Stranger in the House Page 6

  “Well, I was just reading a report on it today. The software has been installed, but it’s a matter of reorganizing information and also retraining some of our staff.”

  “People in your department?”

  Thomas set down the magazine. “Well, I want the people in my department to know the quickest way to access information from it, but the main effort is going to be concentrated—”

  A rapid series of thuds issued from the hallway stairs, and then Tracy shuffled into the living room, still dressed in her workout gear. Anna’s eyes shot to the slim, disheveled figure and widened in dismay.

  “Tracy,” she blurted out, “why haven’t you changed?”

  Tracy looked from her mother to her father, who shook his head. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “You look like a mess,” said Anna.

  Thomas got up from his chair. “I’m having a drink. Do you want one, Anna?”

  Anna tore her critical gaze from Tracy and looked at Thomas. “There’s that champagne the Stewarts brought over.”

  “I’m not in a champagne mood,” said Thomas sourly.

  “There’s regular wine,” said Anna, taken aback by his tone.

  “Well, I’m hungry now,” Tracy said, flouncing past her father toward the kitchen.

  “It’s almost dinnertime,” Anna cried. Thomas followed Tracy out to the kitchen and returned with a glass of wine. Then he looked at Anna. “Do you want one?”

  Anna shook her head. “I’ll wait until dinner. We’re going to eat as soon as he gets here.”

  Thomas crossed over to his chair with his own drink and began to drain it.

  “I’m having steak,” said Anna.

  “Oh,” said Thomas, staring into his empty glass.

  “I hope it will be all right,” she said. “I don’t know what he likes to eat. I figured all boys like steak.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll like it,” said Thomas.

  Suddenly Anna shot up from her seat. “Tom, do you hear?” Thomas placed his glass deliberately on the coaster and stood up. “It sounds like a car in the driveway.” His voice was steady.

  “Tracy,” Anna cried out.

  A crash from the direction of the kitchen was her answer. Anna ran through the dining room and threw open the kitchen door. “What happened?” she demanded.

  Tracy faced her defiantly. Anna looked from her daughter’s face to the ragged hunk of chocolate cake, upended and stuck to the linoleum by its icing. Jagged pieces of the cake plate were scattered about the floor. Another huge piece of cake tilted precariously on the edge of the sink. Icing was smeared on the countertop.

  “I was moving the plate, and it fell when you screamed.”

  Anna clenched her fists. “You know you weren’t supposed to touch that. I made that especially for Paul’s homecoming.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” Tracy said sullenly.

  “Clean it up,” Anna said. “This minute.”

  Thomas appeared in the doorway. “The police car is in the driveway. Hurry up.”

  “She has to clean this mess up,” Anna insisted, backing out the kitchen door.

  “Later,” said Thomas. “Get in here. Both of you.”

  Tracy passed by Thomas, wearing the suggestion of a smirk. Anna gazed, as if mesmerized, at the lump of chocolate on the floor. Then she got down on her knees and began mechanically to scoop up the cake with her hands.

  “Anna.” Thomas bent over and lifted her up gently by the elbow. “Leave it.”

  Slowly Anna rose to her feet and wiped her hands on the towel that he handed to her. She looked helplessly at her husband.

  “We’ll close the kitchen door,” he told her. “It will be all right.”

  The doorbell rang through the house from the direction of the foyer. Thomas and Anna’s eyes met in a surge of apprehension.

  “This is it, darling,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

  Anna took his hand, and he led her out to the living room, where Tracy was sprawled on the sofa. Thomas reached for Tracy’s hand, but she shook him off and jerked herself to her feet.

  The doorbell rang again. Anna approached the front door and then stood still, as if paralyzed.

  Passing by her, Thomas strode to the front door and opened it. Holding her trembling hands clutched together, Anna walked up behind her husband’s back and looked out.

  The night was dark, but the coach lamp beside the door threw its light over the front steps and the figure standing there. Drawn by the brightness of the light, a battery of dun-colored moths swarmed to the screen door and flattened themselves against it, beating their dusty wings in agitation against the grid. Through the whirring, jumpy mosaic formed by the congestion of wings, Anna saw the pale, narrow face of a teenaged boy. His brown hair was long and ragged, falling across his forehead like a dark scar. He wore faded jeans, black high-top sneakers, a T-shirt, and a faded camouflage vest with ragged armholes. His deep-set amber eyes, ringed by grayish circles, looked warily from the couple in the doorway to the squadron of nocturnal insects besieging the screen.

  Thomas pushed the screen door out and motioned for the boy to hurry in. “Come in,” he said.

  Paul struggled through the narrow opening and stepped into the foyer. On one shoulder he supported an old duffel bag. In his other hand he held a cardboard carrying case. For a moment they all stared at one another.

  Then Anna took a step toward him and reached out her arms.

  The boy lifted the cardboard traveling box and held it between them. A cat’s meow emanated from inside the box. “I forgot to ask you on the phone,” the boy said, “about my cat.”

  Tears filled Anna’s eyes, blurring his face out of focus. She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Welcome, Paul,” said Thomas, stepping back to let the boy pass by him.

  “It’s Billy,” said the boy. For a minute Thomas stared at him.

  The boy pointed to the name embroidered on the pocket flap of his vest. “I’m really…I’m used to Billy,” the boy said as he edged into the house, clutching his few belongings.

  4

  Although the weather-faded wooden sign on the La-Z Pines Motel billboard promised air-conditioned rooms, the unit in Albert Rambo’s window was nearly impotent, and the sheen of sweat on his skin from the outside did not dissolve inside the room. Rambo wiped the film off his face and heaved a sigh. The hair on his head was thinning, and his white scalp glowed in the gloomy room. The smell of the chicken in the little striped cardboard box he’d found in the garbage can outside Kentucky Fried Chicken made him feel faint. He felt tired, too. Tired of running.

  The thought of his predicament filled him with a sickish feeling. He had always kind of stayed put after he married Dorothy Lee. When he was younger, he had bummed around, but then they had settled down and got that trailer. They had moved only once or twice after that: once when they got Billy and then again when they bought the trailer. And of course, there had been the times in the hospital. But he didn’t like to count those. He had long since lost his taste for moving around. Besides, Dorothy Lee had liked to stay put and make a home for the boy.

  Remembering his wife caused a brief rage to stir in him; it then subsided into the familiar dead despair. How could she do this to him? Tell the minister everything and leave him to the wolves. After all, he had done it for her in the first place. It was his biggest mistake. He’d known it almost from the start. After the day they got Billy, she cared more for that son of Satan than she ever had for him. That little bastard with his evil eye. She denied it, but Albert knew it. And this was the proof. His eyes narrowed bitterly as they took in the parameters of the shabby room.

  Having dragged himself off the chair, he walked over to the old Zenith TV set and flicked it on. He did not want to think about it anymore. He wanted to eat his chicken and just sit. Tomorrow he would make a plan of what to do.

  The ten o’clock news came on as Rambo lifted a drumstick to his salivating mouth. The announcer promis
ed that a visit to the Lange home was coming up. Disgusted, Rambo thought of changing the channel and then decided to leave it. The story fascinated him almost as much as it infuriated him. He only hoped that they did not show his picture on the TV again tonight. In a way, he was lucky that no one had ever cared much to take pictures of him. Once that kid came along, Dorothy Lee wasted all the film on Billy. The ones they usually flashed of Rambo were so grainy and distorted that you could hardly recognize him, the bill of his ever-present cap always throwing a shadow across his face. For a minute he wondered if he should get a different hat. Then he realized that he had no money to buy a new one. Maybe in the thrift shop. He might be able to pick one up for a quarter, although he hated the idea of wearing somebody else’s dirty hat on his head. The germs could probably get into your body through the hair.

  Sweat began to stream off him again at the thought of the spot he was in. His stomach felt knotted, and he suddenly felt unable to eat. He sat immobile on the bed, the drumstick dangling from his fingers, lost in a miasma of fears. Two voices inside his head began to chant something unintelligible about death. Rambo strained to make it out. Then his stomach growled, drowning out words, reminding him of his hunger. He lifted the drumstick to his mouth and bit into it.

  The reporter on the tube was talking about a happy ending at the Langes’ house, which was just visible behind the reporter. It looked like a mansion. Rambo thought of Billy, that evil little fiend, moving into all that luxury. Didn’t that just tear it? Little old Billy bedding down in roses while he, who had taken care of that kid, had to spend his life running and hiding for his trouble.

  Suddenly the drumstick fell from his hand as Rambo gaped at the picture on the set. The bitter cast of his face slackened, and his dull eyes flickered in amazement. Long after the report was over, Rambo still sat on the bed, his mind racing furiously. He was trying to take it all in before the voices could confuse him, trying to figure out what it meant. He was suddenly aware, though he could scarcely believe it, that what he had just seen on the screen could be God’s way of sending him a message. Offering him salvation, right here on earth.

  With the side of his fork Paul pushed the mushrooms away from the steak on his plate and tried to scrape off the sauce. Anna sat across the table, her hands in her lap, and watched him. Paul looked up and caught Anna staring at him. He quickly looked down again, to avoid her eyes.

  “Well, P—” said Thomas. “What’s, uh, what’s your favorite subject in school?”

  Paul picked up his knife and began to saw away at the steak with some concentration. “I don’t know…” he said. “I don’t like school.”

  “You don’t have to eat that,” Anna said. “I can make you something else.”

  The boy studied the piece of meat on his fork and then put it into his mouth.

  “Really,” said Anna, getting up from her seat, “it’s no trouble. I have things in the refrigerator. I’ll make you a hot dog or something.”

  “No. I’ll eat this.”

  “Well, I didn’t know what you liked, and I have plenty of other—”

  “No,” Paul protested.

  “Anna,” said Thomas, “he doesn’t want anything.”

  Slowly Anna resumed her seat. There was a silence around the table. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” Anna said. “What were you saying about school?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tracy pushed her plate away and rested her chin in her hands, causing her eyes to narrow. “What did you use to do for fun?” she asked.

  Paul shrugged and heaved a sigh.

  “Don’t you play sports or anything?” Tracy persisted.

  The boy glanced at her. “I like hunting,” he said. “I used to go hunting a lot.”

  “That’s not a sport,” Tracy announced. “That’s disgusting. Killing animals for fun.”

  “Tracy works at the animal shelter,” Anna explained. “Animals are her favorite people.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, Mother,” Tracy said in a shrill voice, “I think it’s disgusting. And it is.”

  “I like animals, too,” Paul said. “I have my cat.”

  “Yeah,” said Tracy. ‘Well, how would you like it if someone went hunting for your cat?”

  “That’s enough, Tracy,” said Thomas.

  Paul blanched as Tracy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes blazed, and two spots of color appeared in her cheeks. Anna reached a hand to her, but Tracy jerked away.

  “Well,” said Thomas, “I’ll bet you’re going to like school here. They’ve got all the latest equipment. Lots of activities…” As his words faded away, Thomas cringed at the sound of his own voice. You can’t think of a thing to say to your own son, he thought.

  Paul kept his eyes down and carved off another piece of meat.

  Anna smiled brightly at him. “We’re right near New York here,” she said. “There are all kinds of museums and shows to see. We’ll take a trip into the city soon, if you’d like that.”

  “I heard there’s a lot of robberies and criminals there,” said the boy.

  “Well,” said Anna, taken aback, “you have to be careful, of course.”

  “I’d like to go sometime,” said Paul. “My mom always said she’d take me someday—”

  A silence fell over the table. Paul put the piece of meat in his mouth and started to chew noisily.

  “Ugh. Can I be excused?” said Tracy, standing up.

  “No. We’re not finished yet,” said Anna, glaring at her. She turned to Paul. “Let me get you something else to eat,” said Anna. “Isn’t there something you want?”

  “Have you got any sweet milk gravy? Or even red eye?”

  Tracy made a face, and Anna threw her a warning glance. “No…but,” she said. “I’ve got ketchup.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess.”

  Anna went into the kitchen and walked over to the refrigerator. She opened the door and reached in for a bottle of ketchup. Then she turned to the stove, put a kettle on, and quickly prepared the drip pot for coffee. From behind the door to the dining room she could hear an occasional muffled word. Mostly silence. The backyard was in total darkness now. Mercifully the worst of the heat had let up, and the night was merely warm. She gripped the edge of the sink for support as she stared over the flowerpots on the sill out to where the play yard used to be.

  As a toddler her son had always been on the chubby side, with folds in his glossy baby skin. He used to laugh at nothing at all. It had been the most amazing thing. He could make people who saw him laugh, just in delight at him. She looked over at the closed door of the dining room. This boy, her son, was thin. His wrists were bony and looked as if they could snap like a twig under strain. His hair was dark and limp. She had yet to see him smile.

  She realized now, with a sense of shock, that she had expected him to be the same. Gold in his curls and dimples of baby fat in his laughing cheeks. In these years of change she had lost the child. He was gone. She would never see her child again. She had lost her baby forever. Anna felt a sudden stabbing pain in her chest. Gone. Just as everyone had always said. Instead, this other boy, this stranger, sat at her table.

  He is my son, she reminded herself. And he is here. It was all that mattered.

  “My baby,” she whispered. With a determined in-take of breath Anna picked up the bottle of ketchup and pushed through the dining room door. The three of them sat at the table. Tracy leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed. Thomas was describing the town of Stanwich to the boy as if he were a member of the Chamber of Commerce. Paul kept his eyes on his plate, his face expressionless.

  “We have a couple of tennis courts, and there is a nice beach here in town. Plenty to do. There’s no reason for a boy your age to be bored here.”

  Anna slipped into her seat and handed the bottle of ketchup to Paul. “Here’s the ketchup.”

  “Thanks,” Paul said, and doused his sirloin with the gloppy condimen
t.

  “I’m tired. I need to go up and take a shower,” Tracy announced.

  “We’re almost finished. Then we can have some ice cream.”

  “I don’t want any ice cream. It’s so late already. Why can’t I go?”

  Anna looked to Thomas for a word, but he was staring down at the table in front of him. As her eyes swept past Paul, she noticed that he was holding his fork and knife rigidly upright in front of him, his eyes open wide. The veins on his neck were protruding, and he pitched forward in his chair.

  “Paul,” she said.

  He made a gurgling noise in reply. Anna pushed her chair back and stood up. “Paul, what’s the matter?”

  They all swiveled their heads to stare at him. As Anna watched him, his pale skin turned dead white, and then the area around his lips began to turn blue. His eyes were bulging, the whites visible all around the pupils. He made another low, gurgling sound.

  “Is he having a fit?” Thomas asked.

  Anna stared at Paul, unable to move, and suddenly she saw his hand dip slightly toward the meat on his plate. In an instant she grasped what was wrong. “He’s choking,” she said.

  Thomas jumped up and began to thump the boy on his back. Paul was rigid now and not exhaling any breath.

  “No,” Anna cried, pushing Thomas aside. She pulled the boy off the chair and wrapped her arms around him from behind, just below his waist, jerking in sharply with her forearms as she bent him over.

  “Breathe,” she whispered, jerking again at his diaphragm. She could feel his heart hammering above her arms. He stared at the floor, his body stiff, except for his fingers, which were slowly tightening into claws.

  Anna pulled her forearms against him sharply. Tracy whimpered in the silence.

  “Please,” Anna prayed, “breathe.”

  In the hushed room Anna could hear only the strangled whistle from the boy’s throat. “Oh, please,” she pleaded softly.

  All at once he gagged. With a terrible retching sound he expelled a hunk of gray meat from his wind-pipe, and it shot out to the floor. Gulping for air, the boy began to cough and retch. His body went limp.