Late in the Season Read Online Free Page B

grocery bag she carried was so wet she had to hold it underneath with both hands to keep the compressed log, carton of milk, fruits and vegetables from spilling out through water-made rips.
    She changed into dry clothing. Noting that it was now somewhat cooler, she closed the windows and doors and sat in her father’s big wickerwork rocking chair, watching the show of rain sheeting down onto the surf, until she was lulled to sleep.
    She awoke to darkness. The rain hadn’t stopped. If anything, it seemed to be raining much harder now. It rattled on the shingled roof like horses’ hooves; it twisted down in great vertical sheets on the front and side decks, beating down the bushes and swirling around the cottage’s corners to slap at the windows like boys with BB guns.
    She’d been cold when she awakened. She put on two or three lamps, then went to the kitchen to brew a cup of warming tea. Waiting for the water to boil, she turned on the little electric clock radio and dialed through fields of static until she arrived at a voice. It was the nine o’clock news. That late?
    She sat down with the tea and the mystery novel, only hearing fragments of the announcer’s words, until he began reporting the weather. Heavy rain was predicted throughout the night: six inches or more. Flooding was expected in low-lying areas. Gale force winds. Small craft warnings had been posted by the Coast Guard. Odd, after such a sunny, warm, clear day, she thought.
    She went to the window to look out again. The rain was coming down so hard it sheeted over the window, making it opaque. She opened it—an inch, no more—and tried to look outside. It was quite dark: she couldn’t see any lights from houses in this direction. She closed it and did the same on the other side of the house. This side was more densely populated: there were a few more lights—but quite distant. The lovers, of course, were in. God! It was awful out there!
    She prepared herself a light dinner, read, listened to the radio even though she didn’t care for the “easy listening” stuff on this station and would have preferred rock or even jazz. It was the only one she could get without great distortion: and it was contact, of a sort. She would read her book, perhaps build a fire with the log she’d bought today, perhaps play solitaire, be alone, as she’d been all day. She would prove to herself, as well as to her parents and to Bill Tierney, that she could be, had to be, left alone.
    Imagine Liz with those kids surrounding her all day. Tony at night. When was Liz ever alone? When the kids were at nursery school and the baby taking a midafternoon nap? For an hour, maybe less than that? Not enough time even to catch her breath.
    Do I want that? Do I? Because that’s what will happen to me if I marry Bill. He’ll argue that’s not true. He’ll say we’ll take it easy: not have children for a while. He’ll say that I’ll be able to finish school. We’ll each pursue our own careers. Then, maybe after several years, we’ll have children. Sure, that’s what he’ll say. The truth will be different. More like Liz’s life.
    I don’t have a career, anyway. That’s one problem. What’s going to happen when I graduate from school? I should have listened to Uncle Ned when he suggested I go to engineering school. At least I’d be prepared for something. I don’t really want to teach, which is what’s expected. I don’t want to—to what? To work? Maybe I don’t. Or worse, maybe I don’t want to grow up, period. Maybe that’s what all this is about.
    The radio station began to drift, and Stevie became aware of how much harder it was raining now than an hour ago when she’d awakened. She tried to retrieve the radio channel, but it was a cheap little receiver, and what she was able to hold on to was so shrill and crackling, that after a minute she had to turn it off. With the little bit of radio-induced comfort gone, she could hear the rain more clearly. It would