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NOT Acceptable (The AI-Generated Notes) Your notes should be written in a linear
progression from beginning to end of the work, not organized the way AI tends to do it.
Plot Summary: “Memento” follows the story of Leonard Shelby, a man suffering from short-term
memory loss due to a traumatic incident involving his wife’s murder. The film is presented in a
unique non-linear narrative style, with scenes alternating between black-and-white sequences in
chronological order and color sequences presented in reverse order. This narrative structure
effectively places the audience in Leonard’s shoes, as they experience his confusion and
disorientation.
Key Themes:
1. Memory and Identity: The film explores the fragility of memory and its impact on one’s
sense of self. Leonard’s memory loss leaves him unable to form new memories, leading
to a constant struggle to reconstruct his past and understand his identity.
2. Perception and Reality: “Memento” challenges the reliability of perception and how
memories shape one’s understanding of reality. The characters’ motivations and actions
are often unclear, blurring the lines between truth and deception.
3. Revenge and Obsession: Leonard’s quest for vengeance against his wife’s supposed killer
becomes an all-consuming obsession. The film delves into the consequences of
unrelenting revenge and how it can distort one’s sense of purpose.
4. Moral Ambiguity: Characters in the film often exhibit ambiguous motives and actions,
leading to a sense of moral uncertainty. The boundaries between good and evil are
blurred, raising questions about the nature of justice.
5. Manipulation and Control: The narrative structure of the film reflects the manipulation
and control exerted by both external forces and the characters themselves. Leonard’s
notes, tattoos, and Polaroid photos become his means of exerting control over his own
life.
6. Existential Themes: The film raises existential questions about the nature of reality, time,
and human existence. Leonard’s condition forces him to confront the fleeting nature of
life and the impermanence of memory.
7. Symbolism: Various symbols, such as the tattooed phrases and the Polaroid photos, carry
deeper meanings that contribute to the film’s themes and narrative complexity.
Notable Elements:
1. Leonard’s Tattoos: Leonard’s body is covered in tattoos with important information about
his mission and suspects. These tattoos serve as his memory substitute, aiding him in his
quest for revenge.
2. Polaroid Photos: Leonard uses Polaroid photos to document people and events, creating a
visual record of his experiences since he cannot rely on his memory. These photos help
him piece together his fragmented reality.
3. Leonard’s Car: Leonard’s car, a Jaguar, becomes a recurring motif throughout the film,
symbolizing his relentless pursuit of answers and revenge.
NOT Acceptable (The Internet Analysis Notes) Really? These are your first
reactions to a story you’re reading for the first time?
The war’s haunting presence lingers in the description of the Villa San Girolamo – a fortress
now a shell, much like the characters themselves. It’s a vivid backdrop for their stories.
The burned English patient’s connection to peacock bone as a healer adds an enigmatic layer,
raising questions about the role of belief and superstition in the midst of war’s brutality.
Caravaggio’s nocturnal wanderings become a metaphor for the restlessness that permeates the
post-war world. As he moves through the night, the ruined statues serve as a visual testament
to the characters’ internal scars, reflecting the ravages of conflict. The statues, once proud and
whole, now mirror the fragmented lives of those who survived the war, underscoring the
profound impact of trauma on both individuals and their surroundings.
Caravaggio’s nocturnal wanderings convey a sense of restlessness, mirroring the unsettled
post-war world. The ruined statues speak to the ravages of conflict, a visual metaphor for the
characters’ own scars.
The English patient’s fascination with the night sky introduces a poetic dimension to the
narrative, juxtaposing the beauty of the cosmos with the harsh reality of his physical
suffering. In his contemplation of the stars, there’s a poignant exploration of the human
spirit’s capacity for awe and wonder, even amid profound pain. This cosmic connection
serves as a poignant reminder that, despite the earthly devastation, the universe remains a
source of solace and inspiration.
Caravaggio’s dual identity as a wartime thief and his vulnerability in the aftermath point to
the complex aftermath of conflict, where survival often requires compromising one’s
principles.
The burned man’s reminiscences evoke a poignant nostalgia for pre-war moments, acting as a
poignant reminder of the profound impact of conflict on personal histories. As he reflects on
times before the war, the narrative captures a sense of loss and longing, underlining how war
has not only physically scarred but also emotionally altered the characters. The juxtaposition
of past and present adds depth to the narrative, inviting readers to witness the emotional toll
of war on individual lives. Hana’s loyalty, expressed through her decision to stay, prompts
questions about the nature of connection forged in the crucible of war, transcending
traditional bonds.
Caravaggio’s narrative of wartime photography underscores the irony of a stolen moment
capturing him and altering the course of his life, adding a tragic dimension to his character.
Caravaggio’s narrative of wartime photography adds a layer of irony to his character, as a
stolen moment captures him, altering the course of his life. The stolen image becomes a
metaphor for the unpredictable and often tragic turns in wartime. This revelation adds a
tragic dimension to Caravaggio’s character, underscoring how seemingly inconsequential
moments can have far-reaching consequences in the chaotic landscape of conflict.
The English patient’s inability to care for himself and Hana’s nurturing role create a poignant
dynamic, symbolizing the fragility of life and the human capacity for compassion amid
devastation.
NOT Acceptable (The Film or Book Review)
Ang Lee’s “Life of Pi” is a miraculous achievement of storytelling and a landmark of visual
mastery. Inspired by a worldwide best-seller that many readers must have assumed was
unfilmable, it is a triumph over its difficulties. It is also a moving spiritual achievement, a movie
whose title could have been shortened to “life.”reyhound’ – Movie Review
The story involves the 227 days that its teenage hero spends drifting across the Pacific in a
lifeboat with a Bengal tiger. They find themselves in the same boat after an amusing and colorful
prologue, which in itself could have been enlarged into an exciting family film. Then it expands
into a parable of survival, acceptance and adaptation. I imagine even Yann Martel, the novel’s
French-Canadian author, must be delighted to see how the usual kind of Hollywood manhandling
has been sidestepped by Lee’s poetic idealism.
The story begins in a small family zoo in Pondichery, India, where the boy christened Piscine is
raised. Piscine translates from French to English as “swimming pool,” but in an India where
many more speak English than French, his playmates of course nickname him “pee.” Determined
to put an end to this, he adopts the name “Pi,” demonstrating an uncanny ability to write down
that mathematical constant that begins with 3.14 and never ends. If Pi is a limitless number, that
is the perfect name for a boy who seems to accept no limitations.
The zoo goes broke, and Pi’s father puts his family and a few valuable animals on a ship bound
for Canada. In a bruising series of falls, a zebra, an orangutan, a hyena and the lion tumble into
the boat with the boy, and are swept away by high seas. His family is never seen again, and the
last we see of the ship is its lights disappearing into the deep — a haunting shot that reminds me
of the sinking train in Bill Forsyth’s “Housekeeping” (1987).
This is a hazardous situation for the boy (Suraj Sharma), because the film steadfastly refuses to
sentimentalize the tiger (fancifully named “Richard Parker”). A crucial early scene at the zoo
shows that wild animals are indeed wild and indeed animals, and it serves as a caution for
children in the audience, who must not make the mistake of thinking this is a Disney tiger.
The heart of the film focuses on the sea journey, during which the human demonstrates that he
can think with great ingenuity and the tiger shows that it can learn. I won’t spoil for you how
those things happen. The possibilities are surprising.
What astonishes me is how much I love the use of 3-D in “Life of Pi.” I’ve never seen the
medium better employed, not even in “Avatar,” and although I continue to have doubts about it in
general, Lee never uses it for surprises or sensations, but only to deepen the film’s sense of places
and events.
Let me try to describe one point of view. The camera is placed in the sea, looking up at the
lifeboat and beyond it. The surface of the sea is like the enchanted membrane upon which it
floats. There is nothing in particular to define it; it is just … there. This is not a shot of a boat
floating in the ocean. It is a shot of ocean, boat and sky as one glorious place.
Acceptable (Your Own Thoughts, Observations, and Questions Written in a Linear
Progression from Beginning to End of the Text or Film)
The house seems to be a symbol of their fortunes.
The throne chair! Shows what David thinks of himself.
What are those pictures? These people have bad taste.
Jackie is smart and hardworking; she earned a degree in computer engineering, but she made her
money through her looks.
Three refrigerators, really?
Miss America party is cringey!
Extreme wealth and poverty (Jonquil, the housekeeper, Jackie’s upbringing, Jackie’s friend,
David’s kids by his first wife)
The stuffed dogs are really gross.
Exercising and telling her daughter to peddle faster to burn calories?
Limo and McDonald’s – what a contrast.
All of Jackie’s kids (seven plus Jonquil) vs. the housekeeper/nanny not having seen her son since
he was seven. Very sad.
The lizard!!!
Kids might have to go to college, as though the only reason to go to college is to get a job. What
is this teaching them?
Jackie’s friend’s life vs. Jackie’s. Very different, yet Jackie is still so nice to her.
Jackie’s attitude about their declining fortunes vs. David’s and Jackie’s emphasis on love and
family vs. David’s focus on business shows what’s important to them.
The Walmart Christmas – she has a housekeeper carry a bike past a bunch of other bikes, she
eats caviar.
Blaming the bankers vs. David refusing to sell his Vegas business/building
The housekeeper takes the tiny house/playhouse. This is so sad and shows how much Jackie and
David really have.
David – “my employees, my children, etc. are better for having known me; I’ve helped people”
vs. feeling bad because he had to lay people off and their lives were affected/worse is interesting.
They don’t seem like they really feel like they’ll lose the house. They talk about it like it will still
be theirs. Observation deck for fireworks Jackie shows at the beginning/fireworks are shown out
of that window at the end. Interesting. What does it mean?
Acceptable (The Annotation) It is always okay to annotate and upload a text.
A. As you read “It Had to Be Murder” (on Canvas under Module Week Two), please take
about a page or two of notes (double spaced) on your impressions, questions, and
thoughts. These should be linear, from start to finish as you read. You may hand write, scan,
and upload your notes, type them directly into the text box, or upload a typed copy.
Alternatively, you may upload an annotated copy of the text.
Mainly, I should be able to get an idea of your thought process about the characters, plot, themes,
symbolism, narrator, perspective, first-person point of view, and anything that catches your
attention.
Remember that literature is subjective! There is no “right” answer like there is in a subject like
math; you just have to be able to back up your ideas with evidence from the text. Therefore, just
take your notes on what you notice and think as you’re reading, and don’t worry about what other
people think.
B. Choose one of the focus questions for Week Two and reflect on it in one-two paragraphs,
giving evidence from the text to support your opinions.
Focus Questions: What does it mean to tell one’s own story? Why do we tell our own stories?
How does bias/control of the narrative figure in? What does it mean to tell our stories
authentically (or not authentically)? What are the implications of having a first-person vs. a
second-person point of view? How do nonfiction and fiction stories differ? What can we identify
with and connect to, even if these stories are not reflective of our own experiences or make us
uncomfortable?
“It Had to Be Murder”
Cornell Woolrich
I didn’t know their names. I’d never heard their voices. I didn’t even know them by sight, strictly speaking, for their faces were
too small to fill in with identifiable features at that distance. Yet I could have constructed a timetable of their comings and goings,
their daily habits and activities. They were the rear-window dwellers around me.
Sure, I suppose it was a little bit like prying, could even have been mistaken for the fevered concentration of a Peeping Tom.
That wasn’t my fault, that wasn’t the idea. The idea was, my movements were strictly limited just around this time. I could get from
the window to the bed, and from the bed to the window, and that was all. The bay window was about the best feature my rear
bedroom had in the warm weather. It was unscreened, so I had to sit with the light out or I would have had every insect in the
vicinity in on me. I couldn’t sleep, because I was used to getting plenty of exercise. I’d never acquired the habit of reading books to
ward off boredom, so I hadn’t that to turn to. Well, what should I do, sit there with my eyes tightly shuttered?
Just to pick a few at random: Straight over, and the windows square, there was a young jitter-couple, kids in their teens, only
just married. It would have killed them to stay home one night. They were always in such a hurry to go, wherever it was they went,
they never remembered to turn out the lights. I don’t think it missed once in all the time I was watching. But they never forgot
altogether, either. I was to learn to call this delayed action, as you will see. He’d always come skittering madly back in about five
minutes, probably from all the way down in the street, and rush around killing the switches. Then fall over something in the dark
on his way out. They gave me an inward chuckle, those two.
The next house down, the windows already narrowed a little with perspective. There was a certain light in that one that
always went out each night too. Something about it, it used to make me a little sad. There was a woman living there with her child,
a young widow I suppose. I’d see her put the child to bed, and then bend over and kiss her in a wistful sort of way. She’d shade the
light off her and sit there painting her eyes and mouth. Then she’d go out. She’d never come back till the night was nearly spent—
Once I was still up, and I looked and she was sitting there motionless with her head buried in her arms. Something about it, it used
to make me a little sad.
The third one down no longer offered any insight, the windows were just slits like in a medieval battlement, due to
foreshortening. That brings us around to the one on the end. In that one, frontal vision came back full-depth again, since it stood at
right angles to the rest, my own included, sealing up the inner hollow all these houses backed on. I could see into it, from the
rounded projection of my bay window, as freely as into a doll house with its rear wall sliced away. And scaled down to about the
same size.
It was a flat building. Unlike all the rest it had been constructed originally as such, not just cut up into furnished rooms. It
topped them by two stories and had rear fire escapes, to show for this distinction. But it was old, evidently hadn’t shown a profit. It
was in the process of being modernized. Instead of clearing the entire building while the work was going on, they were doing it a
flat at a time, in order to lose as little rental income as possible. Of the six rearward flats it offered to view, the topmost one had
already been completed, but not yet rented. They were working on the fifth-floor one now, disturbing the peace of everyone all up
and down the “inside” of the block with their hammering and sawing.
I felt sorry for the couple in the flat below. I used to wonder how they stood it with that bedlam going on above their heads. To
make it worse the wife was in chronic poor health, too; I could tell that even at a distance by the listless way she moved about over
there, and remained in her bathrobe without dressing. Sometimes I’d see her sitting by the window, holding her head. I used to
wonder why he didn’t have a doctor in to look her over, but maybe they couldn’t afford it. He seemed to be out of work. Often their
bedroom light was on late at night behind the drawn shade, as though she were unwell and he was sitting up with her. And one
night in particular he must have had to sit up with her all night, it remained on until nearly daybreak. Not that I sat watching all
that time. But the light was still burning at three in the morning, when I finally transferred from chair to bed to see if I could get a
little sleep myself. And when I failed to, and hopscotched back again around dawn, it was still peering wanly out behind the tan
shade.
Moments later, with the first brightening of day, it suddenly dimmed around the edges of the shade, and then shortly
afterward, not that one, but a shade in one of the other rooms—for all of them alike had been down—went up, and I saw him
standing there looking out.
He was holding a cigarette in his hand. I couldn’t see it, but I could tell it was that by the quick, nervous little jerks with which
he kept putting his hand to his mouth, and the haze I saw rising around his head. Worried about her, I guess. I didn’t blame him for
that. Any husband would have been. She must have only just dropped off to sleep, after night-long suffering. And then in another
hour or so, at the most, that sawing of wood and clattering of buckets was going to start in over them again. Well, it wasn’t any of
my business, I said to myself, but he really ought to get her out of there. If I had an ill wife on my hands….
“It Had to Be Murder”
He was leaning slightly out, maybe an inch past the window frame, carefully scanning the back faces of all the houses abutting
on the hollow square that lay before him. You can tell, even at a distance, when a person is looking fixedly. There’s something
about the way the head is held. And yet his scrutiny wasn’t held fixedly to any one point, it was a slow, sweeping one, moving
along the houses on the opposite side from me first. When it got to the end of them, I knew it would cross over to my side and come
back along there. Before it did, I withdrew several yards inside my room, to let it go safely by. I didn’t want him to think I was
sitting there prying into his affairs. There was still enough blue night-shade in my room to keep my slight withdrawal from
catching his eye.
When I returned to my original position a moment or two later, he was gone. He had raised two more of the shades. The
bedroom one was still down. I wondered vaguely why he had given that peculiar, comprehensive, semicircular stare at all the rear
windows around him. There wasn’t anyone at any of them, at such an hour. It wasn’t important, of course. It was just a little oddity,
it failed to blend in with his being worried or disturbed about his wife. When you’re worried or disturbed, that’s an internal
preoccupation, you stare vacantly at nothing at all. When you stare around you in a great sweeping arc at windows, that betrays
external preoccupation, outward interest. One doesn’t quite jibe with the other. To call such a discrepancy trifling is to add to its
importance. Only someone like me, stewing in a vacuum of total idleness, would have noticed it at all.
The flat remained lifeless after that, as far as could be judged by its windows. He must have either gone out or gone to bed
himself. Three of the shades remained at normal height, the one masking the bedroom remained down. Sam, my day houseman,
came in not long after with my eggs and morning paper, and I had that to kill time with for awhile. I stopped thinking about other
people’s windows and staring at them.
The sun slanted down on one side of the hollow oblong all morning long, then it shifted over to the other side for the
afternoon. Then it started to slip off both alike, and it was evening again—another day gone.
The lights started to come on around the quadrangle. Here and there a wall played back, like a sounding board, a snatch of
radio program that was coming in too loud. If you listened carefully you could hear an occasional click of dishes mixed in, faint, far
off. The chain of little habits that were their lives unreeled themselves. They were all bound in them tighter than the tightest
straitjacket any jailer ever devised, though they all thought themselves free. The jitterbugs made their nightly dash for the great
open spaces, forgot their lights, he came careening back, thumbed them out, and their place was dark until the early morning hours.
The woman put her child to bed, leaned mournfully over its cot, then sat down with heavy despair to redden her mouth.
In the fourth-floor flat at right angles to the long, interior “street” the three shades had remained up, and the fourth shade had
remained at full length, all day long. I hadn’t been conscious of that because I hadn’t particularly been looking at it, or thinking of it,
until now. My eyes may have rested on those windows at times, during the day, but my thoughts had been elsewhere. It was only
when a light suddenly went up in the end room behind one of the raised shades, which was their kitchen, that I realized that the
shades had been untouched like that all day. That also brought something else to my mind that hadn’t been in it until now: I hadn’t
seen the woman all day. I hadn’t seen any sign of life within those windows until now.
He’d come in from outside. The entrance was at the opposite side of their kitchen, away from the window. He’d left his hat on,
so I knew he’d just come in from the outside.
He didn’t remove his hat As though there was no one there to remove it for any more. Instead, he pushed it farther to the back
of his head by pronging a hand to the roots of his hair. That gesture didn’t denote removal of perspiration, I knew. To do that a
person makes a sidewise sweep—this was up over his forehead. It indicated some sort of harassment or uncertainty. Besides, if he’d
been suffering from excess warmth, the first thing he would have done would be to take off his hat altogether.
She didn’t come out to greet him. The first link, of the so-strong chain of habits, of custom, that binds us all, had snapped wide
open.
She must be so ill she had remained in bed, in the room behind the lowered shade, all day. I watched. He remained where he
was, two rooms away from there. Expectancy became surprise, surprise incomprehension. Funny, I thought, that he doesn’t go in to
her. Or at least go as far as the doorway, look in to see how she is.
Maybe she was asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb her. Then immediately: but how can he know for sure that she’s asleep,
without at least looking in at her? He just came in himself.
He came forward and stood there by the window, as he had at dawn. Sam had carried out my tray quite some time before, and
my fights were out. I held my ground, I knew he couldn’t see me within the darkness of the bay window. He stood there motionless
for several minutes. And now his attitude was the proper one for inner preoccupation. He stood there looking downward at
nothing, lost in thought.
He’s worried about her, I said to myself, as any man would be. It’s the most natural thing in the world. Funny, though, he
should leave her in the dark like that, without going near her. If he’s worried, then why didn’t he at least look in on her on
returning? Here was another of those trivial discrepancies, between inward motivation and outward indication. And just as I was
thinking that, the original one, that I had noted at daybreak, repeated itself. His head went up with renewed alertness, and I could
see it start to give that slow circular sweep of interrogation around the panorama of rearward windows again. True, the light was
behind him this time, but there was enough of it falling on him to show me the microscopic but continuous shift of direction his
head made in the process. I remained carefully immobile until the distant glance had passed me safely by. Motion attracts.
Why is he so interested in other people’s windows, I wondered detachedly. And of course an effective brake to dwell on that
thought too lingeringly clamped down almost at once: Look who’s talking. What about you yourself?
An important difference escaped me. I wasn’t worried about anything. He, presumably, was.
2
“It Had to Be Murder”
Down came the shades again. The lights stayed on behind their beige opaqueness. But behind the one that had remained
down all along, the room remained dark.
Time went by. Hard to say how much—a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes. A cricket chirped in one of the back yards. Sam
came in to see if I wanted anything before he went home for the night. I told him no, I didn’t—it was all right, run along. He stood
there for a minute, head down. Then I saw him shake it slightly, as if at something he didn’t like. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“You know what that means? My old mammy told it to me, and she never told me a lie in her life. I never once seen it to miss,
either.”
“What, the cricket?”
“Any time you hear one of them things, that’s a sign of death someplace close around.”
I swept the back of my hand at him. “Well, it isn’t in here, so don’t let it worry you.”
He went out, muttering stubbornly: “It’s somewhere close by, though. Somewhere not very far off. Got to be.”
The door closed after him, and I stayed there alone in the dark.
It was a stifling night, much closer than the one before. I could hardly get a breath of air even by the open window at which I
sat. I wondered how he—that unknown over there—could stand it behind those drawn shades.
Then suddenly, just as idle speculation about this whole matter was about to alight on some fixed point in my mind,
crystallize into something like suspicion, up came the shades again, and off it flitted, as formless as ever and without having had a
chance to come to rest on anything.
He was in the middle windows, the living room. He’d taken off his coat and shirt, was bare-armed in his undershirt. He hadn’t
been able to stand it himself, I guess—the sultriness.
I couldn’t make out what he was doing at first. He seemed to be busy in a perpendicular, up-and-down way rather than
lengthwise. He remained in one place, but he kept dipping down out of sight and then straightening up into view again, at
irregular intervals. It was almost like some sort of calisthenic exercise, except that the dips and rises weren’t evenly timed enough
for that. Sometimes he’d stay down a long time, sometimes he’d bob right up again, sometimes he’d go down two or three times in
rapid succession. There was some sort of a widespread black V railing him off from the window. Whatever it was, there was just a
sliver of it showing above the upward inclination to which the window still deflected my line of vision. All it did was strike off the
bottom of his undershirt, to the extent of a sixteenth of an inch maybe. But I haven’t seen it there at other times, and I couldn’t tell
what it was.
Suddenly he left it for the first time since the shades had gone up, came out around it to the outside, stooped down into
another part of the room, and straightened again with an armful of what looked like varicolored pennants at the distance at which I
was. He went back behind the V and allowed them to fall across the top of it for a moment, and stay that way. He made one of his
dips down out of sight and stayed that way a good while.
The “pennants” slung across the V kept changing color right in front of my eyes. I have very good sight. One moment they
were white, the next red, the next blue.
Then I got it. They were a woman’s dresses, and he was pulling them down to him one by one, taking the topmost one each
time. Suddenly they were all gone, the V was black and bare again, and his torso had reappeared. I knew what it was now, and
what he was doing. The dresses had told me. He confirmed it for me. He spread his arms to the ends of the V, I could see him heave
and hitch, as if exerting pressure, and suddenly the V had folded up, become a cubed wedge. Then he made rolling motions with
his whole upper body, and the wedge disappeared off to one side.
He’d been packing a trunk, packing his wife’s things into a large upright trunk.
He reappeared at the kitchen window presently, stood still for a moment. I saw him draw his arm across his forehead, not
once but several times, and then whip the end of it off into space. Sure, it was hot work for such a night. Then he reached up along
the wall and took something down. Since it was the kitchen he was in, my imagination had to supply a cabinet and a bottle.
I could see the two or three quick passes his hand made to his mouth after that. I said to myself tolerantly: That’s what nine
men out of ten would do after packing a trunk—take a good stiff drink. And if the tenth didn’t, it would only be because he didn’t
have any liquor at hand.
Then he came closer to the window again, and standing edgewise to the side of it, so that only a thin paring of his head and
shoulder showed, peered watchfully out into the dark quadrilateral, along the line of windows, most of them unlighted by now,
once more. He always started on the left-hand side, the side opposite mine, and made his circuit of inspection from there on
around.
That was the second time in one evening I’d seen him do that. And once at daybreak, made three times altogether. I smiled
mentally. You’d almost think he felt guilty about something. It was probably nothing, just an odd little habit, a quirk, that he didn’t
know he had himself. I had them myself, everyone does.
He withdrew into the room, and it blacked out his figure passed into the one that was still lighted next to it, the living room.
That blacked next. It didn’t surprise me that the third room, the bedroom with the drawn shade, didn’t light up on his entering
there. He wouldn’t want to disturb her, of course—particularly if she was going away tomorrow for her health, as his packing of
her trunk showed. She needed all the rest she could get, before making the trip. Simple enough for him to slip into bed in the dark.
It did surprise me, though, when a match-flare winked some time later, to have it still come from the darkened living room.
He must be lying down in there, trying to sleep on a sofa or something for the night. He hadn’t gone near the bedroom at all, was
staying out of it altogether. That puzzled me, frankly. That was carrying solicitude almost too far.
3
“It Had to Be Murder”
Ten minutes or so later, there was another matchwink, still from that same living room window. He couldn’t sleep.
The night brooded down on both of us alike, the curiosity-monger in the bay window, the chain-smoker in the fourth-floor
flat, without giving any answer. The only sound was that interminable cricket.
I was back at the window again with the first sun of morning. Not because of him. My mattress was like a bed of hot coals.
Sam found me there when he came in to get things ready for me. “You’re going to be a wreck, Mr. Jeff,” was all he said.
First, for awhile, there was no sign of life over there. Then suddenly I saw his head bob up from somewhere down out of sight
in the living room, so I knew I’d been right; he’d spent the night on a sofa or easy chair in there. Now, of course, he’d look in at her,
to see how she was, find out if she felt any better. That was only common ordinary humanity. He hadn’t been near her, so far as I
could make out, since two nights before.
He didn’t. He dressed, and he went in the opposite direction, into the kitchen, and wolfed something
