The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  In the middle of the third week Mark's vigilance was finally rewarded. When Pat came home that Wednesday night she was tired. The flu season was upon them and the office had been full of coughing, sneezing victims. But one look at Mark's glowing face made her forget her fatigue. He had started dinner, and insisted that she sit down, put her feet up, and sip her sherry like a lady while he finished concocting his specialty-spaghetti. Pat did not argue. It was lovely to relax, with the cat's heavy warmth sprawled across her knees, listening to the cheerful noises from the kitchen-pans clattering, water boiling furiously, and Mark singing at the top of his lungs, stopping only to swear when he dropped or spilled something. He had a perfectly terrible voice. Jerry had been tone deaf, and his son had inherited this trait.

  Pat tickled Albert under his lowest chin. He was a tabby-the best color for a cat, Jerry always said-with a white bib and three white paws. He had come to their door one rainy night and kicked it-at least, that is what Mark claimed. His parents found it hard to believe that a shivering, wretched three-month-old kitten could kick a door that hard, but they agreed solemnly that it was probably coincidental that Mark happened to be at the door at that precise moment. As Albert grew in bulk and dignity, it was not difficult to believe he could kick a door if he felt like doing so. The necessity did not arise. He had his own door and often brought friends to lunch, for he was a gregarious soul, in a perfectly Platonic way. He had been altered at the appropriate age, Jerry commenting that his estimation of his own virility did not rise or fall on the nocturnal habits of a tomcat, for God's sake, and there were already too many stray kittens in the world.

  Albert purred. Pat sipped her sherry. She felt wonderful.

  Mark came in to announce that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. Pat gestured toward a chair.

  "Join me, kind sir. And tell me why you're in such a good mood."

  "I'll have a beer," Mark said. "As for my mood, why shouldn't I be in a good one?"

  "Because it's muggy and warm and your paper for that psych course is overdue."

  "I do hate omniscient mothers."

  "You can do it this weekend, if you work every minute," Pat murmured.

  Mark pulled the ring on the beer can and stopped the overflow with his forearm.

  "Shirt's dirty anyhow," he said cheerfully, anticipating his mother's protest. "You're a sly one, aren't you? How did you know?"

  "Know what?"

  "That I have a heavy date Friday night. With Kathy."

  "You're kidding!" Pat registered appropriate surprise and admiration.

  "Nope. The old Robbins magic did the job. I met her at the gate this afternoon…" Mark hesitated. Pat kept her face straight with an effort. She knew Mark was wondering whether to admit that he had lurked in the yard all afternoon, as he had for days. He decided not to admit it. "I just happened to be there when they got home," he went on casually. "They were early today. Teachers' meeting, or something. Anyhow, he went on in the house, and she sort of hung around, and I asked her, and she said yes."

  "That's wonderful. Every boy-I mean, young man -on the street has tried to date that girl."

  For a moment Mark looked as smug as Albert.

  "I know. I won five bucks from Rick."

  "Mark! You didn't!"

  "Bet? Sure. Why not? Let's eat. I think the spaghetti's done."

  They had barely sat down when the telephone rang.

  "I'll get it, it's probably for me," Mark said.

  It usually was for him. Pat went on eating. She heard him say, "Hello," and then, "Well! Hi, there." The tone of the second greeting made her look up. By then Mark had disappeared with the phone. It was on a long cord, and Mark carried it with him into the hall or, when even greater privacy was required, into a closet. This call was of the latter variety. Pat heard the door close and grinned. The caller must be female. Kathy, no doubt. No other girl could arouse quite that degree of enthusiasm just now. Then her smile faded. That the girl should telephone so soon after accepting an invitation from Mark might not be a good sign.

  When Mark reappeared in the doorway she knew her hunch had been correct. He stood for a moment holding the telephone as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. His face was a mask of bewilderment.

  "She can't go out with me."

  "That's too bad. A previous engagement?"

  "No." Anger replaced Mark's initial surprise. He slammed the telephone back onto its wall holder. "I asked how about Saturday night, or Sunday. She finally admitted her dad says she can't go out with me. Ever."

  "Oh, Mark. Did she say why?"

  "She was crying," Mark said. He turned. "I'm going over there."

  "Mark, wait!" But he was gone. The front door slammed.

  Pat stared miserably at the remains of her spaghetti. It was all very well for Nancy to talk about becoming hardened to the troubles of one's children. Pat only wished she could. Her anger against Friedrichs flared, and she fought to control it before Mark returned. She would have to help him overcome his anger, not add to it. She hoped he didn't lose his temper and say, or do, something unforgivable.

  He was back in five minutes. The door slammed again and Mark's footsteps pounded down the hall, making bric-a-brac rattle. He took his seat without speaking; his face was white with rage, his mouth pinched together.

  "Break something," Pat suggested sympathetically. "Those glasses are expendable; dime-store stuff."

  Mark's tight lips relaxed slightly.

  "The guy is sick," he muttered. "I mean, really sick."

  "What did he say?"

  "He answered the door. I bet he never lets her do it. She might meet somebody who could contaminate her." For the first time Mark appeared to see his mother's worried look. His eyes lost their flinty glare. "Hey," he said. "Relax, will you? The Robbins honor is untarnished. I did not punch the old devil in the nose. I didn't even say anything rude. All I said was I thought a condemned man had a right to defend himself."

  "Cute," Pat admitted. "The legal touch. What did he say?"

  "He stood right there in the doorway and told me what he had against me. Honest to God, Mom, you never heard such garbage. The guy is a hundred years out of date. He should be living in 1880."

  "What did he say?"

  "Well." Mark abandoned any pretense of eating. He pushed his chair back and pondered briefly. "As near as I can remember, he said he didn't want his daughter going out with a guy who drove too fast, drank too much beer, played rock and roll too loud, didn't mow the lawn or help around the house, stayed out till all hours instead of studying, and was too stupid or too lazy to get admitted to a decent college. There may have been a couple of other things, but I forget them."

  "Of all the unreasonable, unfair…" Pat's voice rose. She counted to ten and tried again. "How does he know all that?"

  Mark began to laugh. His temper was quick to explode and as quick to cool off. He reached out a long arm and patted his mother on the shoulder.

  "Thanks a lot, Mom."

  "I didn't mean that. I meant-"

  "I know. He must have been watching us all this time. The grass did get pretty long last week. And you had to go and mow the front, where everybody could see you… Okay, okay, I know I should have done it before you had to. And a couple of the guys did leave some beer cans along the driveway one night. And that warm night when the windows were open I guess I did have my hi-fi turned up pretty loud…"

  Pat said nothing. She was shocked at the intensity of her rage. Hearing Mark recounting his little sins, with that compulsive, touching fairness of his, she was thinking of the crudest accusation of all and resenting it even more bitterly than she had resented Friedrichs' sneer at her. Mark had had his choice of several excellent colleges. He had turned them all down when his father died, in order to stay with her. She pushed her chair back from the table.

  "I'm going over there and tell that-"

  "Mom!" Mark grabbed her and hugged her till her breath came out in a gasp. "Cool it," Mark said.
"What a termagant you are! I can defend myself, you know. I'd look like a damned fool if my mommy went running over there to scold the mean man for hurting my little feelings." His voice changed. "Seriously, Mom, I appreciate it. But it wouldn't do any good. He'd just be rude to you. The man is neurotic. He's going to ruin that chick's life, but it's not your problem."

  "You're right," Pat said. She put her arms around Mark and hugged him back. "I'm sorry for the girl, but there's nothing we can do about it."

  All the same, she spent the rest of the evening thinking about what Friedrichs had said, and inventing horrible fates for him. Not until she was in bed and almost asleep did she isolate the odd feeling of uneasiness that had plagued her since dinner. "It's not your problem," Mark had said. Just a casual pronoun-only somehow she suspected its choice had not been casual at all.

  II

  A few days later she decided she had let her imagination run away with her. Mark had apparently accepted the situation with perfect equanimity. He was eating, and drinking beer-and, his mother admitted to herself, playing his hi-fi too loud and perhaps driving just a little too fast-just as he had done before Kathy entered his life.

  Friedrichs' unjust criticisms continued to haunt Pat, though she knew she should dismiss them with the lofty contempt they deserved. Any man who would judge a boy by the college he attended had to be the worst kind of snob. The slap in the face-or rather, the plural slaps- irked her all the more because she had hoped so much for congenial neighbors. The two old houses at the end of Magnolia Drive were isolated not only in space but in character from the new houses on the block. It would have been so nice to have Halcyon House occupied by a pleasant woman who shared some of her interests, who would drop in for coffee on Saturday morning or perhaps invite her over for a drink occasionally. Early evening was the worst time. If Mark didn't have basketball practice he had other activities to occupy him, and Pat was often alone at that most melancholy hour of the day, when the body is tired and the mind yearns for communication.

  Of course, she reminded herself, all single women had to come to terms with that problem. In some ways it was easier for women who had never been married. Such a woman was accepted as complete in herself; she had never been one of a partnership. But she knew she was luckier than most, not only because of the nature of her relationship with Jerry, but because Mark had given up a year of his life to help her make the painful transition from two to one.

  As the lilacs opened lavender spears and the azaleas produced clumps of rosy bloom, Pat continued to brood. Like the flowers, she had been dormant for months. Now she was coming to life, jarred by the annoying presence next door. The process was painful, but perhaps it had a certain potential. Pat wondered wryly if the flowers really enjoyed the act of blooming. Maybe the azaleas ached too.

  The problem of what to do about Mark bothered her more and more. Was it too late for him to apply to another college next fall? He had said nothing about it; he seemed quite content with his life, with his friends and girl friends at the junior college, and his undemanding routine. Was he hiding his real feelings or-worse-was he getting into a comfortable rut which would be harder to break as time went on? Pat realized only too well that, beloved as he was, Mark was no substitute for Jerry as a companion. The generation gap was not fiction. She liked Haydn, Mark liked Jimmy Hendricks. To her cars were a means of transportation; to Mark, they were practically a religion.

  Ballet was not one of the interests they shared, and it was to the ballet Pat went on the following Thursday, picking up a friend in Chevy Chase and going on to Kennedy Center, where Barishnikov was appearing in Swan Lake. After the performance she stopped for a cup of coffee with Amy, then drove home through the perfumed spring night in a dazzle of remembered pleasure. The white dogwood trees slipped past the car windows like slim Swan maidens fleeing an enchanter, and the lovely, saccharine music echoed in her ears.

  Friday was not a working day for her, but it was for most of the residents of Magnolia Drive. The street was dark and quiet when she turned off the highway, with only a few squares of lighted windows burning against the dark. The drive curved. Not until she neared its end did she see something that made her foot move instinctively from gas pedal to brake.

  Normally Halcyon House was as dark as the other houses on the street by this time of night. Now lights began to blaze out, one after the other-first the big oriel in the master bedroom, then the windows of the upper hall, then the fanlight over the front door, as if someone were running through the house pressing the light switches as he went.

  Pat glanced at the clock. It was after one a.m. She looked then at her own house. Everything was normal there; Mark had left the porch light on for her, as he always did when she was out late.

  Her car had just had its spring tune-up, courtesy of Mark. The engine purred softly. When the first scream tipped through the night, there was no louder sound to combat it.

  Pat was out of the car before the sound died. In fact, she was through the gate and halfway up the walk before it stopped, as abruptly as if it had been cut off. It was a terrible sound-wordless, but requiring no words-a peremptory demand for help. And the voice had been that of a woman.

  The ground-floor windows of Halcyon House were open to the spring air. No wonder the voice had carried so well. As Pat bounded up the porch steps, taking them two at a time, the scream came again. She threw her weight against the door and was somehow not surprised when the heavy portal yielded.

  III

  The mind works far more quickly than conventional measurements of time can reckon. Pat's mind had already painted a picture of what she expected to see; the reality was so like the vision that she was momentarily paralyzed, as a dreamer would be to find his dream a reality.

  The hallway of Halcyon House, the duplicate of her own, was as wide as a normal room, with the carved walnut balustrade of the stairs rising at the rear. The hardwood floor, dark with age but freshly waxed, re-llected the bulbs of the antique crystal chandelier. On the floor, practically at her feet, was a tableau that might have come out of Popular Detective, or some other sensational sex-and-violence tabloid.

  Kathy's fair hair spilled like shining water across the dark floor. Her thin blue nylon nightgown was twisted around her hips and her slim bare legs thrashed, kicking the floor. Friedrichs knelt beside her, his hands on her shoulders. As the door burst open he looked up. His face was ashen, bleeding from scratches that marred one cheek, and his expression was so distorted that Pat scarcely recognized him. For a moment the hope flashed through her mind that the man attacking the prostrate girl was not that girl's own father, but a stranger, an intruder… But the shock of black hair was Friedrichs', the heavy shoulders and hard, bruising hands…

  Her paralysis could not have lasted more than a second or two. She saw the marks of fingers white against the girl's blotched cheeks, and knew why the scream had been cut off so abruptly. Kathy drew a long, choking breath and again cried out. Her father struck her across the mouth.

  Pat launched herself like a missile, all one hundred and ten pounds of her body, straight at Friedrichs. He wasn't expecting it; he went over backwards, hitting his head with an ugly thud, and Pat gathered the sobbing girl into her arms. Kathy fought her at first. Pat quieted the flailing hands by pressing them against her body, cradling the golden head on her shoulder and talking as she had talked to Mark years ago when he had had a bad nightmare. "It's all right now, it's all gone-no one can hurt you, I'm here, I'll not let it hurt you…" Kathy's body finally relaxed. Her light bones and quivering muscles felt no heavier to Pat than Mark's eight-year-old body had felt, so long ago.

  When the girl's gasps had subsided to low, moaning breaths, Friedrichs sat up. Pat eyed him warily. She was still so shocked and angry it was hard for her to speak, but she knew what tone she must adopt. Very calm, very firm.

  "Just what is going on here?" she demanded.

  "I wish to hell I knew." Friedrichs fingered the back of his head and win
ced. "How did you get-no, never mind that. Is she all right?"

  "No thanks to you if she is." Pat clutched the girl lighter and tried to move away from Friedrichs, no easy task from a squatting position, with a now limp weight encumbering both arms.

  Friedrichs' eyes blazed. He made an instinctive move forward. Seeing Pat's equally instinctive withdrawal, he sat back and took a deep breath. His shirt was crumpled-the sleeves rolled up, the neck open. His thick wavy hair stood out around his face, unkempt and uncombed. One of the deeper scratches on his cheek oozed blood. He needed a shave. He looked like a drunk who had been in a brawl. But when he finally spoke his voice was quiet and controlled.

  "Okay, I know what you're thinking, and in all fairness I can't blame you for leaping to conclusions. The important thing-"

  "Leaping to conclusions!"

  "Just hear me out, please. The important thing is Kathy. She ought to see a doctor immediately. I don't suppose there's a physician in the country who makes house calls, and I'm equally certain that you would scream your head off if I tried to touch her; so perhaps I could impose on you to drive her to the nearest hospital."

  Pat stared at him, openmouthed. Her heart was still thudding so hard that her chest ached, but the cool reason of Friedrichs' speech impressed her against her will. Kathy was a dead weight against her shoulder. She was breathing almost normally now.

  Friedrichs went on, "I'm going to stand up and move back out of the way. If you like, I'll go into the library and you can lock me in. Only-for God's sake, Mrs. Robbins, do something for her right away. If you can't carry her, maybe… maybe your son…"