Stranger in the House

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “Sam,” he called out softly, hoping for the comforting sight of his pet. There were birds chirping in the canopy of trees, which meant Sam was probably not in the immediate vicinity. Paul walked down the steps and circled the house, going out to the back.

  “Sam,” he cried. He surveyed the rolling backyard, the glider, and the large vegetable garden. Out near where the woods started, was a small shed. He crossed the lawn to it and looked inside. Through the gloom he could make out a few rakes and some shovels. He closed the door and peered into the woods that spread out behind the lawn. Sunlight filtered down through the trees, and he could hear the distant hum of an occasional car passing on a highway that was not visible from the yard. He called out for Sam, but there was no movement in the trees.

  After walking along the edge of the woods, he jumped across a small stream that meandered through the property on the other side. Beyond the stream was a long hedge of lilac bushes. Just beyond the edge of the lilac hedge, he saw the top of a huge house. It had a stucco facade and dark-framed windows, with a series of gables and turrets like a castle roof. He stood still for a moment, struck by the fact that it was the biggest house he had ever seen. Then he crouched down and began to scout the length of the hedge, searching for movement in the bottom branches and making his way in the direction of the house.

  As he approached the mansion, his eye was distracted from the search for his cat by a blaze of aquamarine beyond the hedge. He peered through the branches and saw a large rectangular swimming pool shimmering in the sun. A model sailboat with a gleaming wooden hull and white sails billowing floated across the tranquil turquoise surface. The pool was surrounded by a patio furnished with black, wrought-iron chairs and a table.

  Crouched on one knee beside the pool was a well-groomed man dressed in expensive sports clothes. He was controlling the sailboat’s progress with a pocket-sized device in his hand and watching the boat’s graceful movements with obvious relish. He caused the boat to crisscross the aqua surface of the pool; its white sails full and elegant in the light breeze.

  Beside him, at the pool’s edge, stood an elderly man with silver hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, looking uncomfortable in a conservative business suit, with a white shirt and a somber tie. The older man watched the man with the boat anxiously for a few minutes, and then he cleared his throat.

  “I realize,” he said, “that it may be inconvenient for you to see me like this, at home on a Saturday, but this matter seems to me to be of the utmost urgency.”

  “It’s no problem at all,” said the man with the boat, although his rapt attention did not waver from the sailing craft.

  The older man waited for the other man to get up and face him, but after a few moments it became clear that the man by the pool had no intention of doing so. Nervously adjusting his shirt cuffs, the old man began to speak to his host’s back.

  “Mr. Stewart, when I agreed to sell you the Wilcox Company, we made an agreement that you would keep on the president and all our officers. Now yesterday afternoon they all received their notices and were informed that you are bringing in an entirely new staff. I can only assume that there has been some kind of misunderstanding. That’s why I wanted to discuss it with you immediately.”

  “No, there’s been no mistake,” murmured the man by the pool. He directed the boat over to the edge, where he knelt and lovingly adjusted the rigging on the sails. Then he gently pushed the boat off again without looking up.

  The elderly man’s face reddened, and his voice began to shake slightly as he continued. “Mr. Stewart, the Wilcox Company is a family business. My father started it, as you know, and we have always treated our employees as family members. In turn, many of these people have devoted twenty years or more of their lives to our company. They think of it as their home. I explained all that to you before the sale. The only reason I sold the company at all was that my health does not permit me to continue running it. But you assured me that my people’s positions would be safe.”

  Edward Stewart turned finally and looked up at the indignant older man. “Mr. Wilcox, your company is not an especially profitable one. I am in business to make money. You and your officers have not done a very efficient job of making money. I intend to change that.”

  “But you gave me your word,” the old man cried. “You promised me.”

  “Mr. Wilcox,” said Edward Stewart patiently, “I thought it over, and I changed my mind. That is my prerogative. I am now the owner of the Wilcox Company.”

  The old man shook his head and clenched his hands into fists. “If I had known that was what you intended to do, I would never have sold the company to you. It is opposed to everything I have worked for and believed in. I took your word as a gentleman, and you lied to me.”

  Having risen to his feet, Edward Stewart walked around to the other side of the pool, his eyes, brimming with affection, glued to the sailboat. Under his command, the boat tacked back and forth across the gleaming surface of the water. After a moment Edward crouched down again beside the pool and shook his head in admiration. “Isn’t she a beauty?” he said. “I believe this is one of the finest ships I’ve ever made.”

  Wilcox glared at the man by the pool, his eyes burning behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “I did not come here to admire your boats, sir.”

  Edward tore his gaze from the model and looked up at him coolly. “Wilcox,” he said, “these boats are my hobby. I relax by working on them and then watching them sail. They provide me with great satisfaction. I can think of few things more rewarding than seeing one of my ships on the water, responding to my every touch of a button.”

  The old man stiffened, as if he were considering a physical assault. Then his shoulders slumped, and he turned away from Edward’s impassive gaze. He controlled the trembling of his muscles with an effort.

  “You should take up a hobby,” Edward advised him, smiling vaguely. “You’ll have plenty of time now. No more business worries. I heartily recommend models.”

  “I will take you to court, sir,” said Wilcox, focusing a piercing gaze on Edward’s face.

  Edward shrugged. “You’ll find you have great difficulty making a case. A hobby, Mr. Wilcox. A hobby will calm you down.”

  The old man’s eyes were full of fury, but his every muscle seemed to sag. He turned and stalked off through the patio doors and into the house.

  “The maid will see you out,” Edward called after him, but the old man had already disappeared.

  Edward shook his head and then knelt down again beside the pool. He brought the boat about, and when it approached the edge, he lifted it out of the water and began to examine the hull.

  Paul felt himself trembling all over, unaccountably distressed by the scene he had witnessed. The old man’s helpless anger filled him with pity, and he felt revulsion for the way the man with the boat had treated the old guy. Was this the kind of people, he thought, who lived in these big, fancy houses around here? He longed for his old life, the shabby trailer nestled in the hollow where he used to live. Well, he knew for certain, after what he had seen, that he was not going to ask that man if he had seen his cat. After a few minutes had passed and he felt steadier, Paul turned around and began to creep away. He had taken only a few steps when a familiar blur of fur slipped out from under the bushes.

  “Sam!” he exclaimed.

  Edward Stewart’s head jerked up, and the boat slipped from his hands, landing in the pool with a splash. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Sam darted off in the direction of the stream at the sound of Edward’s voice. Paul hesitated, thinking of trying to run away, and then, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, stepped out of the bushes. “I was just looking for my cat, and I saw him in this hedge.”

  The man blanched at the sight of the boy and stared at him without speaking.

  “I was just coming along, looking for my cat,” Paul repeated helplessly.

  The man seemed to relax as Paul spoke, unclenching his f
ists and clearing his throat. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “Some big mucky-muck,” said Paul.

  “Indeed. Well, in future, when you come over here, Paul,” said Edward, looking pleased, “why don’t just announce yourself?”

  For a second Paul was taken aback to hear his name. Then his face fell. “You know me,” he said.

  The man gave him a thin smile. “My wife and I have been neighbors of your family for some years.” Edward looked at him closely. “Since you were a little boy, in fact. Perhaps you remember me.”

  Paul shifted his weight and looked at the ground. “Well, I was young then, when, you know, it happened.”

  “Yes,” said Edward. “Of course.”

  The man began to stare at him again, and Paul had the uneasy feeling that the man was sizing him up, as if he were an escaped criminal. Paul cast about desperately for something to say. His eyes fell on the boat in the pool. “Is that your boat?” he asked.

  “I have a workroom in that windmill over there,” Edward said, gesturing vaguely in the distance. “I’ve made models of some of the world’s greatest sailing vessels.”

  “Oh. Great,” said Paul, nodding miserably.

  The sound of a shrill, angry voice calling his name filled Paul with an unexpected relief. He and Edward both looked in the direction of the house and saw Tracy coming around the side toward the patio.

  Tracy glared at her brother. “Mom’s looking all over for you.”

  “I’m coming. I was just looking for my cat.”

  “I just passed him,” she said.

  “Hello, Tracy,” said Edward.

  “Hello, Mr. Stewart. You’d better get home.” Without another word, she turned and headed back around the house. Paul sighed and started to follow her.

  “I’ll see you later,” said Edward. Paul did not reply.

  Tracy stomped up the porch steps past her mother, who stood clutching the railing.

  “He was at the Stewarts’. He’s coming,” said Tracy as she slammed the screen door on her way into the house.

  Anna closed her eyes briefly, and her tense frame relaxed. “Thanks, Trace,” she said.

  Thomas came through the porch door, dragging his bag of golf clubs. He set them against the railing and began to examine them without looking at Anna.

  Anna watched him for a moment. “I replaced the iron,” she said.

  “So I see,” said Tom coolly. “Did you find Paul?”

  “He was next door. Tracy found him.”

  “Oh,” said Tom. He unzipped the pocket on his golf bag, fished around inside it, and pulled out a couple of loose golf balls. “What was he doing over there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anna, leaning back against the railing and studying him. “When did Edward invite you to play golf?” she asked.

  “Yesterday. On the way home from the station. I forgot to mention it to you.”

  “I doubt Paul knows the first thing about golf,” she said.

  Thomas looked at her. “I’ll teach him,” he said.

  “I hope Edward doesn’t get exasperated with Paul slowing down the game.” Anna shrugged. “He’s not the most patient person…”

  Thomas smiled. “That’s for sure. But he seems very interested in Paul. He said he wanted us to be his guests at the club. Maybe Iris put him up to it.”

  “Probably,” Anna agreed, although she had trouble imagining Edward taking any of Iris’s suggestions. “We’re only going to play nine holes. I thought the boy might enjoy it.”

  Anna nodded. “I’m hoping we can all go to the beach later.”

  Thomas counted the tees in his hand and then put them back into the golf bag. “We can go this afternoon,” he said, “after we get back.”

  Anna smiled at him. “I think it’s great,” she said. “You and Paul doing something together.”

  Tom sighed. “I hope so,” he said.

  “Honey,” she said, “I’m sorry about last night. I meant to come up, but I guess I was so exhausted I fell asleep in the chair.”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “Today is a fresh start,” she said. She gave him a hug, and he returned it, holding on to her for a few moments after she had loosened her grip. She opened the door to the house and was about to go in when she saw Paul coming into the yard. She stopped and watched him as he walked slowly toward the house, murmuring to his pet.

  Suddenly, as he reached the grassy spot where the play yard used to be, he stopped. Anna saw the expression on his face change from one of confusion to a grimace. All at once he dropped the cat, and it landed in a crouch on the ground beside him. Paul clapped his hand to his forehead and kneaded his eyebrow with one hand as the frown on his face tightened to a look of pain.

  “Tom,” Anna whispered, “there’s something wrong with him.” She let go of the porch door, and it shut with a bang. She hesitated for a moment and then rushed past her husband down the porch steps. She pressed her lips together for a moment, and then she called out to Paul.

  “What is it? Are you all right?” The cat looked up at her, but Paul did not meet her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his hand and walking toward her, his eyes on the ground. He brushed past her and entered the house. There was no trace of color in his complexion. She watched him go into the kitchen and greet Tracy, who was seated at the kitchen table. Tracy mumbled in reply.

  Anna clenched her fists and looked back out to where the play yard had once been. The cat sniffed in the grass, carefully traversing the area. It picked its way across the unfamiliar territory, as if suspicious of every stone and weed.

  6

  Dry branches snapped sharply against his bare forearms and flying bugs hovered around Rambo’s face as he worked his way through the dense growth of trees and bushes known to golfers as the rough.

  It had not been difficult to find Hidden Woods Lane when he got off the parkway this morning. He had parked his car in a little dirt road that forked off it and waited. He had seen the boy and his father being picked up by the man in the Cadillac and had trailed them to this golf course. He had climbed over a fence to conceal himself in the trees and overgrown bushes along the fairway. He had already gone six holes through the thickets, following the progress of play. It had made him laugh to himself to see the way the boy lagged behind the two men, clearly disinterested in the game, sweating under the sun in that camouflage vest that he always wore. He could see that the Lange man was trying to be patient with the little heathen, but the boy didn’t pay attention to the instructions, trudging along without a smile, his shoulders slumping. He wondered bitterly if the man was satisfied now to have the stubborn little monster back again. The voices began to speak to Rambo once more, railing at the child’s ingratitude and at his return to the land of silver and gold, where evil was called good. His own lips moved to form the words he heard, and he tried to control the muttering which rose from his throat, threatening to expose his hiding place.

  Thomas picked up a club and whacked his ball far into the distance toward the seventh green.

  Edward shaded his eyes with his hand and watched the ball drop. “You might birdie this hole,” he admitted grudgingly. Thomas turned and handed Paul a club that he had lifted from his bag. They had been trading off shots for the first six holes, Thomas instructing the boy on how to set up a shot and how to swing. Thomas had tried to ignore the boy’s sullen expression and had complimented him frequently on his playing. “Probably want to use this club for this shot. We could be on the green with this one.”

  Paul stared at the iron for a minute and then held it away from him. “I’m getting pretty tired,” he said. “Is it okay if I go back?”

  Thomas replaced the club in his bag, carefully arranging the heads. “Sure. I guess so.” He looked up at their host. “Can he wait at the clubhouse, Edward?”

  Edward Stewart nodded. “Of course,” he replied. “You might want to remove that garment you’re wearing though. Someone will mistake you for a
grounds-keeper.”

  Paul ignored him, and kept his vest on. “Can I go now?”

  “We’re almost done,” said Thomas. “We have only two more holes after this. Are you sure you don’t want to hang in there?”

  “No,” said the boy.

  “Okay, fine.” Thomas watched Paul as he started slowly back toward the clubhouse.

  Rambo thought that he didn’t blame the kid. It seemed a dull game to him. He swatted a bug that was humming around his head and waited impatiently for Edward to shoot.

  Edward addressed the ball in front of him, rocking a little on the sides of his feet, and then drew back his club. Rambo shifted lower to watch, and the bushes crackled. Edward swung a little wildly; the ball spun off in a curve down a hill and into a sand trap. Edward colored slightly and cleared his throat. “Did you hear those bushes rustling?” he asked. He looked around at the bushes as if to excoriate them. Then he walked over to the crest of the hill and looked disapprovingly down at the ball, as if it were a badly behaved child. “I guess I’ll have to chip it out,” he said. “You play on. Don’t want to keep your son waiting.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses and then looked up the fairway where his ball was a tiny speck. “All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you up there.”

  Thomas began to stroll by himself up the fairway.

  Seeing him pass by, Rambo tingled with anticipation. This was his chance. He licked his lips nervously and peered out between the leaves.

  When Thomas was halfway up the fairway, Rambo edged his way over to the sand trap. Edward was treading gingerly into the middle of the sinking surface. Rambo parted the bushes and scurried to the lip of the trap. After looking in every direction, he cleared his throat.

  “Hey, you.”

  Edward stiffened and stuck his chin out, humiliated at being observed in this predicament. He looked around coldly, prepared to wither with his glance whoever was summoning him. He frowned at the unexpected sight of the pale, nervous man in front of him. The man wore a cheap sport shirt, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. He might have been an aging caddie but for the shoddy black shoes on his feet. The man was clearly not someone of importance. Irritated by the interruption, Edward ignored him.