The Salesman
What’s the harm of a knock on the door in the afternoon?
Flora Hampton always liked company. When her husband and two children went off to work and school respectively, the yawning emptiness of the house left her unnerved. She would busy herself in the kitchen, baking everything from bread to cakes to pies, while a radio droned on to cut through the blanket of nothingness there would have been otherwise.
So when she heard the tap-tap-tap on the front door, it was easy enough for Flora to dust off her flour-ridden hands on her apron and rush to the welcome interruption. Maybe it was her next-door neighbor Helen off on a walk through the neighborhood. Or perhaps it was the Mackey boy across the street who was trying to sell magazine subscriptions for some spare money to supplement the income from his part-time job.
A look through the peephole made Flora frown. A well-dressed gentleman carrying a large case stood there, dabbing at his brow with a green handkerchief that matched his shirt. She thought of not answering. It wouldn’t have been the first time she silently rejected the call of a door-to-door salesman. But she felt a tug of sympathy because it was a warm September day, the sun oddly hot so close to autumn, and the least she could do was let him into the cooled house and offer him a nice glass of lemonade, freshly made that morning.
Flora opened the door, and the man looked up with a mixture of relief and surprise.
“Good afternoon, ma’am!” he said, a smile curving his lips. “May I perhaps interest you in a selection of Huntville cutlery? I have some samples right here in my case. I could even special-order something from our catalogue if you don’t fancy the selection.”
Another jolt of sympathy fluttered through Flora’s heart. What would a few minutes hurt? “Why, yes, come in, come in.”
She stepped aside for the man to walk across the threshold, and he took off his hat to hang on the nearby coat rack. “Much obliged, ma’am. It’s a scorcher out there. My name’s Frank Wallace. What can I call you?”
“Oh, my name’s Flora.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” Frank said, offering a soft chortle. If his hair hadn’t been slightly balding and he had been a hair taller, Flora would have been reminded of her uncle George, always the gregarious sort. She felt immediately at ease.
“Why, thank you. Will you come sit?” She gestured to the living room. “I can get you some lemonade, if you’d like.”
Frank settled onto the couch and put his case gently on the coffee table as if he were afraid he’d somehow injure the contents. “Oh, no, no, I couldn’t. But would you care to take a gander at this new collection? It’s going to be all the rage in the department stores during the holiday rush.”
Not interested in the least when it came to new kitchen utensils, Flora decided to humor the salesman and sat down on the chair across from the couch. “Already getting orders for the holidays? They seem to come earlier and earlier every year.”
Frank didn’t seem to hear her as he unclasped his case and unfolded it before her. “Yes, yes, these are fine beauties indeed.”
Flora craned her neck to see the selection before her was a set of knives, each one reflecting her face in their silver surfaces. “I can’t say I know much about cutlery,” she said.
The salesman didn’t look up at her right away. But when he did, the warmth that had been there only minutes before had been replaced by a cold hardness that made Flora’s heart skip a beat.
“You’ll know soon,” he said.
Then he took up one of the bigger blades and held it up to the light. The way he twisted the knife made something curdle in Flora’s stomach.
The housewife shifted, ready to jump from the chair, but Frank caught her by the wrist.
“Leaving so soon?” His voice was still just as pleasant, almost a drawl. “We were just getting to know each other.”
No one else heard the scream that followed.
