Stranger in the House Read online

Getting out of bed, Anna pulled on her wrapper and tied it, straining to hear the faint sounds that came from the floor below. “It’s probably one of the kids,” she said uncertainly, but Thomas did not look up.

  He lay, unmoving, shrouded in the bedclothes. “It’s your imagination,” he said dully.

  Anna moved to the doorway and looked out into the hall. The doors to Paul and Tracy’s rooms were shut, and the house was dark. She could sense her husband’s irritation, but she could not help herself.

  “I’m going to have a look,” she said.

  Thomas did not reply. Anna slipped out into the hall and turned the light on over the staircase. She went down quietly, one hand pressing against the wall, as if to ground herself.

  The downstairs was silent and dark. She stood at the foot of the staircase, thinking that Thomas was right. She had imagined it. She moved out into the dark living room, making her way by instinct toward a lamp. Suddenly she heard a soft thud from the direction of the kitchen. “Who’s there?” she said, switching on the lamp. There was no answer. She looked around the room as if to reassure herself that she was alone, and then she peered into the dining room. The heavy brass candlesticks on the dining room table caught her eye.

  Her heart thumped as she rushed to the table and grabbed a candlestick. It felt heavy and reassuring in her hand. “Who is it?” she said again. “Tracy?”

  Gripping the candlestick in a sweaty hand, Anna pushed open the door between the dining room and the kitchen and threw on the kitchen light. The room was empty.

  Anna looked around and then walked over to the back door and tested it. The door was securely locked. She turned back into the room and noticed the pantry door was slightly ajar. She walked over to it.

  Drawing back the candlestick, as if to strike, she gave the door a kick, and it swung back. Anna looked in and let out a gasp. “Paul,” she cried, lowering her arm. “What are you doing?”

  The kitchen light dimly illuminated the dark pantry. Halfway in, the boy crouched, looking up at her. The wide eyes of a cornered animal stared out from his pale face. His hands gripped the bottom shelf of the pantry, as if for support. He watched her warily, his eyes darting from her face to the candlestick in her hand.

  “Why didn’t you answer me?” Anna demanded, sharpness born of relief in her voice.

  The boy shrugged, but his body was tense. Anna came toward him, worriedly examining his colorless face. She could see, as she approached him, that his body was trembling.

  He scrambled to his feet before she reached him and sidled past her into the kitchen, keeping his back to the shelves.

  Anna followed him and put the candlestick on the counter. She reached out a hand to him, but he pressed himself against the refrigerator. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I was hungry.”

  “Paul, you don’t need to hide from me,” she said. “This is your home.” The boy looked away from her. “Did you find something to eat?” she asked.

  He nodded quickly.

  She looked at him closely, not believing him, but decided not to press it. “What’s wrong, Paul? Do you feel all right?”

  He glanced at her and then took a deep breath. “I had a nightmare. It woke me up.”

  “Do you want to tell it?” she asked. “That helps sometimes.”

  The boy shook his head. “No. I’m going back up.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Night.”

  She waited until he had gone up the stairs, and then she turned off the lights and followed him. The thought of him, crouching there in the dark pantry, chilled her, and she tried to put it out of her mind. But she wondered what kind of dream it had been that had scared him so, made him cower from her like that.

  Slowly she returned to her room. She opened the door. In the moonlight she could see Thomas’s body, curled up with his back to her in the bed.

  “It was Paul,” she said. “He had a nightmare.”

  There was no answer from the bed. Thomas was making heavy breathing sounds. She knew that he was only pretending to sleep. Anna took off her robe and got into bed beside him. In the silent dark house, his breathing was like the sound of trees, rustling in a graveyard. She sat with her back against the headboard, willing herself to be calm. After a while Thomas’s rigid body relaxed, and she could see that he had actually fallen asleep.

  8

  The garage mechanic wiped his grimy hands on a ragged towel and rubbed his nose with his forearm. “Give me a few minutes, and then I’ll add up the bill.”

  “No hurry,” said Thomas, his hand resting on the hood of the car. “Was it bad?” he asked.

  “Not too bad,” said the mechanic. “About what I told you on the phone I expected.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I was surprised you were open on Sunday.”

  “Sunday, Monday, and always,” said the man. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.”

  Thomas wandered away from the car and looked around the inside of the garage, which was filled with a dense, oily odor. On an aged bulletin board, there was a Dallas cheerleaders calendar and scores of notes about cars in an illegible handwriting. Piles of tires were stacked across the shelves in the back, and there were huge black stains on the cement floor of the garage. A plastic pocket holding a few maps and some pens with the garage name printed on them lay on a counter.

  It had a kind of appealing atmosphere to Thomas’s mind. It was a place where a man could have a beer and tell a dirty joke over a hero sandwich. It was a place where a man could bring his son, lift a hood, and show him how an engine worked. If he had a son. He tried to imagine himself bringing Paul here, and then he shook his head.

  He had slept fitfully all night and had hardly spoken to Anna when she drove him to the garage. It made him feel guilty when he thought of the look in her eyes as she left him. She was ready to apologize again for getting up in the night to check the house, but he had turned away from her before she could.

  When he really thought about it, he admitted to himself that she shouldn’t have to apologize for it. After all, Albert Rambo was still loose, and he was a criminal who had kidnapped their son. Maybe it was only natural that she was worried about it. Maybe what was unnatural was that he didn’t care about Albert Rambo. But he didn’t. Not about Rambo and not about the boy.

  Thomas closed his eyes, sickened by his own thoughts. It was wrong. It was wrong to feel that way. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that he had been found. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that his own father could not feel anything for him besides resentment. Thomas drew his foot back and gave the tire of his car a sharp kick.

  “Tires are fine,” said the mechanic, coming toward Thomas with the bill in his hand. “I checked ’em.”

  “Oh, good,” Thomas said.

  “Here’s the damages.”

  Thomas looked the bill over and wrote a check on the hood of the car. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  “No problem.” The mechanic disappeared back into his office as Thomas got into the car.

  He made a mental list of what he wanted to get in the discount store. He needed some weed killer and some new hedge clippers.

  He remembered, as he began to drive out of the garage, that there was a men’s clothing store next door to the discount house. He decided to go in there if it was open and see if he could get something for Paul. He had to try. There was no excuse for not trying.

  That was wrong, too, he thought. To give a gift out of guilt. To give your child a present because you could not give him your affection. He wished he could feel something, some kindness toward the boy. But he could not deny the fact that he felt cheated. At least before the boy had come back, he’d had a wife. Now it seemed he had lost her, too.

  “Keep your hands off the animals,” Tracy snapped. “You can look, but don’t touch.” She donned a dirty apron and disappeared into a small room attached to the kennels.

  Paul watched her go and then wandered among the cages, talking to the dogs and cats. The
smell was powerful, and they all howled as if in misery at being caged. Paul looked around to see if Tracy had returned and stuck his hand into the cage of a little terrier that was slumped against the wall of his cell. Paul patted the dog’s wiry coat. The animal whimpered and seemed to wince under his touch. Running his hand up over the dog’s muzzle, he felt a warm nose. Paul frowned and touched it again. The animal sank lower in his cage.

  “This one here’s sick,” he called out.

  Slinging a bag of dog food, Tracy appeared in the corridor between the cages. “What is it?”

  “This one’s nose is warm.”

  Tracy dumped the bag at her feet. “I said not to touch them.”

  Paul stared back at her coldly.

  “Which one?” she asked.

  Paul pointed to the terrier. “Never mind him,” Tracy said, but Paul noticed that she peered at the dog with concern. “Why don’t you go outside? You’ll just get in the way here.”

  Paul reached in and gave the terrier another pat. Then he left the kennel and emerged into the sunny yard behind it. A large, shady tree stood in one corner. Paul walked over and dropped beneath it. He was sweating in his camouflage vest, but he didn’t feel like taking it off. He sat under the tree, and a small breeze fanned him. After a while Tracy appeared in the back doorway and came over to where he sat.

  Paul closed his eyes and pretended to be enjoying the breeze, so he would not have to look at her. He heard her plop down onto the lawn near him. He opened his eyes and saw her sitting cross-legged a few feet away. On the ground in front of her was a little plastic bag filled with what looked like dried herbs. Tracy folded a white cigarette paper in half and sprinkled a little of the marijuana into it. She began to roll it up between her fingers. Paul watched her from the corner of his eye.

  Tracy held the joint up to him. “Do you smoke?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he lied.

  Tracy rolled the joint on her tongue and bit off the end. Then she took a pack of matches from her nylon knapsack and lit it. Paul watched as she inhaled a large quantity of smoke and held it in. He had done some experiments with cigarettes and whiskey, but he had never tried grass before.

  Tracy held out the joint to him, and he took it from her fingers. He heard it was expensive, and he wondered how she could afford it.

  “Do you get paid for this job?” he asked, gesturing toward the back of the kennel.

  “What difference does it make?” she said, bristling. “I like doing it.”

  “No difference.” He took the joint between his teeth and inhaled, looking around first to make sure that there was no one in the vicinity. His cat, Sam, had followed their bicycles over here and was sniffing around the kennels, but otherwise, there was nothing but the rustle of the trees. Paul handed the joint back to Tracy, and suddenly he began to cough.

  Tracy eyed him disdainfully. “How do you like it?” she said.

  Paul struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were watering. “Went down the wrong pipe,” he explained.

  “Take more,” she said. He recovered his wind and took another toke. He could feel a fuzziness in his feet and his calves and an unpleasant dryness in his mouth. The radiant blue of the sky suddenly caught his attention. For a moment he stared up, feeling enchanted by the fleeciness of the clouds as they slowly passed. Then he looked over at Tracy, who had flopped down on her back on the lawn. She was lying there with a perplexed look in her eyes, studying him. She quickly turned away. Paul sighed and hugged his knees. He passed her the joint, and she took it without a word.

  “What’s this party tonight?” he asked offhandedly.

  Tracy expelled some smoke in a snort of disgust. “Some boring thing for charity, at the Stewarts’. Mr. Stewart is some big honcho in all the charities in town.”

  Paul frowned and closed his eyes. He couldn’t picture Mr. Stewart caring about good causes. He kept thinking about how mean he had been to that man at his house yesterday. It had been bothering him ever since it happened, and he felt he wanted to tell somebody. All the time they were at the golf course he kept looking at Mr. Stewart, thinking that he was just pretending to be nice. He thought now of telling Tracy about what he’d seen. He figured he could tell it in a way that would make her laugh and then see what she’d say about it. But suddenly he realized that just to spite him, she probably wouldn’t laugh. She was like a porcupine. He tried to pretend that she wasn’t there. Sam, who had been exploring the yard, came over and climbed up into his lap. Paul began to stroke his fur, which was warm from the sun. The cat lay, heavy, in his lap, and started to purr.

  “I think someone just drove in,” said Tracy.

  Reluctantly Paul opened his eyes.

  “I heard a car,” she said. “I better hide this and go see what they want.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Paul. His limbs felt heavy, and even his eyelids drooped as he looked at her. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “How should I know?” said Tracy, standing up and brushing herself off. She picked up her knapsack and stuffed the bag of marijuana in a side pocket. “I’ll be back in a while,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Paul. He watched her as she disappeared inside the kennels. The cat, roused by Tracy’s sudden movements, got up and leaped off Paul’s lap to follow her. Paul missed the warmth on his legs where the cat had been.

  He closed his eyes again and started to drift. Prisms of light sparkled and dissolved in the backs of his eyelids. The breeze was just enough to make him comfortable. His body felt weightless and at peace. He tried not to think of anything, but only to enjoy the sensations. A peculiar feeling stole over him as he let his mind wander in a cross between memory and dreams. The feeling had come and gone fleetingly several times since his return to the Langes. It was not memory, he thought, because he had absolutely no recollection of any of it. Not the faces, not the houses or anything. But once in a while some elusive sense of familiarity would overtake him. Paul wondered if under the influence of the marijuana, he could force himself actually to remember. With Tracy’s face in his mind he tried to command his memory back, to picture her as a child.

  He concentrated on her wary hazel eyes flecked with green and tried to picture them in a baby’s face. In his mind’s eye he roved over the house, trying to picture himself playing there with a baby sister. Suddenly the image of a wooden slatted gate burst in his mind like a flashbulb popping, leaving him with the uneasy certainty that he had remembered it, even though he had not seen such a thing at the house.

  He tried to think about where he might have seen the gate, and as he focused on it, he was suddenly flooded by the memory of his nightmare from the night before.

  Anxiety rolled over him in a wave as the nightmare replayed itself. He was lying on the ground, trying to move, but he couldn’t. The ground was hard and cold beneath him. As he lay there, helpless, a huge black mass which he couldn’t identify was moving toward him, as if to crush him. A large golden eagle appeared, flapping its wings and menacing him from where it hovered just above him. And then a man, familiar yet indistinct, was bending toward him, and he was awash in terror.

  Paul’s eyes shot open, and he scanned the silent yard behind the kennel. He had almost forgotten where he was. He rubbed his hands together, as if the terrifying dream had turned them to ice. There was a nagging pain over Paul’s left eye. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there. He frowned as he looked toward the kennel. It seemed that Tracy should have been back by now. Suddenly he was sure of that.

  Staggering to his feet, Paul ran across the yard to the back door of the kennel. “Tracy?” he called out. Inside their cages the animals began to howl and yelp with renewed vigor. Paul walked quickly through the kennel and up the stairs to the waiting room and the vet’s offices.

  The examining rooms were still, the tables lying empty. All the glass medicine cabinets were closed and locked. At the receptionist’s desk the appointment book was open to Monday. The waiting room was undi
sturbed. Tracy was nowhere to be seen.

  For a moment he wondered if something had happened to her. What if the person in the car had come to rob the place? His throat tightened at the thought, that someone might have been surprised to find her there and abducted her. He ran to the front door and threw it open, his heart beating fast.

  There was no sign of a car in the driveway. Then he looked again. There was only one bicycle parked on the grassy side yard—his own. She had left him there.

  Paul felt a surge of anger at her. He called out for Sam, but there was no sign of the cat either. She had just gone and left him. He realized just then that he did not know the way back. He had followed Tracy over, his eye trained on her red knapsack as she pedaled along.

  He thought to call the house and then realized that he didn’t know the number. He knew the street name—Hidden Woods Lane. He could call information. But he did not want to admit that he was lost. His anger at Tracy filled him with resolve. She probably thought it was funny. He did not want to let her know that he was scared. He would find the way.

  Paul ran down the front steps of the shelter and got on his bike. He remembered that they had come up on the sign at the end of the driveway from the left. He would take it from there.

  He could feel the sweat rolling down his sides as he started down the driveway, but he already felt a sense of relief, too. He glanced back at the shelter, feeling as if by leaving it, he had left that terrible nightmare in the backyard, where he had recalled it. All that remained of it was a headache that wouldn’t go away. Slowly he guided the bike down the long driveway and turned to the right.

  The cardboard bin held a chin-high display of plastic packages of paper napkins. FAMILY SIZE, read the poster written in Magic Marker. ONLY 99 CENTS. STOCK UP FOR PICNICS. Anna drew her cart up beside the display next to the checkout counter and stared at the pile of napkins. As she gazed at the brightly colored napkins, she pictured families, like hers in Ohio when she was a girl. Gatherings on long holiday weekends, with pies and barbecues. Everybody playing horseshoes and croquet on lazy summer days.