Cry for the Strangers

by John Saul

  “They left in a hurry, didn’t they?” Brad asked.

  “Like I told you, skipped right out on me,” Whalen said. Then, before Brad could comment further, he began telling them about the house.

  “That’s a double fireplace over there. The other side opens in the kitchen, and between the two of them the downstairs stays pretty warm. There’s a bedroom through that door that I suppose you’d want to use, unless you’ve got kids. If you do, I’d put them in there, just in case of fire. It’s a lot easier to get out of the first floor than the second.”

  “We don’t have children,” Elaine said, and stuck her head in the bedroom. It was a large room, facing the beach, and one wall was partly brick. She heard Whalen behind her explaining.

  “The brick’s part of the fireplace. The whole house is built around the fireplaces. You’d be surprised how much heat comes through those bricks, especially if you keep fires going in both rooms. Don’t know why they don’t build houses like that anymore—with all the talk about energy, you’d think they’d want to. But no, they build them with the fireplaces on an outside wall, and you can kiss the heat good-bye.

  “If you go through there,” he went on, “there’s the bathroom—that opens into the kitchen as well. It’s not so convenient for guests, but for whoever’s living here it works just fine.”

  Elaine followed his directions and found herself in a small and incredibly grimy bathroom. She went through it and into the kitchen, where she stared at the forbiddingly large and ungainly wood stove. It seemed to challenge her, and she glared at it, silently telling the stove that come what may, she would learn to make it behave. But she wasn’t too sure.

  The kitchen was as filthy as the bathroom. The pots and pans used for the preparation of what had apparently been the last tenants’ final meal were still stacked unwashed in the sink. Elaine swallowed hard, wondering if she would be expected to clean up the mess in the event they rented the place, and pushed on into the dining room.

  The table was set, and at each place there was the remains of a half-eaten meal. The food had long since decayed, but from the looks of things it was an abandoned dinner. In the center of the table an ancient glass kerosene lamp stood, and Elaine could see that it was empty: whoever had lived here must have gotten up in the middle of dinner and left without even putting the lamp out. The lamp—God knew how much later—had simply burned itself out.

  She was about to ask Whalen what had happened—why his tenants had “skipped out” in the middle of dinner—when she became aware that Brad was already talking to the police chief.

  “How much would you want if you were to sell the place?” he was asking. Elaine felt her stomach sink again, and was relieved to hear Whalen’s reply.

  “It’s not for sale,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument “It was a mistake when my grandfather sold the land in the first place. I won’t repeat that mistake.”

  “You’re going to pass it on to your children?”

  “I never married,” Harney replied. “Got lots of family, though. Most of the town is related to me one way or another. I wouldn’t be surprised if my deputy wound up with this place—he’s some kind of nephew.”

  “Well, let’s talk about a lease, then,” Brad said.

  “Why don’t we look at the upstairs?” Elaine interrupted.

  Whalen shrugged and pointed the way toward the staircase that separated the living room from the dining room. He stayed downstairs as Brad followed Elaine to the second floor.

  As soon as they were alone Elaine turned to her husband. “My God, Brad, it’s a mess,” she began.

  Brad laughed “Of course it’s a mess, and I’ll bet we can get it cheap. But picture it cleaned up. It’s sound as a dollar and the location is perfect Peace, quiet, and an unbeatable view. All it needs is a coat of paint on the inside and it’ll be wonderful.”

  “But there’s no electricity,” Elaine protested.

  “Well, you’ve always said you longed for the simple life,” Brad teased.

  Elaine wasn’t amused “Not this simple,” she said, frowning. Then, at the look of deep disappointment on her husband’s face, she relented “Brad, it’ll be so much work, you won’t get anything done on your book for weeks!”

  “I can think while I paint,” Brad said “It won’t be like Seattle, where I have to keep my mind on my work every minute. And chopping wood is good exercise. I could stand to lose a few pounds.” He patted his flat firm stomach with the confidence of a man who hadn’t gained an ounce in ten years.

  “If I have to cook on that stove, you’ll lose more than a few pounds.”

  “You can learn,” Brad said, and there was a pleading tone to his voice that Elaine had rarely heard in the twelve years of their marriage.

  “You really want it, don’t you?” she asked quietly, looking deep into his eyes.

  He nodded. “I love it,” he said. “I don’t know exactly why, but I have a feeling about it It’s as though the whole place is calling out to me. Elaine, if I’m going to be able to write that book at all, I’m going to do it here.”

  She gave in, as she always did. If Brad wanted it that badly, she would learn to live with it “All right,” she said, smiling with a confidence she didn’t feel. “We might as well have a look around up here and see how bad it is.”

  “You mean it?” Brad asked eagerly. And seeing the look on his face, Elaine realized that she did mean it Her smile turned genuine.

  “Come on, Randall, let’s see how much work it’s going to take to make this place livable.”

  Harney Whalen was not waiting for them downstairs.

  They found him on the beach in front of the house, his eyes fixed on the horizon. When they followed his gaze Brad and Elaine saw nothing but the sea and the sky, meeting darkly in a low bank of fog that seemed to be hanging barely within their vision.

  “Mr. Whalen?” Brad said softly. There was no response from the police chief. “Mr. Whalen?” Brad repeated, louder this time. Whalen swung slowly around to look at them, his hands clenched into fists, the knuckles white with apparent strain.

  “Are you all right?” Elaine asked. Whalen nodded curtly.

  “We want the house,” Brad said.

  “No, you don’t And it doesn’t matter anyhow, ‘cause I won’t sell it.”

  There was an intensity in his voice that Elaine found disturbing. But Brad ignored it. “We want to lease it,” he said.

  Whalen seemed to turn the matter over in his mind, then slowly unclenched his fist and put a hand inside his jacket.

  “This is the lease. Take it or leave it.”

  Brad glanced at the lease, noting the rent—two hundred dollars a month—and ignoring most of the body of the agreement. It was a standard form, already filled out. Elaine handed him a pen and he quickly signed both copies, returning one to Whalen, keeping the other. Whalen took the signed lease disinterestedly, replaced it in his inner pocket, then suddenly pointed north. “See that cabin up there? Almost hidden in the trees? Those are your nearest neighbors. The Palmers.” He stared at the distant cabin for a long time, then turned back to the Randalls. “The Palmers are strangers here too,” he said darkly. Then he stalked off toward the woods.

  Brad and Elaine watched him go, then started back south toward the Harbor and the inn.

  “You know something?” Brad said after a long silence. “I’m not sure he even knows we leased the place. It was like he was in some kind of a trance.”

  Elaine nodded thoughtfully. “That was the impression I got too. Well, it’s too late now. He signed it The place is ours.”

  She turned back for a final look at the old house. For an instant she thought she saw something at the window—a face, but not really a face. More like a shadow.

  She decided she was imagining things.

  9

  The dining room of the Harbor Inn was quiet that evening; Brad and Elaine Randall dined in isolation. The same small card sat on their table that had
been there the previous evening, but there seemed to be no reason for its presence—only one other table was filled. The rest, set and waiting, remained deserted. A few people sat at the bar, but their conversation was minimal, and what there was, was whispered in low tones impossible to overhear.

  “If you stretch your ear any further, you’ll fall off your chair,” Elaine finally said. Neither of them had spoken for minutes. It was as though the Randalls had almost unconsciously matched the silence that shrouded the room. Now her words seemed to bounce off the walls, and Elaine glanced around to see if anyone had overheard her. Apparently no one had—the other table of diners appeared to be engrossed in their steamed crab, the drinkers continued to stare morosely into their glasses.

  “I can’t figure it out,” Brad said as he surveyed the quiet room. “I’d have expected the place to be full tonight, alive with people gossiping about—what was her name?”

  “Miriam Shelling,” Elaine supplied.

  “Mrs. Shelling, yes. But from what little I’ve been able to hear, no one seems the least bit interested in her or what happened to her.”

  Just then Merle Glind bustled up to them, recommending the blueberry pie for dessert. Brad declined, but while Elaine struggled with herself, torn between her weight and her desires, he decided to pump the little hotel proprietor.

  “Kind of quiet in here tonight, isn’t it?”

  Glind’s head moved spasmodically and he took a quick inventory of the room, his expression testifying to a sudden fear that something must have gone wrong. When nothing looked amiss he turned back to Brad.

  “About the same as usual,” he said nervously. “About the same as usual.”

  “I’d have thought you’d have a good crowd tonight, all things considered,” Brad ventured carefully.

  “All things considered?” the little man repeated. “All what things?”

  “Well, it just seems to me that people would be wanting to talk tonight.”

  “What about?” Glind asked blankly.

  “Mrs. Shelling?” Brad suggested. “I mean, isn’t it a little unusual to have a woman commit suicide here?”

  “Why, I don’t know,” Glind said vaguely, appearing to turn the matter over in his mind. “But now that you mention it, I suppose it is.” There was a long pause, then Glind spoke again. “Not that it’s any of our concern, of course.”

  Elaine frowned slightly and gazed at the strange man. “I should think it would be everyone’s concern,” she said softly. “I always thought that in towns like this everyone looked after everyone else.”

  “We do,” Glind replied. “But the Shellings weren’t really part of the town.”

  “I thought they lived here.” Brad’s voice was flat, as if he were merely prompting a statement he knew was inevitable.

  “Oh, they lived here, but they were newcomers. They didn’t really belong.”

  “Newcomers? How long had they lived here?”

  Glind shrugged as if it was of no consequence. “Fifteen, twenty years. Not long.” The Randalls gazed at each other across the table, silently exchanging a thought. How long does it take? How long, before you’re a part of Clark’s Harbor? Their unspoken exchange was broken by Merle Glind’s forced cheer.

  “What about that pie? I guarantee it myself!”

  Elaine jumped a little, as if she had been lost somewhere, and without thinking she accepted Glind’s offer. He scurried away. When they were alone Brad and Elaine smiled weakly at each other.

  “Fifteen or twenty years,” Elaine said wryly. “Somehow I’d been thinking in terms of a couple of lonely months and then the Welcome Wagon suddenly appearing.”

  “Look at it this way: what would you have in common with most of these people anyway? We’ve always been pretty self-sufficient—”

  “Pretty self-sufficient is one thing,” Elaine interrupted. “Being pariahs is absolutely another.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Brad reassured her as the pie arrived. “Somewhere in Clark’s Harbor there’s got to be someone who’ll welcome us. It’s just a matter of finding them.”

  Elaine bit into the pie and was pleased to find that it met her expectations. Then a thought hit her. “The Palmers!” she exclaimed.

  Brad understood at once. “Of course,” he said, smiling. Then he dropped his voice a little in a surprisingly good imitation of Harney Whalen’s morbid bass tones. “They’re strangers here, you know!”

  Elaine laughed and eagerly finished her pie.

  “It doesn’t concern us!” Glen Palmer said for the fourth time. He tried to smile, but the hollow, sunken look in his wife’s eyes frightened him.

  “How can you say that?” Rebecca shot back. “She was found on our land, Glen.” When he didn’t respond she pressed harder. “That clearing is on our property, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Glen admitted reluctantly. “But it still doesn’t concern us.”

  “What about the children? Suppose they’d been the ones to find her, Glen. Just suppose that on their way to school Robby and Missy had decided to cut through the woods and found her?”

  She could see that her point was being lost on her husband and she searched desperately for a way to make him understand.

  “You can’t imagine what it was like,” she went on limply. “You just can’t imagine it.” She was about to describe the grisly scene for him once more when she heard the children coming in.

  “What what was like?” Robby demanded. Rebecca stretched her arms out to her son but Robby backed away and moved to his father’s side. His child’s mind knew something was wrong between his parents, and he was instinctively drawn to his father. “You mean Mrs. Shelling?” he guessed.

  “How did you know about her?” Rebecca gasped.

  Robby’s face broke into a grin. “Jimmy Phipps went home for lunch and his mother told him all about it. Did you really see her?”

  For a split second Rebecca considered denying it But she and Glen had always been truthful with their children. Now, though it might cause her pain—indeed, it was sure to—she felt she had to discuss what had happened with Robby. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I did.”

  Robby’s eyes widened. “Did she really crap her pants?” he demanded. Rebecca winced, but Glen had to suppress a grin.

  “It’s something that happens to people when they die, dear,” Rebecca said gently.

  “What did she look like? Jimmy Phipps said her face was all blue and her tongue was hanging out.”

  Rebecca, remembering, had to fight to control a contracting stomach. “It doesn’t matter what she looked like, Robby,” she said almost desperately.

  Robby’s mind worked at the problem, trying to decipher why the appearance of the body didn’t matter. It had certainly mattered to Jimmy Phipps. He turned to his father, as if the problem was one only a man could solve.

  “What happened to her?” he asked gravely.

  “She was very unhappy, Robby, and she just decided she didn’t want to live anymore. Can you understand that?”

  Robby nodded gravely. “I feel like that sometimes, but then the storms come and I feel better.”

  “Oh, Robby,” Rebecca cried. She knelt by her son and drew him closer to her. “You mustn’t ever feel that way. Not ever! Why, what would we do without you?”

  A small frown knit Robby’s brow and he disentangled himself from his mother. “It hardly ever happens,” he said impatiently, “And anyway, it isn’t such a bad feeling. In a way it’s kind of exciting” Then, before his parents could pursue the subject any further, he posed another question. “Did Mrs. Shelling do a bad thing? I mean, if she didn’t want to live anymore, why should she have to?”

  Rebecca and Glen exchanged a glance, and Glen knew it was going to be left up to him to answer his son’s question.

  “It just isn’t the best thing to do,” he said carefully. “If you have a problem, it’s much better to try to find a way to solve it. Dying doesn’t do any good at a
ll, for anyone.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy the boy. He shrugged, then gazed up at his father. “Can I go look for Snooker?”

  “No!” Rebecca snapped without thinking. Suddenly the idea of her son out on the beach, the beach on which Miriam Shelling had spent her last hours, terrified her. “It’s too late,” she said hurriedly, trying to take the sting out of her words as Robby recoiled. “You should both be in bed.”

  “I’ll go out in a little while and have a look,” Glen promised his son. But for the first time since they had come in Missy spoke.

  “You won’t find him,” she said. “He’s gone and we aren’t ever going to see him again.”

  “You keep saying that,” Robby said. “But you don’t know.”

  “I do too know,” Missy shot back, her voice rising.

  Rebecca almost intervened, but suddenly a quarrel between her children seemed a welcome respite from the strain she had been feeling all day. “Why don’t you two take your fight into the bedroom?” she suggested.

  The children stared at their mother, shocked into silence by her failure to try to mediate between them. A moment later, warming to their argument, they tumbled off to the tiny bedroom.

  As soon as they were gone Rebecca turned to Glen, “And I don’t want you going out there either,” she said.

  “I don’t see that there’s much choice now,” Glen said with a shrug. “I already promised Robby and I can’t realty back out of it. Besides, we’ve been walking on the beach at night for months. You know as well as I do that it’s perfectly safe.”

  “That was before last night,” Rebecca said, shuddering. “It’s all different now.”

  “It is not different, Rebecca,” Glen said, placing his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Miriam Shellings problems had nothing to do with us, and it has nothing to do with us that she killed herself out here.” He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Well, at least now we know what she was waiting for.” He began putting on his coat.