refusal to mince words. Nora was unattractive, drab, not a woman who could expect to be held, kissed, cherished. This was a fact of life that Aunt Violet made her understand at an early age.
    Although his personality was repellent, Streck was a physically attractive man, one who could have his choice of pretty women. It was ridiculous to assume he would be interested in a drudge like her.
    Nora still wore the clothes that her aunt had bought for her—dark, shapeless dresses and skirts and blouses similar to those that Violet had worn. Brighter and more feminine dresses would only call attention to her bony, graceless body and to the characterless and uncomely lines of her face.
    But why had Streck said that she was pretty?
    Oh, well, that was easily explained. He was making fun of her, perhaps. Or, more likely, he was being polite, kind.
    The more she thought about it, the more Nora believed that she had misjudged the poor man. At thirty, she was already a nervous old maid, as fear-ridden as she was lonely.
    That thought depressed her for a while. But she redoubled her efforts on the sketch, finished it, and began another from a different perspective. As the afternoon waned she escaped into her art.
    From downstairs the chimes of the ancient grandfather clock rose punctually on the hour, half-hour, and quarter-hour.
    The west-falling sun turned more golden as time passed, and as the day wore on the room grew brighter. The air seemed to shimmer. Beyond the south window a king palm stirred gently in the May breeze.
    By four o’clock, she was at peace, humming as she worked. When the telephone rang, it startled her.
    She put down her pencil and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
    “Funny,” a man said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “They never heard of him.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I think you’ve got the wrong number.” “This is you, Mrs. Devon?”
    She recognized the voice now. It was him. Streck.
    For a moment, she could not speak.
    He said, “They never heard of him. I called the Santa Barbara police and
    asked to speak with Officer Devon, but they said they don’t have an Officer Devon on the force. Isn’t that odd, Mrs. Devon?”
    “What do you want?” she asked shakily.
    “I figure it’s a computer error,” Streck said, laughing quietly. “Yeah, sure, some sort of computer error