"WELL, I GOT US A BABY-SITTER FOR TONIGHT, " Anne told me cheerfully when I got home Thursday afternoon. I lowered my gurgling son from my shoulder and put him on the floor. I kissed my wife.

"Good," I said. "Fine. We can use a night out after what we've been through."

"Amen," she said. "I feel as if I've done ten years' field work for the Psychical Research Society." I laughed and patted her. "And how's the little mother?" I asked.

"A lot better now, thank you, Mr. Medium."

"Call me that again and I'll punch you right in the belly," I said. It was a forced joke. I couldn't tell her about the dull headache I'd had all day, the small stomach ache, the continuing of awareness. She was too happy for me to start it again. And, for that matter, I wasn't certain. As always, it was vague and undefined. And I was damned if I was going to bring up feelings again.

"Who's the sitter?" I asked while I was washing up for supper.

"The girl Elsie told us about," Anne said. "She's really a deal too. Only charges fifty cents an hour."

"How about that?" I said. I thought about it a moment. "You sure she's reliable?"

"You remember what Elsie said about her," Anne said. " 'Real reliable.' " I remembered.

I drove over to get the girl a little before eight. She lived about four miles from our house which wasn't too satisfactory but we'd been looking for a baby-sitter a long time and I wasn't going to quibble. We needed a night out badly.

I braked in front of the girl's house and started to get out when the front door opened and she came out. She was heavy and the tight blue jeans she wore did nothing to conceal it. She was wearing a brown leather jacket and there was a faded yellow ribbon like a streak of butter through the drabness of her brunette hair. She wore shell-rim glasses.

I pushed open the door and she slid in beside me and pulled the door shut.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello." Her voice was faint. She didn't look at me. I released the hand brake, checked the rear-view mirror, then made a fast U-turn and started back.

"My name's Tom Wallace," I said.

She didn't reply.

"Your name's Dorothy?"

"Yes." I could hardly hear her.

I drove a few blocks before I glanced over at her. She was staring straight ahead at the road, looking very somber. I'm not sure but I think it was at that moment I began to feel uncomfortable.

"What's your last name?" I asked. I didn't hear what she mumbled. "What was that?" I asked.

"Muller," she said.

"Oh. Uh-huh." I signaled, turned right onto Hawthorne Avenue and picked up speed again.

"Have you sat for Elsie long?" I asked.

"Elsie Long?"

"No. I mean Elsie Leigh. Have you been babysitting for her very long?"

"No."

"I see." What was there about her that disturbed me? "I-uh-we were wondering if you had a time limit," I said. "We assumed that-"

"No," she interrupted.

"Oh. I thought maybe-with school and everything."

"No."

"I see. Your mother doesn't mind, then."

She didn't answer. Suddenly I seemed to get an impression in my mind-that she had no mother.

"Is your mother dead?" I asked, without thinking; or, rather, thinking aloud. Her head turned quickly. In the darkness I could feel her eyes on me. I knew I was right even though she didn't speak.

I cleared my throat.

"Elsie mentioned it," I said, taking the risk that I was right as well as the risk that Elsie didn't even know about it.

"Oh." From the way she said it I couldn't tell if she'd spotted my lie or not. She looked at the road again. So did I. I drove the rest of the way without a word, wondering what it was I felt so uneasy about. When we got to the house Dorothy got out of the car and walked to the front door. There she waited until I came up on the porch and opened it for her. I noticed how short she was.

"Go on in," I said, feeling a crawling sensation on my back as she walked past me into the living room. Somehow it made me angry. I'd hoped for a pleasant evening of forgetfulness with Anne. Now all the disturbances were beginning again inexplicable and enraging.

Anne came out of Richard's room into the living room.

"Hi," she said.

Dorothy's lips twitched into a mechanical smile. I saw that her white, thick-featured face was dotted with tiny pimples.

"The baby's asleep," Anne told her. "You shouldn't have any trouble with him at all." Dorothy nodded. And-suddenly-I felt a shocking burst of dismay in myself. It made me catch my breath. When it left-almost immediately-it left me limp.

"I'll be ready in a second," Anne said to me.

I forget what I answered except that it was said distractedly. Anne went back into the bathroom to brush her hair and Dorothy stood by the back window, near where I'd seen the woman. Momentarily, I felt that cold, knotting sensation in my stomach. I smiled nervously at the girl as she glanced at me. I gestured toward the bookcase.

"If you-uh-care to read anything," I said, "feel free to-" Her eyes fell from mine. She still had her jacket zipped to the neck, her hands deep in the slash pockets.

"Take off your jacket, why don't you?" I said. She nodded without looking at me. I gazed at her a moment. What I felt was-as it had always been-without definition; more a sense of vague, remote discomfort than anything else.

"Well, there's the television set," I said.

She nodded once more.

I went into the kitchen and got myself a drink of water. It tasted brackish to me. I remember pressing my lips together furiously, telling myself-Enough! You're going to enjoy yourself tonight if it kills you!

"If you get hungry," I called to Dorothy, "feel free to take whatever you want in the icebox." No sound.

As I went back in she was just starting to take off her jacket. I caught a momentary glimpse of breast outline much too heavy for a girl her age. Then the jacket was off, her shoulders had moved back into normal position and the large blouse she wore had fallen into veiling looseness around her. A flush darkened her cheeks. I walked past her as if I hadn't noticed. I went into the bathroom and looked over Anne's shoulder into the mirror.

I smiled back at her reflection.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

"You looked a little peaked."

"I'm fine," I said. I drew a comb from my inside coat pocket and ran it through my hair. I wondered if she noticed the slight shaking of my hand. I wondered if she had any idea that I was considering the possibility I was losing my mind.

"Oh, Dorothy," Anne said as we were leaving.

"Yes." Dorothy got up from the sofa.

"You'll have to lock the door from the inside. We can't do it with a key."

"Oh." Dorothy nodded once.

"Well, good night," said Anne. "We'll see you later." Dorothy grunted.

I cannot describe the crushing sensation I felt when I heard the sound of the door being locked by Dorothy. For a moment I stood there rigidly, feeling my stomach muscles tighten. Then Anne took my arm and, forcing a smile for her sake, I escorted her to the car.

"Did I tell you, you look gorgeous tonight?" I asked as I slid onto the front seat beside her. She leaned over and kissed me lightly. "Kind sir," she said.

I held her a moment, breathing in the delicate fragrance of her perfume. By God, I vowed, I am going to stop this damned nonsense. Enough was enough.

"You smell good," I said.

"Thank you, darling."

Then I looked up toward the house and thought I saw Dorothy watching us through the parted blinds.

"Honey, what is it?" Anne asked.

I drew back, smiling; rather unconvincingly, I'm afraid. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"You positively twitched."

"Did I positively twitch, love?" I tried to cover up. "It is passion, it is desire." She cocked her head a little.

"Oh so?" she said.

"Oh so, indeed," I said. "Don't think you can hide behind your condition."

"Well, you're the freshest damn chauffeur I ever hired," she said. I grinned and started the engine. As we pulled away from the curb I glanced at the house again and this time there was no doubt; I definitely saw the blinds slip back into place. Something jerked in my stomach and I had the sudden impulse to jam on the brakes and go running back to the house. I actually had to fight the inclination. My foot jerked on the gas pedal and the car jolted a little.

"Easy does it, Barney Oldfield," Anne said.

"It is your presence, Madame, that undoes my foot," I said and managed to keep from my voice the turmoil I felt. My hands would have shaken if they hadn't been clamped so tight over the steering wheel. Self-anger only made it worse.

"Oh, did you ask her if she has a time limit?" Anne asked.

"There isn't any," I answered, wishing immediately that I'd lied and said we had to be back at eleven-at ten.

"Wonderful," Anne said, as I'd feared, "we can enjoy ourselves without keeping one eye on the clock."

"Yeah." The charm failed this time. I couldn't keep what I felt out of my voice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Anne look over at me as I turned onto the boulevard.

"That was a very inconclusive yeah," she said.

"Not at all, my-" I started, then stopped. I realized that it was Richard I was concerned about and Anne certainly couldn't object to that. If only I could put it in such a way that she wouldn't think it was the "telepathy business" again. I was actually beginning to get a guilt complex about it.

"Well," I said, hesitantly, "I...just feel a little dubious about staying out too late the first time. After all, Elsie's recommendation is hardly a national seal of approval."

"No," she said. "Well... we won't stay out past midnight. We can do a lot by then anyway." Midnight. I clenched my teeth and sat there stiffly. That was no triumph at all. I still felt like going back and taking the girl home. But that was ridiculous.

I told myself.

We talked a while about where we were going, finally settling on The Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach because it was relatively close to home and also a nice place to have a few drinks and listen to some good modern jazz. That decided, conversation was taken up mainly by Anne while I drove and fretted.

"Honey, there is something wrong," Anne finally said in the middle of a sentence. "Don't you feel well?" I realized that, as a matter of fact, the headache was getting worse. I could ignore that, however. That wasn't my concern at the moment.

"No, there's nothing wrong," I said, irritated at myself for feeling the need to lie. "I'm just-oh, a little worried about leaving Richard with that girl."

"Honey, Elsie said she was fine."

"I know. I-" I shrugged and smiled awkwardly. "I guess I sound like an old lady. I just want to feel sure about Richard, though."

"Honey, don't you think I do? I asked Elsie all sorts of questions about the girl. And I spoke to her father this afternoon before setting it up."

"Her mother's dead, isn't she?" I said.

"Yes. How did you know?"

I cleared my throat. "Dorothy told me," I said. I wished more and more that I could let out the whole damned business; tell Anne it hadn't gone away, that I was still picking up thoughts and feelings and I simply didn't trust the girl. I felt childishly secretive for not saying it. And yet, when I looked on the other side of the inconclusive coin, I knew I had just as much reason not to say it. If I did, I'd start another rise of panic in Anne and, very possibly, malign a girl whose only fault was being overweight. After all, hadn't I been wrong about the woman the night before?

Which helped not at all. That was the worst part of all this. Logic I could doubt. What I felt, I never really questioned. Beside which, I wasn't sure I had been wrong about the woman. All this I kept mulling over while Anne told me about Dorothy, my mind constantly oscillating between the foundation of reason and the fluidity of emotion. I'm afraid I didn't hear much. She was fifteen; I heard that. She lived with her father and eight-year-old brother. She attended junior high and sat for several people. Her father also worked at North American; he was a welder on the night shift.

Nothing there to disturb me; but, of course, that didn't help. What disturbed me, now as always, was what was behind the fact-the emotion behind the word, the thought that lurked behind the barricades of silence. That was what had bothered me with Elsie and Elsie!

It suddenly occurred to me. The sick, repulsed feeling I'd gotten with Elsie- it had been very similar to the sensation I'd gotten with Dorothy.

For a few moments that made me feel better- logically. The cruel, enervating demands of puberty were not such a mystery-and not such a menace.

"So are you convinced, daddy?" Anne asked at the conclusion of her report on Dorothy. I nodded. "I stand bowed," I said, "chastened. Heat up the humble pie. Onward to jazzland." Anne laughed softly and shifted closer to me. She closed her hand over my leg.

"In-deed," she said.

I managed to convince myself that I wasn't concerned anymore.

At least until we'd parked, gotten out of the car, walked to The Lighthouse, entered its quaint din, gotten a table near the piano side of the bandstand, ordered drinks and started listening to the delicate, atonal fancies of a piece called "Aquarium." Then it started again.

Sitting there, my hand wrapped around the icy height of my Vodka Collins glass, staring at the ecstatic facial expressions of the writhing bass player, I started thinking about Dorothy. Every thought was a cold dripping of premonition inside of me. What was it about her that was wrong? Why did I fear her? What could she do to hurt Richard? That was the crux of it, of course. What could she-?

Anne said something, breaking the chain of thought. The music was too loud, though, and I couldn't hear. I could tell from the expression on her face, however, approximately what it was. I leaned forward.

"Tom, what is it?" she asked, tensely.

I shook my head, smiling vaguely and she turned away. I looked at her. Dread kept piling up in me. Tell her, I thought. Tell her, for God's sake! Make a mistake if you have to-but don't just sit here like this-sick with fear.

I touched her arm and she turned.

I didn't say anything. For a long moment our eyes held and I knew she felt what flickered between us as surely as I did. Then, with a tightening of her lips, she drew on her topcoat and picked up her handbag.

When the door had swung shut behind us, cutting off the wild sound of music, she started for the car.

"Honey," I started to say.

"Never mind, Tom."

"Listen," I said irritably, "do you think this is for me?" She made a little hopeless gesture with her right hand and didn't answer. When we reached the car she stood there waiting for me to unlock it. For a moment I was about to say something about being sorry, and going back to The Lighthouse. But I knew I couldn't. I unlocked the door quickly and she got in. I slammed the door and found myself running around the front of the car.

I started the motor and pulled away from the curb, gunning it. At the corner I had to stop sharply for a red light and it made me hiss impatiently. I knew Anne was looking at me but I couldn't look back. I began to sense that she knew what it was. Knowing that only increased the dismaying fear that was eating at me.

When the light changed I jammed my foot down on the accelerator and the Ford leaped forward and roared up the winding grade that led toward the coast highway.

Now that I'd given up trying to fight it, the dread mounted quickly. My mind seemed to flee ahead to the house. Abruptly, I was on the porch. I was in the living room and the lights were out. I was in the hall and there were no lights in the entire house. I made a frightened sound and Anne looked over at me quickly. I heard her start to say something, then stop. The Ford raked around the corner and headed north on the highway. I don't know what part of me paid attention to the driving. Most of me was in that house, searching, panic-stricken. Richard! I heard myself call out.

Richard!

The car never seemed so slow before. Sixty was a creep, fifty a drag, forty was standing still. Waiting for a light was an agony of prescience. I knew that Anne wanted to speak but didn't dare. I didn't want to speak; I only wanted to get home in a second.

By the time I pulled up in front of the house I was shaking. Switching off the engine, I shoved out the door and raced across the dark lawn, leaping onto the porch with one panicked bound. Behind me I heard the other door slam shut and the fast click of Anne's +following heels. I didn't even bother knocking. A single twist of the knob told me the door was still locked. Turning quickly, I ran past Anne as she started up the porch steps.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Back door," I gasped.

"There are no lights," she said in a falsely normal voice.

I didn't answer. I darted around the corner of the garage and sprinted up the alley. The back door was wide open. I started in, then, abruptly, whirled and lunged out again, driven. Instinctively, I turned to the left and ran into the back yard.

She was cringing in a dark corner when I found her. In her arms, a blanket wrapped around him, was Richard.

Without a word I took him from her and turned away. A terrible, half-mad sound broke in Dorothy's throat. I didn't stop. I carried Richard toward Anne who was standing at the end of the alley.

"What is it?" she asked in a thin, frightened voice.

"Turn on the kitchen light," I told her.

Backing off, she turned and hurried into the house. The kitchen light flared on. Anne gasped as I carried Richard in. "No," she whimpered.

"He's all right," I said, quickly. "He didn't even wake up." She followed me across the living room into the hall, turning on the lights. In his room, I set Richard down into the crib and unwound the blanket. Anne came in, a look of sick dread on her face.

"Is he-hurt?" she asked.

"I don't think so." I turned on the overhead light and Richard stirred fitfully. I seemed to feel a dread that was his. It was sinking away; gone in an instant. He began to snore peacefully.

"Oh, my God." She would have fallen if I hadn't caught her. I led her into the hall, bracing her with my arm, turning out the light in Richard's room as we left.

"It's all right," I said, "it's all right, Anne."

Her face was like wax. "What if we hadn't come back?" she whispered.

"We did come back," I said. "That's all that matters."

"Oh, Tom, Tom." She began shaking in my arms.

"It's all right," I told her.

I held her for several minutes. Then I said, "I better take her home."

"What?" She raised her head.

"The girl. She lives too far away to walk."

Anne swallowed, her lips trembling. "I'm calling the police," she said.

"No, no, no," I said, "it wouldn't do any good."

"Tom, this could happen again!" Anne said, looking terrified. "She'll try to kidnap someone else's child!"

"No, she won't," I said. "She's been sitting for Elsie all this time and never tried it. I don't know why she tried it tonight but I'm sure it won't happen again."

Anne shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know." I tried to get her into bed but she wouldn't go. As I left the house she was standing in Richard's room, looking down at him.

Dorothy wasn't in the back yard. I went out to the street and looked toward the boulevard. Up on the next block I saw her walking erratically. I got into the car and followed her. She kept stumbling from the aura of one street lamp to the next, obviously blinded by grief, unable to tell which way she was going. I cruised behind her until I saw her heavy body pitch forward onto a lawn and lie there, twitching. I stopped the car and got out. When I reached her she was pulling up grass with her hands and teeth and sobbing like an animal.

She made a retching sound as I helped her up. In the light from a nearby lamp, her dark eyes stared dazedly at me.

"No," she said. "No. No. No."

"Come on, Dorothy."

She started to fight me suddenly, whining, her lips wrenched back, saliva running between her clenched teeth and her jaw. I had to slap her before she went limp and allowed herself to be led to the car.

As I pulled away from the curb she started to cry again, shaking with deep sobs, her hands pressed across her face. At first I thought the noise she was making was only the sound of grief. Then I realized she was trying to talk-and, although I couldn't hear the words, I knew what it was she was saying.

"No, I'm not taking you to the police," I said. "And I'm not telling your father. But I'd get help, Dorothy. I mean it. And I don't want to see you in our neighbourhood after tonight." I was sorry I'd said the last but it came out automatically.

The rest of the way she sobbed and kept making those sounds of animal grief. I studiedly avoided her mind. When we reached her house, she pushed open the door and stumbled up the path. I pulled the door shut and made a fast U-turn. At that moment I didn't care what happened to her. I never wanted to see her again.

When I got home Anne was sitting on the living room sofa, still wearing her topcoat.

"Is he all right?" I asked.

"Yes. I took his things off. He's all right."

I noticed how pale her face was and realized that I hadn't been protecting her from anything; a woman has her own kind of knowing. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her.

"It's all over, Anne," I said.

It broke in her. She gasped and pressed her face against me. I felt her trembling.

"It's all right," I tried to comfort her.

After a while she calmed down and drew her head up. She looked at me with an expression I couldn't have fathomed just by looking at. Yet I knew what she was feeling-awe, withdrawal, anxiety.

"You knew, didn't you?" she said, quietly.

"Yes," I said, "I knew."

Her eyes shut. "Then it hasn't gone," she said. "It's still with us."

"Can you regret that now?" I asked. "If it had gone, we'd still be at The Lighthouse, thinking everything was-"

"Don't-" She pressed a hand over her eyes and began to cry softly. This time there was more relief than sorrow.

A broken laugh emptied from me unexpectedly. Anne looked up in disturbed surprise. "What is it?" she asked.

I shook my head and felt tears welling into my eyes.

" 'Real reliable,' " I said.

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