Stranger at the Door

by Gil Meynier

  The water tower and the windmill are farther down on the slope where you can see them from the house and from the shack.

  The windmill is always turning, slowly, with a metallic rustle and a thump.

  And that is where she is.

  Where Stringer brought her in his car, with Mrs. Jard and Mrs. Fred after the inquest and after that other business when Mrs. Jard had to promise that the old lady would be no trouble to anybody.

  For no reason at all, suddenly, Dorry was glad that she was a blonde and that her flesh was pink and rounded, the way it was, because she felt sure that no other flesh could feel warm breezes or the touch of hands or the firm softness of lips the way hers did. Or ever wanted to feel them as much as hers did. She felt sad when she thought of the tenant’s wife who had unhappy eyes and sallow skin on sharp, thin bones, because whatever had happened to her had only served to bend her into a figure of discouragement. She felt sad for all those who cannot find it in their heart to be happy, or who are prevented from being happy. Even if it was a different happiness than hers, there must be some kind of happiness for everyone. Even the tenant’s wife, thin and silent, must want happiness and must feel it when it comes. The two old women in the farmhouse must have known happiness and it was sad to think that it was all gone, that their flesh, now, was so different from hers.

  She remembered looking upon her mother’s flesh and wondering what happiness had been in it, and wanting to hurry up and feel happiness herself before her flesh became like her mother’s.

  There is so little time, so little happiness, she thought.

  And she wondered why it was that she felt sadder at the wasted warmth of living people than at the thought of death.

  The opposite bank of the dry river had been made into a slanted pasture.

  Smell of cattle floated across the river-bed on strands of wind.

  The smell of flowers and warm green plants eddied and swirled around the farm.

  Solitude was not loneliness.

  Dorry saw these things, and felt these things, and she was glad she was the way she was. ‘

  One more piece of mending to do, slowly, and then she would walk over to the main house.

  A hot afternoon. The hours stretch interminably toward an ever-receding sunset. The sun shines, brushing the mountainside with colors that change from hour to hour, modeling peaks and canyons and ridges in restless shadows that crawl toward the horizon, to be dissolved before they ever reach it, to be replaced, later, by darker shadows when the moon rises, orange, and climbing, turns to ice. But night is a long way off.

  The sun hovers, fiery, as the western horizon rolls beneath it, a quarter of a skyful away from darkness. Swift cloud-shadows race down the mountain and across the plain.

  A bird chirps, in a lonesome call, in a flurry of fright. Then, there is silence above the ceaseless, shrill vibration of hidden crickets that rises from the warm ground.

  Cactus, tall and many-limbed, round and squat, fuzzy, naked, stiff and stark, guard with bristling spines the hot moisture of their pulp. A dried blade of twisted grass bends to the weight of a jade-colored bug. A pebble blocks the passage of an ant.

  A spiral of dust rises from a distant patch of the desert floor.

  It wavers and wobbles and climbs.

  Joe sees it as he walks the country road.

  Dorry watches it as she leaves the shack.

  “See?” said Mrs. Jard, holding open the door to the spare room.

  Dorry did not see, at first, then she noticed the curtains, fresh and stiff and flowery.

  The old woman, smiling and eager, wanted to say: See, there is plenty of room.

  “And look,” she said, pointing to the other bedroom and to Mrs. Fred’s bed in the big room, over by the window.

  From where they stood they could see Mrs. Fred, rocking, on the porch.

  “Would you really like to have me stay?” said Dorry.

  “Ah, dearie, it would be wonderful. But maybe you wouldn’t like it here, with two old women.”

  Dorry thought: She didn’t say: Yes. She said: Maybe you wouldn’t like it here...

  She knew that her hesitancy about accepting, and Mrs. Jard’s hesitancy about insisting, had to do with the creaking of the rocker on the porch, that it wouldn’t be mentioned, that perhaps Mrs. Jard wanted to make the offer more than she wanted the offer accepted, that, perhaps, refusing would be a kindness. And Dorry wanted to refuse more than she wanted to accept and it was something that couldn’t be settled by hugging in a sort of farewell hug and saying: You don’t really want me to stay, you are worried about the old woman on the porch and what she might be like and you would rather be alone with her.

  There was a silence. Mrs. Jard felt it should be covered with talk, so she said hurriedly, to mark time:

  “Your friend, in the big car, he’s been very nice.”

  Instantly she was afraid that Dorry would think that she was intruding, and there was a feeling of relief, and she couldn’t stop grinning when Dorry nodded and said:

  “Yes, he’s been very nice.”

  I mustn’t do that, thought Mrs. Jard, and she looked at Dorry, who was still nodding and, to Mrs. Jard, Dorry’s unsmiling face was a little wall.

  Ah, honey, she wanted to say, don’t think about it, just stay, even if we are just a couple of old women. But she couldn’t say it because, the feeling suddenly struck her, it was as if she were trying to build a wall around a person...and it was wrong, wrong as catching birds, wrong as wanting to clip their wings so they could never fly away.

  And she looked at Dorry, who, blonde and warm and rounded in her cotton dress, with the gait of youth and now, again, a smile, was something two old women would want in their house, more than anything. Someone starting to live, as two old women had once started, someone who would give them, even if only in glimpses, the spectacle of life starting all over again. But it was unfair to ask.

  More than anything she wanted Dorry to say, voluntarily, that she would stay.

  They were both smiling as they sat on the sofa in the big room, as if smiles could express what they were not saying. But something had to be done. Dorry said:

  “I...”

  And Mrs. Jard, sitting sideways on the sofa, looking at Dorry with anxious eyes, said:

  “You don’t have to decide now. Maybe you have some other plans...”

  Dorry, who had been going to say that, perhaps, she should find a room closer to her job, said:

  “You’ve been wonderful to me.”

  And she wished she knew what to do and whether it would be all right to reach out and pat the gnarled hands Mrs. Jard held folded in her lap, gnarled hands held in the lap because they wanted to reach out and touch Dorry.

  The linoleum was shining with a new coat of wax. It was warm but airy in the small, simple frame house. They were floating on an ocean of cricket sound. The corner of the sofa was soft and comfortable. Beyond the shade of the porch, the view through the open door was of tall growing shrubs and green, stubby trees against the intense white-blue of the sky and the edges of hurrying clouds.

  The question and the answer still hung between them, but the moment of anxiety and awkwardness had passed, and when they settled more comfortably on the sofa, girl in gay cotton dress, old woman in drab skirt, and faded blouse over her ample bosom, it was as if an intimacy had been established between them and they were curling up in it.

  There were questions Mrs. Jard wanted to ask. She wanted to ask: What is it like? What is it like, today, to be young? What are those things like, that you do, away from old people, old people who wonder what feelings you feel, what thoughts you think?

  Another thing Mrs. Jard had always wondered about was the assurance of young people, how much they seemed to know and the way they made decisions. Was it the same assurance that she, herself, had felt, when she was young, waiting to be sent for? Was it the same knowledge that, slowly, imperceptibly, over the years, had turned into the indecision and the wonde
ring that make old people feel clumsy?

  Old woman, you can see yourself in the firm, clear lines of the youngster at the other end of the sofa—of course, you never had the freedom of a simple cotton dress (and not much else!)—you can see bits of yourself, as you used to be, in a dimple, a bright eye, a movement of the head, but you cannot imagine this new kind of youth turning into what you are today. And you wonder why the world is full of things you do not understand.

  How can you ask questions like that? Instead, you say:

  “He seems like a very nice young man, your friend, with the car.”

  She had a right to say it, without intruding. She had ridden behind him, in that same car. And he hadn’t driven too fast, either.

  Dorry nodded again.

  What could she say about Stringer? Stringer who had made such a good impression, who had seemed to know what to do about moving them from the condemned house, Stringer lying on the grass, listening to her troubles, Stringer, hard, battling a life of his own, Stringer that Mrs. Jard probably would never see again and that she, herself, did not want to see again.

  Walter, the man who was going to build their house, was tender and gentle and shy. That is why she did not want to see Stringer again.

  Nodding, she said:

  “He was a great help.”

  Why is it, thought Dorry, that when you don’t want to tell lies, when you want everything to be simple and straight, there are always times, like these, when you are forced to be evasive, times when you can say only part of what is on your mind because you are trying to say only what you think the other person wants to hear? Why is it that so much must be held inside, even if it is warm and tender, and has to be made into the beginning of a lie? Because Walter—she can see him, sandy-haired, gentle and clumsy—because Walter would be restless and shy with a man like Stringer, she wants no Stringer around when Walter comes for her. So Stringer has to be held inside, in her mind, apart from everything else, the beginning of lying to Walter. And the Stringer Mrs. Jard wants to talk about, a different Stringer than the one she wants to keep separate from Walter, well, it’s better not to talk about him. And, in a way, saying; “He was a great help,” and nothing more, is a sort of lie, because what you mean is: In his own way he helped me, and what you are saying is: He was a great, impersonal help to everybody. Hiding, keeping inside, evading, is making you feel feelings you don’t want to feel. It would be better if you went away again. And you get a horrible feeling at the thought of going away again. That’s not what you want. Somehow, thoughts put themselves together and made you think you should go away, and you don’t quite know how the thoughts meshed together to get you to that point. Again you have the feeling that thoughts, in a way you don’t understand, are pushing you into something you don’t want. And you are afraid of lies, and what they do to you, and you never want to feel again the way you felt when you were running away.

  And you look at the old woman who is sitting on the sofa with you, smiling at you, and you feel that there is no reason to run away, and something, like a wave, makes your whole body want to reach out. And you reach out and pat the gnarled hands, and they unfold and hold your hands and rub them, just in time to keep you from wanting to cry over the fact that life is not so simple as the noise of the crickets, the warmth of the sun, the flight of birds.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Jard’s hands, still and tense, held hard onto Dorry’s.

  The creaking of the rocker on the porch had stopped.

  They heard footsteps on the gravel below the porch and a voice, a familiar voice, clear, through the open windows and the thin walls, said:

  “Hello, Mother. Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  When they stood at the door Joe sneered at them and said:

  “Hi, babes.”

  Hands in his pockets, he sat on the steps. Nodding toward the silent old woman in the rocking chair, he said:

  “What’s the matter with...her?”

  Placing her bulk in front of Dorry, Mrs. Jard opened the screened door. Her lips were pinched as she looked at Joe, who, head back against the pillar, was laughing silently, and her voice was harsh and trembling when she said:

  “What do you want?”

  Joe stopped laughing, which he knew he was not doing very well yet, looked at the woman in the doorway, tightened his lips over the tip of his tongue and, with an insolent sound, pretended to expel a non-existent shred of tobacco from his mouth.

  “We don’t want you here,” said Mrs. Jard.

  Taking his time, Joe ran his tongue around his mouth, sucking his teeth. Then he nodded toward the old woman in the rocking chair.

  “She wants me here. Don’t you, Mother?”

  “What is it you want, Joe?” said Dorry. She came out on the porch and sat at the other end of the step.

  “Don’t talk to him,” said Mrs. Jard.

  “He just came calling,” said Dorry.

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “Nice place you got here.”

  “No place for you, then,” said Mrs. Jard, and, standing at the head of the steps, hiding Mrs. Fred from Joe’s sight, Dorry sitting at her feet, she trembled and prepared to do battle in terse, cutting terms. Then she remembered how Joe had made her cry, how helpless she felt when she was crying and how she couldn’t find words to say, and she was glad that Dorry, now, was speaking.

  Dorry was saying:

  “Mrs. Fred isn’t ready for visitors, Joe. But it was nice of you to come.”

  Dorry wondered if this would be enough to turn Joe around, nicely, and make him go away.

  “Yeah?” said Joe. “As I was saying, you’ve got it pretty nice out here. Kind of hot, though. Why don’t you ask me in?”

  He looked at Dorry’s legs, at the folds of the dress on her lap, and, further up, at the roundness, the roundnesses he had been thinking about. Then he looked up quickly at Mrs. Jard. He had the silly idea that if he made a face at her she would disappear.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Aren’t you glad to see me?” No, said Mrs. Jard. But she did not say it out loud.

  “We’re glad to see you,” said Dorry, “but we’re just getting settled...”

  “Tell him to go away,” said Mrs. Jard.

  “He will,” said Dorry.

  “Doesn’t like me, does she?” said Joe. “Not like you.”

  “I like you, Joe,” said Dorry, and she didn’t think this was a very important kind of lie.

  “Only there’s somebody around you like better, is that it?” “Tell him it’s none of his business,” said Mrs. Jard.

  “She used to like me,” Joe insisted, looking at Mrs. Jard. “Well, she doesn’t like you now,” said Mrs. Jard. “This is my house and I want you to go away.”

  Joe brought his hands out of his pockets and lit a cigarette. He flicked the match into the driveway.

  “Just when I was thinking what a nice place you have. How many rooms you got?”

  When no one answered him, he added:

  “Always room for one more, isn’t there?”

  He looked at his cigarette and blew smoke across it.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t stay unless I was asked. Why don’t you ask me to stay, Dorry? You and I get along swell together. Remember?”

  This was fun, but it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Now Dorry had pinched her lips and looked as if she were getting set to hit him. What business did she have getting sore? He knew that if he were really smart...he knew that some guy, smarter than he was, could have nailed her a long time ago, with what he had on her.

  Pushing women around was not even fun any more when he realized that he was not doing it right. He wanted to say: Look, let’s cut out the clowning. I’ve got to have a place to stay. He wanted to say to Dorry: Look, I want to finish showing you that mountain...He wanted them to say, sweet and kind, everybody happy: Look, Joe, why don’t you stay here with us? If they said something like that, he thought, I could be nice, and we’d get along, and it would be different from all that other s
tuff.

  But what Mrs. Jard was saying, straining toward Joe, trying to push Dorry’s arms away from her, was:

  “If you don’t go this minute, I’ll send for the police. You’re trespassing and I don’t want you here. You’re not going to annoy anybody in my house.”

  “Who’s annoying anybody?” said Joe. He shrugged his shoulders but he didn’t like the mention of the police.

  He was glad when Dorry led the old woman toward the door and he heard the screen bang shut and he and Dorry were alone on the porch. Mrs. Fred was no longer sitting in the rocker and was nowhere in sight. He worried for a moment at the idea that Mrs. Jard might actually call the police, then he remembered looking up and seeing that there was no telephone line going to the house from the tall pole on the road.

  “Why don’t you sit down for a while?” he asked. He said it nicely, not tough.

  Dorry said:

  “Well...okay.”

  She sat on the step and looked at him, unsmiling. Because she was looking at him he could not look at her legs, or her lap, the way he would have liked to look. But it was nice to have her on the step, near.

  “Everybody’s against me,” he said.

  As he said it he thought: That always softens them up. And he held his head in his hands so that she wouldn’t see his eyes or the corner of his mouth. Next thing was for her to say: I’m not against you. Then he’d say: Well, come on, move over, what are we waiting for?

  But she said:

  “Nobody’s against you, Joe.”

  And he could tell that she was taking it seriously.

  “Oh, yes, they are,” he said, and he wondered if this would lead him anywhere. “Everybody’s picking on me.”

  Maybe this was as good a line as any to follow: Fellow discouraged, everybody against him, girl encourages him and cheers him up, she stands by him. Why not?

  “I try to be nice to everybody,” he said. This, certainly, was leading back to that time on the mountain.

  He looked at Dorry but she didn’t seem to be thinking about the same thing. The way she acted you’d think she had never kissed him or been nice to him. He was the one who had a right to be sore.