The Houseguest

by Thomas Berger

  That called for a drink, which could be taken openly, boldly, in all conspicuous self-righteousness. She steered for the little bar-pantry just off the dining room. In ransacking her room Chuck must have discovered the half-gallon jug of vodka, which Mrs. Finch discreetly and regularly replenished. Then he wasn’t as cruel as he might have been: he could have called her a drunk. She was not all that old. She came off better than she could have hoped. Injustice is always easier to bear than punishment for the failing of which one is guilty.

  Bobby woke up when his shoulder was shaken. It was his mother, who looked uncomfortably animated.

  “Hi,” he said slowly, and closed his eyes again. “Is dinner ready?”

  “Bobby, please.”

  He reluctantly opened one eye.

  “I can’t find either your father or your wife.”

  “Lyd just went to the room.” He looked at his wristwatch. “My God, have I slept that long? Well, an hour or so back she went to take a nap. You remember she almost drowned.”

  His mother peered in turn at each of the doorways. She lowered her voice. “How long have you known Chuck?”

  Bobby scowled in exasperation. “Dad keeps asking me that! He refuses to believe me when I say I never saw the guy before meeting him here.”

  “Then his connection is with Lydia. That’s been my feeling all along.”

  Bobby adjusted his long body to sit up on his buttocks rather than his sacroiliac. “This is getting to be quite the joke,” said he. “Lyd didn’t know him, either!” He remembered something. “Dad’s got it in for Chuck for some reason. We had an argument about that and Dad slapped me. Imagine that: at my age.”

  “Chuck is not a good man, Bobby. He’s been stealing things from this house.”

  “Oh, come on, Mother, not you too! All at once you both have gotten so weird. There are a hundred good reasons why Chuck would carry a gun. After all, he hasn’t exactly shot anybody around here, has he?” Except when fooling with her plants, his mother always seemed to wear a dress, not even a blouse and a skirt. Bobby was noticing that consciously for the first time. She also always gave the appearance of being well balanced, even now. He therefore could not believe anything was out of order, even if it was she who said it was.

  “I don’t know why a person would carry a gun if he had no intention of using it.”

  Bobby stood up and looked down at her. “Self-protection, Mother. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to answer the call of nature.”

  “Where is Lydia?” His mother blocked the route to the little lavatory in the central hallway, the one used by cocktail and dinner guests.

  “I told you. In my room.”

  “She’s not there. And I can’t find your father, either.”

  “Where is Chuck?”

  “He’s in his room. We must find your father, Bobby. He was right about Chuck, as it happens. I hate to admit it, but he was right.”

  Bobby had a grievous need to pee, but he overcame it for the moment. “Now, listen,” he said with uncharacteristic energy. “Just stop this crazy business right now, before it gets seriously out of hand. Chuck was just in here a while ago telling me he was going to leave because he thought Lydia didn’t like him. Can you beat that? After saving her life? He’s a sensitive man: oversensitive, in fact. I don’t care if he carries a gun or not: he wears his feelings on his sleeve. That’s what’s so nutty about you and Dad calling him a criminal.”

  His mother stared at him for a moment, and then she said gently, “You just go to the toilet, Bobby. And if meanwhile you run into Chuck, try not to anger him. If he’s stealing something, let him, for goodness’ sake.”

  In the lavatory Bobby peed out of the left leg of his shorts, without having to open his fly, as he had done as a little boy: it was less trouble.

  Lydia and her father-in-law were sitting at the kitchen table. Before leaving the utility room they had come to a preliminary agreement on the plan to deal with Chuck Burgoyne: she would lure him into an intimate situation and, when he was thereby thrown off his guard, would seize the pistol, then call for the nearby Doug to rush in and take over. That was the agreement, but Lydia had no intention of honoring the final clause before punishing the houseguest for humiliating her as he had. She wanted to see his reaction when she thrust the gun barrel between his legs and cocked the trigger.

  She said now, “We agree that Bobby is not to know a thing about this until Chuck is taken prisoner.”

  “And the same for Audrey,” said Doug. “Those people aren’t cut out for emergencies. They have to be shielded when the going gets rough. Furthermore, they both think Chuck is wonderful. Now, that can help us to keep him in a state of false security. Whereas even if they agreed with us, neither could ever be a convincing actor.”

  “I know what you mean about Bobby,” Lydia said. “And it’s not a criticism. I admire such openness and honesty.” But a spurious note was creeping into this, and she desisted. Also she remembered that Bobby had often told her of his suspicion that contempt was very likely the deepest emotion his father felt for him.

  Doug was on the point of speaking, perhaps to say something that would reflect on this very matter, when Audrey came in from the dining room. She glanced at Lydia in what would seem distaste, and said to Doug, “May I have a word with you?”

  He raised his left hand and splayed it. “Feel free.”

  She made some facial gestures. “Please.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t,” Audrey said with force. “Something must be done about Chuck.” She turned to Lydia and snarled, “I know he saved your life.” Turning back to her husband, she added, “But he’s bad news for the rest of us.”

  Doug was squinting at her. “What are you trying to pull now, Audrey? When I tried to tell you much the same, you defended the bastard. Fact is, you convinced me. I find him a capital fellow, salt of the earth.”

  He pronounced these words so convincingly as momentarily to shock Lydia, who was not prepared for irony at this instant. She hastened to make common cause with her mother-in-law.

  “You’re right! He’s scum.”

  Now Audrey was the one to be astonished. “You?” she asked rudely.

  Doug broke in. “If I thought you could be trusted, it might be a different story.”

  Lydia suddenly felt a unique urge of sororal feeling for Audrey and spoke in her interest. “Of course we can trust her! She’s found something out, don’t you see? And we need all the help we can get.”

  Doug wore a faint grimace. He could be suspected of wanting to exclude Audrey at least a while longer, whatever the emergency, and he also very likely resented Lydia’s gesture towards his wife, assuming his own influence might henceforth be outweighed by femininity.

  In a dramatically lowered voice he asked, “Should we be shouting, with him at large somewhere?” This was an exaggeration; there had been no cries. But his point was not without merit: it was an awfully public place, where, plans formulated, they had come so that, if found by Chuck, they would not be suspected of conspiring against him. Lydia had intended to prepare tea, but could not find the makings.

  She was now aware that Audrey had been staring at her awhile. Finally her mother-in-law asked, “Can I believe what you are telling me?”

  With all that Lydia had undergone this day, she could not endure persistent rudeness. “Please don’t address me in that tone. I was Chuck’s first target.” Contrary to the common theory, it had been much easier for her to specify her experience to a man than to tell it now to a member of her own sex, at least this example.

  When Audrey looked to Doug for clarification, he said only, “For God’s sake, Audrey, this is no time to be dubious. The girl’s been put through the wringer.”

  Audrey turned back to Lydia. “Then you too have been missing articles of clothing?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Aud,” said Doug.

  To him Lydia said, “It’s okay now.” She addressed her mothe
r-in-law. “I could kill him.”

  Audrey recoiled slightly. “It’s only a few sweaters. I really don’t—”

  “Shut up, Audrey,” said Doug. “I thought I heard—”

  The screen door was suddenly thrust open, and Chuck entered from outside. This was at the end of the kitchen, nowhere near the table, but it was not out of the question that he had heard some or even all of their conversation.

  “Well, well,” he said with a good imitation of heartiness, “are we all back here already? After just eating that big breakfast? I came in to wash my hands. I’m afraid I have only bad news where both cars are concerned. I can’t get either one of them started now.”

  Even in her hatred of him Lydia had to recognize how careful he had been to acquire an air of authenticity: the hands he held up for display were covered with grease.

  Doug responded with a fake bluffness of his own. “You oughtn’t have bothered, old man! We’re none of us going anywhere.”

  Chuck vigorously wiped his hands on a length of paper towel he tore from the mounted roll on brackets under a cabinet. “Still,” he said, “it’s reassuring to have available transport. It’s pretty remote out here without it. That’s the negative aspect of privacy.”

  Lydia realized that they had better deal with Chuck without delay: she interpreted this speech as an implication that he intended to savage them all. Call her fear preposterous, but such things did happen from time to time in isolated houses. Mass murder was lately in vogue and Chuck Burgoyne when seen in this context was the typical perpetrator: a loner, but eminently respectable, genteel, handsome, charming. It was just a pity that she and Doug had worked out no plan by which they might together jump him as he washed his hands at the sink, a totally unprotected back towards them, gun way down inside his socks—if to be sure he was even carrying it now. Only Doug had seen this weapon.

  She tried now to catch her father-in-law’s eye, but he was utterly occupied with Chuck and seemed at the moment interested only in foolishly topping him verbally.

  “But then,” Doug was saying, “that’s pretty true of all of life, isn’t it, Chuck? You give up one thing to get another. Speaking for myself, I’d give up security any day for privacy.”

  Chuck dried his hands with another paper towel. He stared at Doug. “Security? Nothing criminal ever happens around here, does it? Isn’t that the idea in coming here? To get away from all that?”

  Doug stared back. “It’s what I always thought.”

  Lydia was getting nervous. She had not expected that Doug would act as though moving towards a showdown with their adversary. She popped out of her chair.

  “I could use some exercise.”

  “Haven’t you had enough for one day?” Chuck asked, with gentle derision. “Not swimming again, I trust.”

  She could not help responding defiantly. “I’m not afraid to go in the water again!”

  “I’d be worried if I took you seriously,” said Chuck, with apparent irony. He was a master of the disarming effect.

  This was the ideal moment to institute their plan. “Well, then,” she said, “at least I can take a walk. How about it, Chuck? Want to come along?” She tried to leer.

  “What a good idea!” said Audrey, pushing back her own chair. “I could use a constitutional at this point. It’s been a sedentary Sunday.”

  This was where Doug should have come into the picture to obstruct his wife, but he acted as though he and Lydia had never had their colloquy. “Oh, the devil with that,” said he. “Let’s play bridge instead.” He too rose.

  Lydia changed her mind when she saw that Chuck was now at a physical disadvantage. He was not much taller than either woman, and of course Doug loomed over him.

  Their instant was brief. The houseguest drew a large chef’s knife from one of the slots of the hardwood block on the counter.

  He said, with a snicker-snack movement of the long triangulated blade, “I’ve got to make dinner, if we expect to eat here, and obviously we do if the cars won’t run.”

  Doug backed dramatically away, though he had not been formally threatened. “Sure,” he said with a placating outthrust hand. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll keep occupied.”

  Audrey suddenly made the neighing sound of what was probably supposed to be a laugh. “But Lydia doesn’t play bridge—unless she’s just been pretending.”

  “That’s right,” Lydia assured her. “Someone at college once was teaching me to play hearts, but I’m afraid I have forgotten all I learned.” No doubt because she despised cards and in fact most other games: she couldn’t really understand why time should be in need of that sort of killing.

  “We’ll go find Bobby,” said Doug. “Surely we can find something to play as a foursome.”

  Doug was proving to be useless. Lydia saw she would have to make her own move. “I can’t boil water,” she told Chuck. “This might be a time when I could take a few cooking lessons.”

  The houseguest smiled at her. “As it happens the moment is not opportune. I’ve got some delicate tasks to perform.”

  But she had claimed the initiative, and moved quickly to exploit it. “Oh, I’ll just stand over there, out of the way, and watch. You’ll never even know I’m present.” She had no doubt that he would reject her plea, which was eminently reasonable, and thereby weaken his position morally, for what honorable objection could be made to so modest a request?

  But in fact he shrugged and said, “Have it your own way.”

  Doug and Audrey were leaving the kitchen. Lydia tried to think of something she could say, if not to detain them, then at least to reaffirm the solidarity of the threesome against Chuck, but her parents-in-law failed even to glance at her as they made an exit. Could this be treachery? Were they double agents who had now delivered her to the enemy?

  “In fact,” Chuck was saying, “you can help. Get those lobsters from the fridge.”

  “There are lobsters in there?” If so, they had come from nowhere, certainly were not in place when she had got the makings of the grilled-cheese sandwich she prepared for breakfast. Yet nobody had left the premises.

  “Look in the crispers,” Chuck said, gesturing with the enormous knife.

  She opened the refrigerator and went where he directed her. The enameled bin on the lower left held two dark-green crustaceans. They appeared comatose but not dead despite their removal from the water many hours earlier: there was a slight movement of feelers and, if one watched long enough, an even slighter indication of claw that suggested the creatures were still sentient. Lobster eyes told nothing, ever. These beasts were closer to insects than to fish, irrespective of habitat.

  At home, lobsters like steaks were men’s work. Lydia had not been able to watch the boiling alive—and even worse was done by her maternal uncle Vincent, who favored grilling them over charcoal.

  But she could not show the white feather to Chuck. She snatched up one of the lobsters, a finger on either side of the hard smooth shell, and carried it to the counter. The creature’s spark of life was thereby fanned. She felt the considerable power it could manifest by merely curling its tail. The two claws vigorously severed lengths of air.

  “Look there,” Chuck said, laughing. “The pegs have fallen out. They can take off a finger with one snip, you know.”

  She had not noticed till now that the little wooden or plastic claw-restraints were missing. When eating the cooked version she had always thought briefly how unfair it was to deny a creature its only means of defense, but as with so many other moral stances this one required modification when put to a test. Undoubtedly Chuck was right about the power of such weapons. For a moment she was leery about putting the thing down: how quickly could it turn? But at last she did so, backing away too briskly, surely destroying much of the impression she had sought to give of self-reliance.

  Chuck moved the lobster to a chopping block and with three decisive strokes of the big chef’s knife cut the animal into four parts, each of which proceeded to assert a
n independent existence of its own, with much more power than had been displayed before the loss of general integrity. The tail writhed with such force that had he not seized it, it might have plunged to the floor and in inchworm fashion walked out of the kitchen. The claws continued to snap lethally.

  “Hey,” Chuck said, grinning at her as he asked the disingenuous question, “how can this ever be?” To the lobster: “Why don’t you lay down and die, old son?” He asked Lydia to fetch him the other one.

  “For God’s sake.”

  “Oh,” said he in a mocking little voice, one hand on a hip, “does Missy think it’s cwoo-el? Worse than boiling alive? Which takes a minute and a half to do the trick, for your information. To experience that for yourself, stick in your pinky for ninety seconds. Next time you eat a ham sandwich, reflect that the pig you’re chewing had his throat cut while his buddies watched and waited for their turn.” He used the knife like a wand. “Are you ever honest about anything? You can’t even admit to yourself that I brought you to a climax at least three times… . Now, get me that other lobster!”

  She could endure this no longer and fled from the kitchen, her strategy in ruins.

  Doug and Audrey had only just reached his room when Lydia appeared. Doug’s regard for her had been highest when they had conspired alone near the hot-water heater. At that time he had been impressed by her ferocity towards Chuck. But in action she had proved disappointing, and now here she was, in distraught retreat and for a silly reason.

  “Oh,” said he when they had heard her complaint, “there’s nothing sinister in that. From the sound of it, he’s probably making Lobster americaine. That’s just galvanic action, you know. They’re dead soon as the spinal cord is cut, however it might look.”

  Lydia sat down on the straightbacked chair near the desk and met her falling face with rising hands. She spoke through her fingers.