Too Friendly, Too Dead

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The ringing of her bedside telephone awakened Linda Fitzgilpin as daylight was breaking on Saturday morning. She awoke confused and startled from some sort of bad dream, and was immediately conscious of a splitting headache and a foul taste in her mouth. The window was closed and heavy drapes drawn tightly over the west window of her bedroom, so the room was very dark and she had no idea what time of night it was.

She shook her head dismally as she reached for the telephone, propping herself on one elbow to put it to her ear. She said, “Hello,” and a man’s voice answered:

“Mrs. Fitzgilpin?”

She said, “Yes,” and he asked, “Is Mr. Fitzgilpin there?”

Still confused and half asleep, Linda replied, “Why… yes. Just a second,” and lowered the telephone to call, “Jerome.”

There was no reply from the twin bed across the room, and she wondered how long she had been asleep and if Jerome hadn’t come in yet. She let go of the telephone and fumbled for the light switch and turned on a shaded light. Her husband’s bed was empty and neatly made up. Fear struck at her sharply and she lifted the instrument and said, “No. No he isn’t here. Who is this and why are you calling? What time is it?”

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