People Who Knock on the Door

by Patricia Highsmith

  “Your name? . . . Can you sign in here, please?”

  Arthur signed his name in a ledger, and the guard filled in the date and time. The guard looked into the paper bag Arthur carried, then stepped to one side of a doorway through which Arthur had to walk. This was a metal-detector device, and it registered with a buzz: Arthur had his car keys and some change in the left-side pocket of his Levi’s. That was all right.

  “Straight ahead. Tell the other guard down there.”

  A second guard was silhouetted in an open doorway. Arthur walked down a barren and rather wide hall of the one-story building. There were rooms to right and left, half of them with their doors hanging open. His mother had been urging him to “pay a visit” to Robbie, and here he was at 10:30 on a Sunday morning when he would rather have been sleeping till about now, because he had been out late with Maggie last night.

  “Alderman? He’s out there somewhere, I think,” said the second armed guard. “If not, he’s in his room.” He looked at a list. “That’s room seventy-two.”

  Arthur walked out into the hot sun. At least thirty boys were wielding spades and hoes in a rather vast expanse of land. Arthur saw rows of tomato plants and half-grown cabbages. The boys wore khaki shorts or trousers, and some were stripped to the waist. At a glance Arthur could see that the boys weren’t knocking themselves out at their labors. He hesitated, then realized that a blond-looking head and skinny body really belonged to Robbie. Arthur walked on a narrow path between rows. The big yard was bounded by a heavy wire fence with a top part that slanted inward, composed of barbed wire.

  “Hey, Robbie!”

  Robbie looked up, then leaned on his hoe. “Yeah?—Hi.”

  “Just visiting.—How are things?”

  Robbie tossed his hoe down with an air of annoyance and walked toward Arthur. His first step hit the center of a young cabbage, mashing its leaves. Evidently Robbie was allowed to walk off, because he did, and Arthur followed him back into the hall. Robbie paused at a drinking fountain and rubbed a handful of water over his face.

  “Room’s here,” said Robbie, heading toward a certain door.

  The room walls were of the same pale blue as the corridor. There were two narrow iron beds, a single table in the center of the room, two shelves that held books covered in transparent plastic. Robbie sat down on his bed.

  “Mom gave me these to give you,” Arthur said, extending the paper bag he had been carrying. He knew what was in it, a hunk of fruit cake wrapped in wax paper, two issues of Newsweek, chocolate bars.

  Robbie rummaged quickly in the bag, frowning, and put the items out on his bed. His movements reminded Arthur of those of an animal.

  “Where’s your roommate?”

  “He has kitchen duty this morning.”

  “You get along with him all right?”

  Robbie shrugged. “He bores me.” He was avoiding looking at Arthur.

  “Looking forward to getting out in December?”

  Robbie gave his brother a frowning glance. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t want to go back to that kooky high school again.”

  “Don’t want to live home again? Why not?” Arthur realized that he was merely curious about this.

  Robbie put on his clammed-up look. He stood up suddenly and folded his arms. “Those high school kids are boring dopes. I’m not going back to that, no sir. They don’t understand anything. They’re zombies.”

  “I see.—Well, don’t try running away from here. They’ll just catch you and put you in for longer.” Arthur realized that he was trying to sound friendly and chummy and that he didn’t feel in the least friendly and chummy towards the sullen-faced figure in front of him. “Any messages for Mom?”

  “Nope. Can’t think of any.”

  Arthur moved toward the door, which was closed. “Well, what do you want to do, Robbie? Once you’re out in December. Got any cheerful ideas?’

  Robbie shrugged again. “Why should I tell you?—I don’t care where I am. Maybe I’ll join the Marines. That outfit—”

  “Can you get in at sixteen?”

  “Or maybe I’ll live in the boat house on Delmar Lake all year round. I got friends there, Bill and Jeff and all the others. I don’t have to go back to school if I don’t want to. I don’t give a shit if I’m on probation, okay, but they can’t stop me from living where I want to.”

  Arthur thought they could, but didn’t say anything.

  “My friends’ll stick with me. I could work for them down at the lake—or anywhere. Once I’m out of this shithouse.” Robbie swung an arm to indicate the walls, the whole building.

  Three loud bongs sounded in the hall.

  “Is that for lunch?” Arthur asked.

  “Church in five minutes,” Robbie said with the same sourness.

  The door behind Arthur burst open, and a dark-haired boy in khaki trousers and shirt with the tails hanging out hurtled past Arthur and yanked out the bottom drawer of a small chest.

  “Fucking kay dee, fucking gar-r-bage!” the boy yelled as if to himself, snatched off his dirty shirt and shook out a fresh one. Then he noticed Arthur and looked utterly amazed.

  “Just taking off,” Arthur said. “Robbie—take care of yourself, will you?” He was afraid of a sneer from both of them if he told Robbie to keep in line so he’d get out sooner. “Bye for now.”

  Now the hall was noisy with adolescent boys murmuring, laughing, moving in the opposite direction from Arthur. Organ music quivered from somewhere.

  “Hey!—Sir!”

  Arthur had to sign the ledger again to get out. It was a pleasure to start the car and head for home.

  When Arthur got to the house, his mother had just come back from church and was still in her Sunday finery, including a dark blue straw hat which Arthur rather liked.

  “How was church?” Arthur asked with deliberate cheer.

  His mother gave him a sidelong look, as if to say, “Same as ever.” She relit the oven, then removed her hat gently. “And you saw Robbie? How was he?”

  “Fine. All tanned. Working in the vegetable garden there—till it was time for church.”

  “I hope he was friendly at least.”

  “Ha! Well—he remembered me, I suppose.”

  “But what did he say?—What’s his attitude?”

  “Mom, do you think he talks to me?—He doesn’t want to go back to high school here.” Arthur took a can of beer from the fridge. “Maybe you know that. He seemed pretty definite about it.”

  His mother was opening the top of a new box of salt. “Did you talk to Mr. Dillard?”

  Arthur felt both guilty and annoyed. He hadn’t wanted to look up Mr. Dillard and ask how Robbie was “doing.” “No, Mom. I didn’t.—Want me to do something?”

  “Make a little salad, if you will.—I spoke to Jane after church. She said Irene’s in the hospital.”

  Arthur felt a small shock. He had realized that his mother was nervous and had supposed it was because of something she had heard at the First Church of Christ Gospel. “Does that mean it’s going to be born today? Or is it already?”

  “Certainly likely, I’d say,” replied his mother, inspecting the oven.

  Was his mother expecting a call from someone, telling her whether the baby was boy or girl, black or white? Arthur wasn’t going to ask. The rest of today was ruined too, he realized, and it was worse for his mother than for him. He at least had a bright spot to look forward to, a date with Maggie at 5 p.m. to do a little work in her backyard, and as far as he knew, she was free for the evening. Maggie was working on a project for her sociology course, collaborating with another Radcliffe girl who lived in Chicago, and they were not to communicate by telephone, according to the rules of this assignment, but by letter, and emerge with a “coordinated study.” This occupied some of Maggie’s
days.

  Arthur poured the dressing over the lettuce leaves. Their meal was ready and Arthur took up the carving knife and fork. He felt ravenous. He sought for something comforting or cheering to say to his mother. I hope it’s born dead, he wanted to say, and couldn’t.

  At 5, Arthur was at Maggie’s house, in Levi’s and tennis shoes and an old denim shirt. He had brought a clean shirt which he left in the car. Betty Brewster was sitting in a sunny corner of the big backyard, writing letters. She wore shorts and a halter and broad-brimmed hat, because there was still a strong sun.

  After ten minutes, Arthur removed his shirt. He was clearing a strip with a fork and a spade, lifting out pieces of turf which Maggie was carrying to another spot. Daffodils were to go in where Arthur was digging, but it was still too early to plant them.

  “You saw your brother this morning?” Maggie asked.

  “Yeah,” Arthur said, smiling, and he plunged his fork in. “Do you mind if I don’t talk about that?”

  “No-o,” Maggie drawled with her air of patience. “But I’m interested. What kind of a place is it?—Was he friendly?”

  “Mom asked the same thing. I wouldn’t call him friendly. Not to me.—Place is like a prison.” Arthur paused to wipe a gnat out of his eye.

  “You don’t have to work so fast, Arthur!” Maggie lifted more turf pieces into a broad basket carrier.

  Betty brought out cold lemonade and cookies. “I’m sure this won’t spoil anybody’s appetite for dinner. My, Arthur, that’s progress!”

  He had dug a strip a foot wide half the length of the backyard, almost, and furthermore its line was straight. Arthur was rather proud of the black streak of freshly opened earth.

  An hour or so later, under the Brewsters’ shower which Arthur knew well, Arthur washed even his hair and turned the water on cold at the last. He felt very well. And how was Irene feeling, he wondered, as he pulled the wadded towel across his torso and examined his chest muscles and biceps in the mirror. Was even now his half-brother or half-sister breathing the air of this world, the same air that he was? That was really crazy, yet maybe true! Arthur drew on a pink oxford cloth shirt with button-down collar.

  It was Mom’s Pride again for dinner. Maggie had liked the place. Gus and Veronica were due to turn up later. Gus was at Veronica’s house this evening, looking at her mother’s sewing machine, which he was supposed to fix if he could. Maggie and Arthur ate hamburgers and french fries.

  “And Mr. Hargiss,” Arthur began casually. “You’re going to see him again when you go back east?”

  Maggie took a breath. “I’ll see him—because he takes a chemistry course at Radcliffe.”

  “I meant—” Arthur was sure she knew what he meant. This was their third date since Maggie had returned, the second having been a film, and he hadn’t felt like asking about Hargiss that evening. “I meant, are you in love with him?”

  “No. Not any more.”

  “Oh.” But she had been, of course. “You mean you broke it off?”

  Maggie looked down at her nearly finished plate. “Well, yes. I didn’t like his family so much.” She looked up at Arthur. “I thought they were bossy. We had to do certain things certain days, Larry and I. Everything planned days in advance. There was a yacht club there—all very nice—but it was a little—interfering. I could see it was going to go on forever—like that.”

  “Stuffy.”

  “Not stuffy the way they dressed or anything. It was what we had to do.”

  Arthur felt relieved. Mr. Hargiss had been eliminated.

  Later, when he was dancing with Maggie and feeling especially confident, Arthur had an impulse to tell her that today, maybe this evening, Irene’s baby would be born. But he decided against it, because he wouldn’t be able to say it lightly enough. Or perhaps the fact was, it wasn’t a light or funny subject. It was better to look into Maggie’s smiling eyes as they danced some distance apart, to be in another world with her alone, with all the gyrating figures around them nothing more than part of the walls.

  “There’s Gus!” Maggie said.

  Arthur looked behind him and raised an arm.

  There was room for the four of them in the booth. Gus and Veronica ordered beers, Maggie and Arthur salad and more beers.

  “Got the sewing machine fixed?” Arthur asked.

  “No,” said Gus, hanging his head.

  “You did,” said Veronica. “I swear it was working when we left the house, Arthur! I don’t know what Gus is talking about.”

  “See if it works tomorrow. I’m not convinced,” Gus said.

  “Perfectionist!” said Veronica. “Tell me about Radcliffe, Maggie. I’m dying to hear details.” She brushed her long hair back and leaned forward expectantly.

  “Details of what?” Maggie laughed.

  “The rooms, for instance. Do you have to be—I mean, how many times a week can you go out in the evening, say?”

  Arthur gave a laugh.

  “All you want, I suppose,” Maggie said. “Unless your grades are pretty bad. Then they might—”

  “What time do you have to be in at night?” Gus asked in a girlish way.

  “Oh, stop it,” said Veronica. “I mean, the rooms, yes. Private rooms?”

  “Thinking of going there?” asked Gus.

  Each girl had her own room, Maggie said. Veronica wanted to know how big they were. And how about the bathrooms?

  “How about ’em?” said Gus. “Does a maid come with each room?”

  “Telephone?” asked Arthur. “Color TV?”

  “Alderman!—Anyone here named Alderman?”

  Arthur heard a man’s voice yelling this through the music and chatter, and he stood up to see better. “Here! Yep!” His car, he thought first, but how would they know his name from his car?

  “’Scuse me,” he said to the others.

  “Telephone call,” the busy waiter said to Arthur, and went off. “First booth on the right.” He pointed.

  Arthur walked to a corner near the front of the place where there were two booths, one occupied, the other with its receiver off the hook. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Arthur,” said his mother in a breathless voice. “You said you might be there, so—”

  “Well, Mom, I am here.”

  “Irene’s just had a baby girl. I thought I should tell you.”

  “I see. Well.” Arthur was pressing a palm against one ear in order to hear.

  “Bob Cole phoned me around seven, just before the Griffins got here. Irene’s at the United Memorial Hospital.”

  Arthur didn’t give a damn where she was. His mother sounded shaky. He knew that his mother had invited the Griffins for dinner, and he assumed they had left now. “Well, Mom, don’t you worry.—Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” said his mother promptly.

  “Okay, stay that way.—I won’t be late tonight, Mom.”

  As Arthur walked back to the booth, he noticed Roxanne at the table far to his left, laughing giddily as usual, with a big group. He’d heard that Roxanne had got married and left town. Maybe a false rumor. Arthur realized that he was glancing around for faces he might know or who might know him. He saw at least two, acquaintances from C.U., who were paying him no mind. He sat down again next to Maggie.

  “Anything wrong?” Maggie asked.

  “No, no.” Arthur had an impulse to blurt it out. Everyone would know tomorrow or the next day, anyway. Gus and Veronica were looking at him. “Well, that was my Mom. She said Irene’s had a baby girl.”

  “Well, well,” said Gus. “I think I’ll have another beer.”

  “The one at the diner,” Veronica said calmly.

  “Yes.” Arthur supposed that Gus had told Veronica that Alderman Senior was suspected of having sired the chil
d. Or had Gus? I suppose I have a half-sister now, Arthur thought of saying, but that was going too far; that was too awful.

  Maggie patted Arthur’s hand, which rested on the bench seat between them. Arthur had clenched his fist, but he opened it and took Maggie’s hand, and with his other hand rubbed his eyes, then reached for what was left of his beer. The baby was going to live. It hadn’t been born dead. And what would its blood type be? Arthur reminded himself that he had decided not to care. He realized that he did care. He glanced at Maggie and swallowed his beer as if it were a lump of something. “What the hell?” Arthur said, addressing all three.

  Maybe he wasn’t heard across the table in all the noise.

  “State gonna take care of that kid?” Gus almost shouted the question.

  “The State? I really dunno. The church a little bit—I heard.” Arthur managed a weak laugh.

  Their beers finished and more on the way, they all got up to dance. Old Gus looked happy this evening, more sure of himself. Gus wasn’t thinking about Irene’s bastard. Dancing with Maggie, Arthur could forget everything except her and the music, the drums, the tings of the cymbals. They had a life together, for now at least. The rest of the world was something apart, distant even, when he was with Maggie.

  33

  Arthur was home by just after 1 a.m. His mother was in the kitchen, washing up some pots at the sink.

  “Still at it, Mom? Can’t I finish those for you?”

  “I’m only late because I was watching a film on TV.” His mother seemed tense and did not look at Arthur.

  He wanted a final beer and reached into the fridge. He had just said to Maggie, “I wish I could spend the night with you, upstairs in that narrow bed,” and he had thought it might be possible, if he had left early in the morning. It would have been possible, Arthur knew, but for Betty’s presence in the house, though Maggie didn’t say so. He was sure that one of these evenings Maggie would come out with, “My mother won’t be back till one in the morning, I know,” and consequently Arthur felt quite cheerful at that moment. And with a pleasant future dancing in his head, he was supposed to concentrate on Irene lying in some hospital bed with a tiny infant girl by her side, because his mother was thinking of that.