You Are Not A Stranger Here (10 page)

Mutely, he kneels to retrieve it.

"The chemist--always a new something or other," she mutters. When she has the bag safely in hand, she says,

"You're American."

Paul stares at her, as if at an apparition.

"Come for the course, have you? . . . Have you come over for the golf?"

He shakes his head.

"Air force? Over at Leuchars, are you?"

"No. My wife. She's . . ."

"She's what, dear? . . . At the university?"

He nods.

"Right. Lots of the foreigners over for that. Nothing like the golf, though. Last summer was dreadful. We had the British Open. You'd think Christ had risen on the eighteenth green. More telly people than putters as far as I could tell. Awful. You live in Texas?"

He shakes his head. "Pennsylvania."

"Is that near Texas?"

"No."

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She leans down to pat the head of her terrier, who has scurried up to meet them. "Your wife's in the books and you've got the day to yourself."

Paul says nothing. She comes a step closer, barely two feet from him. "Not an easy place to entertain yourself," she says, leaning her head forward. "Without the golf, I mean."

She searches his face, as though straining to read the fine print of a map. "Would you like to come for a cup of tea?"

H E D O E S N O T know why he goes with her. She is here and has asked and so he goes.

They walk down past the clock tower. She moves slowly, stopping to look back for the dog, checking her bags and packages. She speaks of the university students, complains of the noise they make during term, says the tourists are generally polite but she doesn't like all the coach buses. They take a right turn, then a left down a narrow street of two-story houses. At the door of one, the old woman pauses and finding the key in the pocket of her coat, inserts it in the lock. The dog runs ahead into the darkened hall and the old woman follows, leaving Paul standing at the entrance. As he steps into the house, a heavy, warm odor envelops him. His first reaction is to close his nostrils, breathe only through his mouth. Then, tentatively, he sniffs. It is flesh he smells, not sweat or the dankness of a locker room, but something close. A rotting. Breathing through his mouth, he advances down the hall toward a light that has come on in the next room. He won't 98

want to stay long, he thinks, wondering how anyone could live with such a smell. She'll comment on it, make an apology of some sort, he feels sure. But when he reaches the kitchen, she is calmly stowing her groceries.

"Have a seat, dear. Tea won't be a moment."

Though it is day, the curtains are drawn and a naked bulb provides the only light. He perches on the edge of a chair by the kitchen table, sampling the air again. The stench tickles his nostrils.

The kitchen looks a bit disheveled, the counters cluttered with jars and mugs, but otherwise it is like any other kitchen. There is nothing here to explain such an odor. He imagines naked, sweating bodies packed into the other rooms of the house.

"I've got some biscuits round here somewhere, what did I do with them? Do you take milk and sugar?"

Watching the old woman shuffle past the sink, he feels disoriented and tries to confirm to himself where he is, the day of the week, the country they are in.

"Milk, dear?"

"I saw you in the restaurant last night, didn't I?" he says.

"Yes, dear, you did. Sometimes I come and sit in the evenings, if I can find someone for Albert. He's my grandson. You'll meet him."

She arranges cookies on a plate. "Have you been visiting elsewhere, then?"

"We passed through Edinburgh," he says.

"Terrible place. Full of strangers. What do you do in the States?"

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Paul has to repeat her words to himself before replying.

"I used to teach," he says.

For a moment, he sees the classroom on the third floor of the high school, its scratched plastic windows, chairs of chrome metal, beige desks affixed, a map of America, the portrait of Lincoln tacked to the back wall. The students staring, waiting for him to speak.

"How wonderful. Noble profession, teaching is," she says, placing a mug on the table beside him. "There's sugar there if you like."

She puts her own mug down and takes a seat opposite.

"And what is it you taught?"

"History," he says.

"Dates. Yes. Albert's very good with dates . . . Are you a father?"

"No," he says, wondering why he is here.

"A mixed blessing children are, of course. Up to all sorts of things. When they're young, though--nothing like it. You taught young ones, did you?"

"Teenagers."

"Difficult they are."

There is a pause. The old woman leans forward in her chair. "You're tired," she says.

"Sorry?"

"You're tired, dear, under the eyes. You've been sleeping poorly."

Paul feels a surge of anger. He wants to yell at the old woman. How dare she presume? But there is something so 100

frank in her expression, so lacking in judgment, he can't bring himself to do it.

"Jet lag, I suppose," he says.

He sips at his mug. The odor leaks in. He feels he might heave the liquid up.

"Have you ever had fresh mutton?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"An excellent meat. My friend Sibyl gets it straight from the abattoir. Rosemary, wee spot of mint jelly. Quite delicious. Perhaps you might come for dinner. I doubt they'll be giving you any Scottish meat in the hotels."

The smell has got to him now and he is beginning to feel dizzy. "What time is it?"

"It's early, dear. Just gone half eight."

"I should go back."

"There's no hurry, surely." She stirs her tea. "Just out for a walk this morning, were you?"

He looks up at her. "My wife," he says. "She'll be waking up. I really have to go." He stands up from his chair.

"Well, if you must rush, then--pity though, you've just arrived. But there we are, you'll come tomorrow. For dinner--two o'clock. It'll rain in the morning."

"No . . . I don't know."

"Not to worry about it now," she says, patting him on the shoulder. They move into the front hall. "It's getting cold this time of year. The haar will cover the town by the end of the week. You'll want to keep inside for that."

She holds open the front door. When he steps onto the 101

street, he breathes in the cold air, finding it less of a relief than he'd hoped.

H E WA L K S T O the end of the cobbled street, looking one way and the other, forgetting the route that brought him here. Steps lead to doors on the second floor of row houses, smoke rising from squat chimneys. A child passes on a bicycle. He watches the little figure vanish around a corner and begins moving in the same direction.

He follows the sound of voices down onto Market Street. In the square, vendors arrange stalls of plants and secondhand books. A man wearing a placard reads from the book of Revelation, while his wife, standing silently by, passes literature to those who will take it. There are etchings of the seashore in the dry basin of the fountain. He walks slowly through, past tables covered with baked goods and china, testing the scent of the air as he goes.

"Where have you been?" Ellen cries as he enters the lobby. "Where in the world have you been?"

He looks at her with what he imagines is a pleading expression.

"Paul," she says, her voice quavering. She puts her arms around him, holds his head against her shoulder.

"Why didn't you wake me? What's going on?"

He's used all the words he has to describe his state to her. He could only repeat them now. A selfish repetition. How many times will he ask for a reassurance he will never believe? This should have ended by now.

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He holds on to her, grabbing her more tightly because he can think of nothing to say.

T H E Y S P E N D T H E rest of that morning in the room. Paul sits in a chair by the window, while Ellen reads the paper. She has called the library to let the curator know she will be starting a day later.

Her way of coping with him has changed over the years. She's read books and articles about depression and its symptoms, spoken to the psychiatrists he sees, tackled the problem like the researcher she is. She knows the clinical details, reminding him always it is a chemical problem, a treatable disease: eventually a doctor will find the right formula. From the window, he sees a man across the street depositing a letter in a mailbox and he wonders what the inside of the man's leather glove would smell of. He runs a hand under his nose, sniffing his palm.

"Do you want to call Dr. Gormley?" Ellen asks.

His glance drops, freezing on the wool ticking of the armchair; strands of dust settle on the blue fibers. He shakes his head.

T H AT N I G H T, W H E N he cannot sleep he goes into the bathroom and pees. He splashes urine on the edge of the bowl, then gets on his hands and knees to sniff the rim. He smells the cracks in the tile, the damp bath mat, his wife's underwear, the hair and skin in the drain of the tub. He runs his fin103 ger along the back of the medicine cabinet's shelf and tastes the gray-white dust. None of it comes close to the stench in that house.

A L L T H E N E X T morning it rains, as the old woman said it would. They eat lunch in the nearly empty dining room of the hotel. Across the way, a German couple argues quietly over a map. Ellen suggests that Paul come back to the library with her, he could read the British papers there. She only needs a day or two, she says, then they can take the train back to Edinburgh, see more of the city.

There is a fragment of tea leaf on the rim of her cup; a sheen to the softening butter; a black fly brushing its feelers on the white cloth of the table. He pictures the library and at once fears some constriction he imagines he will experience there. It is the familiar fear of being anywhere at all, of committing to the decision to stay in one place.

"I think I'll take a walk," he says.

"Did you take the pill this morning?" she asks. There is no impatience in her voice. She has trained herself over the years to control that, which only reminds him of how he's weighed on her, whittled her down to this cautious caring. He nods, though once again he's disposed of the tablet in the bathroom, knowing she will count them.

After she leaves for the library, Paul sets out across the square, past the tables of books and china, heading into the narrow lanes. As he comes to the house and reaches out to 104

knock on the low door, it opens and the old woman steps aside to let him enter.

"Good afternoon," she says. "We never made our introductions yesterday. I'm Mrs. McLaggan."

"Paul Lewis," he says.

"Right. Mr. Lewis. I'm glad you've come." They walk down the hall into the kitchen. "I'll just be a minute," she says, heading into the other room. It's then he sniffs the air, finding it as thick and rank as the day before. A light comes on in the next room, the old woman calls to him, and Paul walks through the doorway.

Running along the far side of the room, completely obscuring the windows, is a wall of clear plastic gallon buckets filled with what appears to be petroleum jelly. They've been arranged in a single row and stacked from floor to ceiling. Along the adjacent wall stands a metal clothes rack on wheels holding twenty or more identical blue track suits. A sideboard across from this is laid with dishes of lamb, potatoes, and string beans. Mrs. McLaggan stands in the middle of the room under another naked lightbulb. At the center is a table set for two.

The low ceiling, the electric light, the pale brown walls, the strange provisions all give the room the feel of a way station on some forgotten trade route, or a bunker yet to hear news of the war's end.

"Now, dear, I hope you'll just help yourself to everything," Mrs. McLaggan says, standing by her chair. He is not hungry but fills a plate anyway and sits. 105

"Mrs. Lewis is getting on well at the university, then, is she?" she says, once she's served herself and taken a seat.

"Yes."

For a minute or two, they eat in silence.

"I was thinking perhaps you might meet Albert today,"

she says. "I've told him about you. Difficult to know sometimes, but I think he's keen to see you."

"Do you do this often?"

"What's that, dear?"

"Having guests you don't know--strangers."

Mrs. McLaggan looks down at her plate and smiles.

"You're not a stranger here," she says. "In the restaurant the other night . . . How should I say it? . . . I recognized you somehow, not like I'd met you or such, but nonetheless. And then yesterday morning . . ." Her voice trails off.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" she asks. For years he's had no alcohol because of medication--the warnings and the caveats.

"Sure," he says.

She pours them each a glass. "My grandson's not well, you see." After saying this, she pauses, her eyes wandering left, then right, as if deciding how to proceed.

"Glenda, my daughter--she was awfully young when she had him. Father was some fellow I never saw. Course the old codgers round here never tire of saying, 'Wasn't so back in our day, was it then?' I don't know, though. Seems to me the world's always had plenty of trouble to spare a bit for the girls . . . I suppose what's different is she went off, left Albert with me. Would've been harder when I was young, that 106

would--a woman going out into the world like that. But there we are. Manchester she went to first. Then London for a spell."

She sips her wine.

"You try not to judge . . . Course when Albert got sick I rang. To tell her he'd gone into hospital. Tried the last number I had for her. No answer though, line disconnected. Been three years he's been ill now."

She looks up at Paul and smiles, wanly. "Here I am nattering on about my troubles."

"It's all right," he says. He's finished half a glass of wine. With the scent of it, the smell of the house has risen into his head again, but he fights it less now.

"You seem like a very sympathetic man," she says. When the meal is finished, they return to the kitchen and Mrs. McLaggan puts a kettle on the stove. "Shall we go up, then, and see Albert?"