Stranger in the House (11 page)

Edward turned and looked back at him. “Come along,” he said.

Paul continued up the path, watching his feet as best he could until Edward put up a hand to forestall him.

“There,” said Edward. Through the trees Paul saw the stout, obelisk-shaped structure looming above him, the wide blades of the windmill outlined by the dim light of the crescent moon. The outer walls of the building were shingled in dark, rough slabs. The tiny windows were black holes gouged in its sides.

Edward walked over to the door and pushed it open, flipping on a switch inside. A weak yellow light warmed the doorway and lighted the panes of the windows. “Welcome to my workshop,” said Edward, motioning for Paul to follow him in.

Paul slipped past Edward through the door. It was silent inside, and he blinked his eyes to adjust to the light. He rubbed his eyelids with his fingers and then looked around the six-sided room that formed the base of the windmill. It was colder inside the windmill than it had been outside. Edward stepped over to the workbench, which took up one of the six walls, and flipped on a light over the counter area. The workbench was a catacomb of drawers and compartments, each filled with a precise assortment of bolts, screws, and nails. Books, tools, sandpaper, and tiny boat parts were carefully organized into separate areas on the counter tops which lined the walls.

Paul looked up and saw that the wooden floor of a loft formed a ceiling above them. A ladder going up to it rested against the side, surrounded at the top by sailing magazines and tin cans of paint. Edward gazed fondly at the orderly workroom. “This is where I am creating my fleet,” he said.

Paul felt suddenly uneasy about the faraway look in Edward’s eyes. He moved away from him toward the door. “Well, thanks for showing it to me,” he said.

Edward looked at him strangely for a moment. Then he stepped into the center of the room. “Have a look around,” he said. “Take your time.”

After a moment’s hesitation Paul began to pick his way through the assortment of ships. Edward stepped around him and closed the windmill door. He watched the boy as Paul stooped over to examine the boats.

“You sure have a lot of boats,” Paul said.

“Sit down,” said Edward, indicating a chair. Paul sat down and glanced around the room. It looked too neat to work in, but he could see that Mr. Stewart really liked it that way. He shivered involuntarily.

“Are you cold?” Edward asked, leaning up against the workbench.

“It’s kind of chilly in here,” said Paul.

“Stone floors,” said Edward. “I really should cover them.”

Paul felt a little hemmed in, seated on the chair with Edward taking up most of the rest of the free space in the room. He wondered how Edward could stand to be so cramped up in the windmill.

Edward reached over the working surface of the tool bench and picked up a piece of bright, multicolored silk which was lying there in a heap. He unfurled it for Paul to examine.

“This,” said Edward, “is a spinnaker for that sailboat over there.” Edward indicated a large, delicate model with a deck of golden wood and a gleaming white hull. “I sewed the edges on that machine.”

Paul looked at the old Singer sewing machine which was nearly hidden in one corner. “You can sew?” he asked, giggling nervously at the thought of Edward seated at the spindly machine.

“Indeed, I can,” said Edward.

“My momma used to have a sewing machine. She wanted to teach me how to use it but my daddy said no way was any boy of his…” Paul’s voice trailed away.

Edward ignored the interruption. “Here, take a look at this. Seven different colors in this one sail.”

Paul reached for the sail in Edward’s fingertips. The slippery material eluded him, and the sail floated from his fingertips to the floor. Edward started to bend over to retrieve it.

“I’ll get it,” Paul offered, sliding from the chair and crouching down to get the sail, which had fallen at Edward’s feet. He put his hand on the sail, leaning over the toes of Edward’s wing-tipped shoes. Edward loomed over him, blocking the light from the workbench.

Paul started to stand, but he felt a sudden dizziness come over him. He folded his body back into a crouch. There was a flash in his head and the fragment of an image on his eyelids. A golden eagle swooped toward him from a black cloud, talons extended, its eyes cold and enraged. Paul covered his right eye with a trembling hand. His complexion turned a chalky white.

Edward’s cold eyes were riveted to the boy’s bent head. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Edward bent down toward him and reached out a hand to support him.

“No,” Paul screamed, and scuttled away from him. In his haste he bumped into the table holding the white sailboat. The model teetered and then fell over. The delicate rigging crunched as the ship hit the stone floor.

Paul staggered to his feet, his breath coming in gasps. He stared down at the model, but for a few seconds he did not seem to see it or to realize what he had done.

Edward froze where he stood, his left eyelid twitching as he fixed the boy with a gaze that dissected him. “That’s too bad,” he whispered after a moment.

Paul seemed to awaken at the words, and he looked, aghast, at the broken ship on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Edward licked his lips and stared down at the broken vessel at his feet. “That model was the only one of its kind,” he said in a low voice. “It was custom-made for me.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy cried, looking up at Edward with alarm in his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened.”

Edward’s gray eyes were as blank as rivets in his head. “That was careless,” he said, staring at the boy. “There’s no excuse for carelessness.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Paul repeated miserably. “Can I go now?”

Edward stepped over to the windmill door and held it open, looking out into the night.

“Maybe I could pay for it,” the boy offered hopelessly.

Edward turned and watched him for a moment. Paul began to feel again as if he couldn’t breathe. Then Edward spoke. “You may consider it forgotten,” he said, in a voice that did not sound forgiving.

“Thank you,” the boy mumbled, and bolted out of the door and down the path in the direction of the glowing lights of the back of the patio.

“I’ll be right along,” said Edward. He watched the boy go, and then he looked back at the wreck of his ship on the floor. Carefully he crouched down and began collecting the broken pieces.

A dull throbbing in his head had replaced the feelings of panic and disorientation. Each time he put his foot down, Paul felt as if he were jarring the pain into a greater fierceness. His stomach had begun to churn in concert with the headache, and he kept on breathing deeply to hold the nausea down. Paul reached the periphery of the party and then hesitated, unwilling to enter the crowd of strangers. The light from the lanterns seemed to hurt his eyes.

From the edge of the patio Iris peered into the darkness and spotted the boy standing there. “Paul,” she called out. “There you are.” She came toward him, smiling. “Did Edward show you around?”

Paul nodded. His eyes searched for Anna in the group, wishing that he could see her and tell her he wanted to go home. He thought of asking Iris where she was, but he did not know how to refer to her. He could not bring himself to say “my mother.”

Iris gestured toward the rest of the party. “Why don’t you come along now and sit down with the young people and have something to eat?”

Reluctantly he let himself be led to a table occupied by teenagers. Paul sniffed the aroma of marijuana as they approached the table, but Iris seemed oblivious to this. She indicated a chair, which Paul lowered himself onto. “I’ll send a waitress with some food,” she said.

Paul smiled mechanically at Iris. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see Tracy watching him across the table.

“You have fun,” Iris urged, patting his shoulder as she left. Paul nodded, but his head was throbbing.

Tracy leaned across the table and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Where were you?”

“Inside. With Mr. Stewart,” Paul mumbled.

Tracy said something quietly to her friends, and their mocking laughter rang out. Paul tried to ignore them. A waitress walked over to the table and placed a plate of food down in front of Paul.

Paul looked down at the slab of pink fish on his plate. “What is this stuff?”

“Salmon,” said Tracy. “Didn’t you ever have it?”

Paul shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He tried not to look at the fish on the plate, but he imagined that the odor was overwhelming him, making him feel even queasier.

“Have some of this,” said Tracy, producing a glowing joint from under the tabletop. “You’ll be hungry.”

A pretty brown-haired girl in a clingy, hot-pink dress sitting next to Tracy burst out laughing at this and covered her mouth with her hands.

“I don’t want any,” Paul said, and pushed the plate of salmon aside, as if to remove it from sight.

“Mary Ellen wants to ask you something,” said Tracy slyly.

Paul stiffened and quickly eyed the two girls. The girl in the pink dress started to laugh, and Tracy punched her in the elbow. “Go ahead,” Tracy ordered. “Ask him.”

Waves of pain seemed to be surging through him now, and he felt as if his eyes were aching from it. He could hardly focus on the girl’s face.

“Did you
ever
…” Mary Ellen dissolved into laughter, and tears began to spurt from her eyes.

“Mary Ellen, you ass,” said Tracy, elbowing her friend. Paul squirmed, but he tried to make his face impassive to whatever assault might come.

“Did you…” she cried, and collapsed into giggles again.

“Oh, shut up,” said Tracy, “and let Paul eat his salmon in peace.” She gave the plate a shove, and it bumped Paul in the arm. The slab of fish slid off the plate onto his jacket. The two girls started to laugh uncontrollably, although the sound of their laughter seemed far away because of the thudding pain in his head. Paul picked up the fish, and it felt cold and slippery in his hand. He thought he could smell the vilest odor off it. He tossed it away from him and stood up abruptly. All of a sudden he felt a lightness in his limbs, and black spots appeared before his eyes. He could see Tracy and her friend staring at him, but they seemed to be receding as the darkness descended in a cloud that came, then lifted, and then, in a rush, blacked out his sight altogether. He fell with a thud to the ground, pulling down a chair with him as he collapsed.

Tracy screamed, and there were gasps from the people all around him. The hum of conversation gave way to anxious murmurs as people began to crowd around the fallen boy. Paul came to in the midst of the worried onlookers, his body feeling weak and drained. He tried to drag himself up on the edge of the chair seat without looking at the faces of any of the people surrounding him. He felt as if their warm bodies were imprisoning him, suffocating him. He was trapped there, still trying to remember what had happened to him.

Suddenly Anna was beside him, her hands firmly gripping his shoulders. “Paul,” she said.

He looked up at her briefly. “I fainted,” he said.

Galvanized by the helplessness in his eyes, Anna asked no further questions. “Okay now,” she said in a firm voice to the people who surrounded him. “It’s all right. We’re going now.” Resolutely she helped him to his feet. “Leave us alone.” Paul stumbled to his feet beside her. Thomas took a step toward them and then stopped. Anna was miles away from him, completely in control.

“We’re going,” she said. Anna turned to Iris, who was shaking her head with concern. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you, Iris.”

She forced a path through the guests, and Paul followed her blindly, his young face haggard and deathly white.

E
dward strode out across the sloping lawn of his estate. All the Japanese lanterns had been extinguished, and the extra people they had hired were cleaning up the remains of the party by the illumination of the terrace floodlights and the pool.

Edward spotted Iris just out of the floodlights’ range. She was dressed in a flowered kimono and slippers, and she was eating a cream-filled pastry horn, which she had lifted from a tray that was still on one of the buffet tables.

She started as she saw Edward approaching her and quickly tried to put the pastry back down on the table. Edward glared at her and then turned on one of the women who were cleaning up at the other end of the table.

“Remove this food at once,” he ordered. “Why is this cleanup taking so long?”

The woman looked up, surprised, and then quickly came over and collected the tray.

Edward turned back to Iris. “Well,” he said, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“With what?” Iris asked, baffled.

“The evening was a total disaster.”

“Oh, I didn’t think so, Edward. I thought everyone had a nice time.”

“That boy’s display threw a pall over the entire party. As soon as that happened, everyone started to leave.”

Iris shook her head. “The poor thing. I felt sorry for him. He was so embarrassed.”

Edward snorted. “I was the one who was embarrassed. I was humiliated in front of my guests.”

“I’m sure everyone understood,” Iris suggested meekly.

“The question is, why did you invite those people in the first place?”

“What people?”

“The Langes, Iris. The Langes. They don’t belong in our set. They are completely out of place here. And now they managed to ruin my party.”

“Edward, that’s not so. They’re our friends.”

Edward turned away from her in exasperation. Iris stood uncertainly, wadding up the belt of her kimono. “I guess I’ll be going to bed,” she said.

“And who,” Edward demanded, “was that woman in that muumuu? Whatever was she doing here?”

Iris squirmed and looked down. “I invited some of the volunteers from the hospital. She’s my ceramics teacher. She works at the hospital, helping the children.”

“That outfit she had on looked like something out of the circus.” Iris sighed. “I’m awfully tired, Edward. I think I’ll say good night.”

“They won’t be invited again,” said Edward. “Any of them.”

“Good night, Edward.”

“I’m going to do some things in the windmill. I have to relax somehow,” Edward announced.

“Oh,” said Iris, surprised to be informed, “fine.”

Edward watched her as she walked back toward the house, her dressing gown billowing out behind her like laundry hanging on a line. She was a graceless creature, he thought. She had always been that way, even when they met.

The first time he had ever seen her was at a party, much like this one tonight. The party had been given by a rich lawyer from one of New England’s finest families to reward all the people who had worked on his victorious primary campaign for the Senate. Edward had joined the campaign in hopes of meeting some of the right people who could further his young career. The race had proved unsuccessful for him, however. He had done a thousand errands and kissed as many rear ends. But he had ended up at the party without the offer of a position or even a promising lead.

He was irritable that evening and frustrated by the fact that, just as they had at Princeton, these wealthy people had closed their circle to him. The only reason he had noticed Iris at all was that she was behind the punch bowl, ladling punch in a drab dark outfit. He mistook her for a servant and was becoming increasingly angered, as he waited in the line, at the slow and awkward way that she was serving. When he reached the punch bowl, she offered him a glass which, unbeknownst to her, had a crack in it. Edward stared at the cracked cup, and the rage began to boil in him. He felt as if this low-class serving girl had somehow singled him out to receive the damaged glass. He drew the cup back and was about to toss the red punch at the front of her dress and slam the cup down on the table when the campaign’s largest contributor, a paper mill magnate, came up, kissed her on the cheek, and introduced her to the victorious candidate as his daughter. Overhearing that remark saved Edward from an embarrassing faux pas and turned Iris from a frog into an heiress in his penetrating eyes.

All in all, marrying her had been a shrewd thing to do, he thought. It was true that she was an embarrassment to him, of sorts, but her father’s money had gotten him started in his business. The rest he had done himself. Now he had it all, all the things he had dreamed of and missed as a boy. He was important, rich, and powerful. And he had made it happen.

One of the cleaning women came by and gathered up the tablecloth off the buffet table. “It’s about time,” Edward muttered. “And take all that food out of this house.” At least, he thought, there would be nothing left for Iris to gorge on before she went off to her spa.

He shook his head in disgust. It was a waste of energy to think about Iris when he had much more important things on his mind. The night still held a difficult task for him, and he anticipated it with a twinge of anxiety. The cleaning people were beginning to leave the yard. It was almost time, he realized, to get over to the windmill and gather up the equipment that he needed for the night ahead.

Thomas peered out the back window at the shape of the boy sitting hunched on the glider.

“He’s still sitting out there.”

Anna sighed and looked out the window again. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe we should just let him be,” said Thomas.

Tracy came into the kitchen and took a pear from the refrigerator. She rubbed it on her bathrobe and took a bite out of it.

Anna shook her head. “He’s terribly upset. Maybe if we talk to him…”

“He might not feel like talking right now. He might want to be alone,” said Tom.

Anna turned to Tracy, who was seated at the kitchen table, eating her pear, and staring vacantly into the center of the room. “Tracy,” she said, “what happened at the Stewarts’?”

“Nothing. Why? We were just fooling around, and then he just stood up and fainted.”

“What do you mean, ‘fooling around’? Did anyone say something to upset him?”

“No,” Tracy cried. “We were just having some fun.”

“Fun? At Paul’s expense? Maybe this is the problem. Maybe you owe him an apology,” Anna said.

“Me? Why me?”

“Do as your mother says,” Thomas barked. “Go out there and apologize to your brother.”

Tracy scowled, but she knew better than to argue with her father when he looked angry. She did as she was told. She opened the back door and stepped out into the darkness. She waited for a few moments while her eyes got used to the dark. Then she walked over to where Paul was seated on the glider. She stood several yards away from him, waiting for Paul to acknowledge her. He did not look up.

She did not know how to get him to look at her. In movies people always coughed to get someone’s attention. She decided to try it. She coughed. He continued to ignore her.

“Don’t you think you better go in?” she asked in a soft voice. “It’s pretty late.”

“No,” he said stonily, staring across the nocturnal landscape.

“My parents are worrying about you. Why don’t you come in?”

Paul did not reply.

“Look, we were just kidding around over at the Stewarts’. I didn’t know you were sick. You should have said something.” Tracy glanced back at the house. She could see Anna’s silhouette in the kitchen window, watching them. Tracy sighed and tried again.

“I guess, you know, with your cat running away and everything, you probably feel bad. But why don’t you come in now? If you want, I’ll help you look for him tomorrow.”

Slowly Paul stood up and turned to face Tracy. For a moment she felt relieved that she had accomplished her task. Then she saw the fury in his eyes.

“What did you do with him?” he said.

Tracy frowned and took a step away from him, drawing the tie on her bathrobe tight around her. “What?”

“What did you do with Sam? Where is he?” Tracy shook her head.

“You did something to him. I know it.”

“That’s a shitty lie,” she said through clenched teeth.

Paul took a menacing step toward her. “You and your friends probably had a good laugh about it.”

Tracy stuck out her chin. “You asshole. I wouldn’t laugh about that.”

“I’m an asshole, right?” He turned his back on her, returning to the chair. “Get away from me.”

Tracy hesitated, stunned for a moment by his accusations. Then she approached the chair, fighting back the tears that were forcing their way out. “You’re just acting like a baby. Blaming it on me. It’s not my fault your cat ran away. It’s not my fault you came back here. I didn’t want you back.”

He kept his eyes averted from hers, staring coldly ahead of him. “Thanks,” he said. “I know.”

Tracy’s face turned scarlet. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.

“Yes, you did,” he said. “You’re a spoiled little brat. You get all the attention. That’s the way you like it, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you. I don’t want to be here either. I hate your ugly face.”

Tracy charged the glider where he was sitting, and landed a glancing whack with her fist on his shoulder that set the seat in motion. “I hate everything about you,” she cried.

Paul jumped up from the glider, whirled around to face her and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t touch me,” he growled at her. He gave her a shake and then released her. Suddenly he let out a groan. He gripped his head with his hands and slowly sank to his knees. Tracy watched in astonishment as he collapsed on the ground. The back door of the house slammed, and Anna sprinted across the yard.

“What’s going on?” she cried out. “What are you two fighting about?”

Tracy looked up at her mother in bewilderment as Paul rocked back and forth on the ground, holding his head. “He said I was ugly,” she cried.

“I ask for your help and this is what you do,” Anna said grimly, bending down beside Paul.

“He said I did something to his cat,” cried Tracy, staring at the boy on the ground as he writhed.

“What is it?” Anna pleaded with her son. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“My head,” he groaned.

“I didn’t even touch his head,” Tracy insisted.

“Go inside, Tracy,” Anna ordered. “Haven’t you done enough damage for God’s sake?” Tracy backed away from her mother and the boy on the ground, her eyes wide. “Let me help you,” Anna pleaded with Paul. She put an arm under his and clambered to her feet, pulling Paul up beside her.

“Come on,” she said, “we’re going to the hospital.”

“No,” the boy cried. “No hospital.” He tried to wriggle free of her. “Just leave me alone.”

“All right,” she said soothingly “All right, no hospital. But please, come inside.”

They approached the back of the house through the soft grass. The air was filled with the hum of crickets and other peaceful summer-night sounds. Anna could feel her son shivering. “I’ll help you,” she said.

“I feel better now,” he said as they slowly climbed the steps to the house.

He was asleep as soon as he lowered his head to the pillow. She sat at one end of the bed and watched him fall away, his thin face white from the strain of the headache. His mouth fell open, as if he were gulping to breathe, and in the moonlight his face was all shadows and hollows. His hands fell open outside the sheet, weak and helpless. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip.

He is sick, she thought. There is something terribly wrong with him. That’s what Rambo meant. Try as she might, she could not stop thinking the worst. A brain tumor. Some kind of cancer. That had to be it.

She thought that maybe she should get up tomorrow and just take the boy directly to the doctor and never meet Rambo at all. It was utterly clear to her now that Rambo knew about this illness, and that was what he was going to tell her. A doctor would probably be able to diagnose it in no time. But the thought nagged at her that perhaps Rambo knew something about it that was vital. After all, the boy had grown up in his household. Perhaps he had sustained some injury, taken some kind of drugs, or something. She had to find out what Rambo knew. He might disappear, and she would never find out what he really meant. Anna felt her thoughts racing around her head like a dog chasing its tail. She did not want to waste precious time with Rambo if the boy was ill and needed to be hospitalized. But it was her only chance to find out. She tried to steady herself. Do as you planned, she told herself. Courage. Tomorrow you will know.

She wished for a minute that she could talk to Thomas. But she knew he would not let her go. She shook her head. She would do it alone. Anna stood up quietly from the end of Paul’s bed. He was breathing normally at last. She opened the door and let herself out. She closed the door behind her and started down the hallway.

As she passed the door to Tracy’s room, she noticed a faint light emanating from the crack beneath the door. Still up, she thought. Then, from behind the door, she heard the sounds of gasping, as if someone were trying to catch her breath. For a moment Anna hesitated. Then she put her hand on the doorknob and tapped. There was no answer. She pushed open the door to the room and peeked in.

A tiny reading lamp threw a pool of light on the floor of the darkened bedroom. Tracy sat at the edge of the circle of light. Her head was bowed, and in her arms she held Fubby, the stuffed rabbit she had loved from when she was a baby. Tracy’s shoulders shook as she cradled the rabbit to her chest.

“Tracy,” Anna whispered. Tracy jumped and whirled around, hiding the rabbit behind her and staring defiantly at her mother. Anna could see that her daughter’s eyes were pink, and there were tears still dribbling down her freckled face.

“Go away,” Tracy cried.

Anna stepped into the room. “Tracy, what’s the matter? Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Just get out of here,” the teenager wailed.

“Please, Trace,” Anna pleaded, “talk to me.”