Strangers

by Mort Castle

  Going back to her, he tore off the wrappings. He took out the one ounce, cut glass flacon. “I know you’ll be wild about this,” he said, “Oscar de La Renta. This shit is so classy it’s not perfume, it’s parfum. Cost an arm and a leg.”

  He opened the bottle. He poured the perfume on Beth’s face.

  The rich scent stung his eyes and made him cough.

  Beth did not even blink.

  With a casual toss, he threw the bottle on the carpet.

  “You know something, Beth?” he said. “You’re no fun anymore.”

  — | — | —

  TWENTY

  “RISE AND shine! Up and at ’em!” Michael hit the light switch. “Hey, hey! Things to do and people to see!”

  Only her head showing, Beth lay unmoving beneath a mound of blankets. He had not slept in the same bed with her since Wednesday night. He couldn’t tolerate her sick-crazy smell. He did not mind sleeping on the sofa or in a chair; he no longer required much rest or even food. He was running on frenetic energy, racing through the minutes of the day, knowing that each instant’s passing brought him closer to the new year and Jan Pretre’s implicit promise—The Time of The Strangers.

  Besides, the bedroom belonged to Beth and Michael Louden—to them, not him.

  He shook Beth.

  She groaned. “No. Sleep.”

  He heaved the covers from her, pulled her up to a sitting position. “Company’s coming,” he said. “You want to look and feel your very best for our visitors, I’m sure.”

  Her head lolled to the left. Her mouth was crooked. “Company… What’s today, Michael?”

  “Michael?”

  “Saturday,” he said. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve. Very festive occasion, you know. A time to celebrate. Too bad your mother won’t be with us this year but she’s busy being dead.”

  Michael said, “The Engelkings are bringing the kids back home in an hour or so.”

  Beth swayed from side to side. “No,” she said tonelessly. “Shouldn’t come here… Don’t want them here.”

  “That’s a fine thing for a mother to say!” Michael laughed.

  Late that morning, Laura Engelking had telephoned. Was Beth up to having the children? If so, they’d come by in the afternoon. Oh, certainly the girls could stay with Vern and her, but they missed their parents—Marcy especially, such a sensitive child—and it was the “togetherness” season…

  Why sure, Laura, you’re absolutely right! In fact, he was just about to call you with the same idea and here you went and took the words right out of his mouth! Maybe he’d set the self-timer on the Canon Sure-Shot and tonight they’d all gather around the Christmas tree for a family portrait. Beth might not show up in it, though; he didn’t have the right film to photograph a ghost!

  Michael hauled Beth out of bed. She was unsteady. “You shower and get dressed. Pronto!”

  “Michael?” she said. She unexpectedly smiled. For a split-second, he thought she had regained her senses. Then the smile became what it was meant to be, a lip-quivering helpless pout, and she childishly murmured, “Don’t hurt anyone, okay? Don’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  “Come on!” He sank his fingers into her upper arm and quick-marched her down the hall to the bathroom. She managed to shower on her own. He had to help her get dressed—he chose a blue velour jumper and an ivory blouse—and brush her hair.

  “Just as pretty as can be,” he said, when he had her seated on the living room sofa. Next to her on the end table was the remaining crystal lamp. What if he snatched it up and hurled it to the floor at her feet, smashing it as he had the other?

  No, that wouldn’t affect her. Beth was G-O-N-E. All that electroshock, a bushel basket of tranqs, whatever other mind-scramblers that had been pumped into her, and of course that heavy hit of LSD that he’d given her to first zap her off to la-la land, and voila! A waxwork figure, one that had not yet had the paint applied to its face.

  “Now remember,” he said, wagging his finger, “behave yourself. Don’t say the wrong thing to our guests. We don’t want them to worry. You don’t want me to punish you for being bad.”

  He wondered if he were getting through to her. There was something else that might get the idea across. “The kids are coming home, Beth. It sure would be a shame if something bad happened to them. I’m sure nothing will, if you act right.” Maybe that was still—too subtle. Raising his voice, he added, “You do anything out of line, anything at all, and I’ll break both their necks.”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly. Message received, he decided.

  When the children and Laura and Vern arrived at three o’clock, Beth, hollow-voiced, said “Hello” to everyone. “Hello” and that was it. Then as she was kissed on the cheek by Marcy—“Oh, Mom, I’m so happy you’re home and that we’re all home and everything!”—and Kim, who needed a push, hanging back, obviously confused and shocked by what she saw, hugged and kissed by both Vern and Laura, Michael saw the desperate, begging glance she gave him: Am I being good? Please don’t hurt them!

  He nodded approval. He sat by her on the sofa and sent the kids up to their room to unpack. Laura took a seat and Vern said, “Whoops! Almost forgot!” He didn’t bother to retrieve his coat from the hall closet. He dashed outside and, a moment later, returned with gift-wrapped boxes under both arms.

  “Indeed, good friends, it’s not the thought, it’s the gift that counts!” He cocked his head and smiled broadly. “Hmm, perchance I’ve not got that particular platitude quite right!”

  Michael chuckled and Laura erupted into laughter. You’re going overboard on the hilarity, Laura, Michael thought. She was straining for cheerfulness, but she hadn’t once taken her eyes off Beth.

  “Oh, Vern,” Laura said, “you’re the funniest man in the world. Beth, don’t you think he’s funny?”

  “Yes,” Beth said.

  Michael said, “Vern’s going to need a sense of humor when he sees what we got him.”

  There was another round of laughter—Tis the season to be jolly, Michael thought. The children tromped back down for present opening. In the midst of paper-tearing—There was a suede purse for Marcy, “Uncle Vern and Aunt Laura, it’s so stylish!”—“Did you hear what she said—‘So stylish’”—a cube “weather info” desk radio for Vern—” Now I can learn about the great out of doors while I happily stay indoors!”—Michael caught Laura’s head bobbing, hand waving gesture; it meant, I want to talk to you. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t pick up on it when she repeated it even more broadly.

  “Why don’t you open yours, Beth?” Vern said, and as Beth listlessly worked the ribbon off the package, Michael rose and said, “I’ll put us together a drink. Laura, feel like giving me a hand?”

  As soon as they were in the kitchen, Laura said, “God Almighty, Michael, Beth is…”

  “Don’t you think I know it?” he said. Now that was the heartbroken husband for damned sure! That catch in the throat, the way the words trailed off into an abyss of sorrow. “She’s slipping away from me, from everyone, minute by minute.”

  He turned his back to Laura. His shoulders heaved. He bowed his head and put his face in his hands.

  He congratulated himself for a refined dramatic touch. When Laura placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, he took a step away from her, as though compassion would make him break down completely. He had to maintain control, and that was no lie, because if he didn’t, he might slice Laura Engelking’s goddamned interfering nose off and hand it to her for her charm bracelet!

  He turned back to her, blew air through pursed lips. See what a gutsy trooper he was? Stiff upper lip and no tear in the eye. “I’m hoping that Christmas with all of us will start to bring her around. If not, we’ll have to put her back into the sanitarium. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  “Michael, this has been so hard on you…”

  “Say, there’s one other thing we could try,” he said. “Maybe if we gave her some chicken soup.” What the hell was he doi
ng? Laura was gaping at him like he had fewer marbles rolling around in his skull than Beth did.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Hell, I’m trying to find something to laugh about while the only woman I’ve ever loved…”

  Booming “Whaddaya gotta do to get a drink around here already?” Vern stepped into the kitchen to be silenced by Laura’s snapping eyes. “You,” she said, nodding at him, “have to go down to the bar with Michael and help him—while I go back to the living room and make sure the kids’ ‘Don’t open till Christmas packages’ don’t get opened.”

  At the rec room bar, Michael poured whiskey into a shot glass. He tipped it back, emptying it. “Laura is a pain in the ass,” he said.

  “Fundamentally, I agree,” Vern Engelking said.

  Michael poured himself another drink. “Want one?”

  “Yes,” Vern said. “Relax, I’m sure Laura will assume we’re having a mano a mano discussion.”

  Pouring Vern’s drink, Michael nodded reflectively and said, “Are we?”

  “Somewhat keyed-up, Michael? Tense? A bit anxious?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” Michael said.

  “Don’t be,” Vern said. “The future comes quickly for the cunning and the patient and the strong.”

  Michael said, “Then the future is ours.”

  Vern Engelking raised the shot glass and drained it.

  From the time the Engelkings departed, the day dragged for him. He popped another pill into Beth, hauled her upstairs—“Mom needs her rest now, kids”—and dumped her into bed; she was still dressed. He needed her out of the way. Beth’s continued existence had become a moment-to-moment insult and he did not trust himself to hold back.

  In winter’s early twilight, it started to snow. He gazed out the living room picture window at the big, lazily falling flakes, their airy meandering taunting him with suggestions of timelessness.

  At six o’clock, he had a pizza delivered. Kim bluntly expressed her opinion: “Pizza on Christmas Eve? That sucks.”

  Marcy said, “It’s all right, Daddy. I like pizza anytime.”

  Flip a coin to determine which child he found more loathsome. Hell, the coin would probably stand on edge, and that would be exactly right.

  Maybe pizza on Christmas Eve sucked, but Kim ate like she’d just been rescued after three foodless days on the high seas. She made slurp-chomping noises. She didn’t always remember to close her mouth when she chewed, usually when she chose to say something to him.

  He got up from the table, telling the girls to clean up after they’d finished. He went to his upstairs office and closed the door. He was out of synchronization, as though he were internally moving at seventy-eight revolutions per minute while the Earth sedately rotated at thirty-three.

  He picked up the framed picture on the desk, the one taken at the lake last summer—No, it was the summer before. Time sure does fly when you’re having fun!—the shot of the four of them, the Louden family. He tightly held between his thumb and forefinger, slammed it face down against the corner of the desk. The non-glare glass didn’t shatter; it snapped, and he dropped the photo on the floor.

  There was a knock on the door. “Daddy, it’s Marcy. Can I come in?”

  Sure, Patient Papa always had time for the kids… Shit!

  Hesitantly, Marcy stepped into the office. “Daddy, are you mad at me? Or Kim?”

  “Should I be?”

  “No, I don’t think so, anyway. It’s, well you seem to be mad or something.”

  Slow it down, slow it way, way down! he told himself. For a little while longer, a little while and no more than that, he had to be Michael Louden. And then Michael Louden, that vapid blob who never had truly lived, would be forever dead, killed like the others that The Stranger would claim as his rightful victims.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not mad at you or your sister. There’s a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

  “About Mom, you mean.”

  He nodded.

  “Is Mom ever going to be better, Daddy?”

  “I’m sure she will,” he said. “A few weeks from now, you won’t even know anything was wrong with her.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Marcy said. “I really love Mom.” She gave him a half-smile. “And I really love you, too.”

  “Okay,” he said, and then he flashed his “dear daddy” smile. A little while longer… “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been such a grouchy-bear, snapping-gator, cruddy-crocodile. Let’s have some fun!”

  “What will we do, Daddy?”

  “What every red-blooded, right-thinking, all-American family does for Christmas Eve good times! We’ll”—he gave her an “are you ready for this” wink—“watch television!”

  Marcy giggled. “Sometimes you’re even funnier than Uncle Vern!”

  “Wow! We’ll have a fine old time, you’d better believe it. I’ll even make popcorn. I just hope you kids can handle all this big-time excitement.” He held out his hand. Grinning, Marcy took it.

  He did make popcorn and they did watch television. At ten o’clock the Christmas classic Miracle on 34th Street came on channel 32. By the time Edmund Gwenn revealed that he, the real Santa Claus, always slept with his whiskers outside the blankets, Kim was asleep on the carpet and Marcy lay on her side, her head on the cushioned armrest of the sofa, eyes closed.

  Michael stood up. Another day was about at an end. Then there’d be another—the thump-galumph of little feet down the stairs for the early morning race to open gifts—and a day after that a day… But not so many days now and…

  A new year and at last, at last, at last!

  He tried waking Kim first but all she did was gurgle in unconscious protest. He picked her up. He’d probably have to carry Marcy to bed, too. Once a kid went zonkers, a kid stayed zonked.

  Beth also made the zonked list. He checked on her after he had Kim in bed. He went downstairs. When he stepped into the kitchen, the telephone rang.

  He had it before the ringing ended. “Hello?”

  He heard one word. It was the word. It was Jan Pretre’s voice that said it: “Now!” Then there was the click of disconnection.

  Now! Yes Now! Not New Year’s, with its midnight party-horns blasting and alcohol charged geniality and its televised Times Square celebration with thousands of faceless nothing people goggling and waving as the camera panned them for their instant of celebrity when they could pretend they mattered.

  No, not a week from now, not another day, not another hour. Now! He loved the perfection of it:

  It came upon a midnight clear

  God rest ye, merry gentlemen

  Silent night, holy night

  Peace on Earth, good will toward men

  Yes, Now. Tonight. The world turned upside down!

  His waiting and enduring and falsity were at an end! He peered out the window above the sink. The great feathers of snow gleamed against the night.

  It was so beautiful, so cold. He shivered and felt the flimsy shell that was Michael Louden fall away.

  Goodbye and to hell with you, Mr. Nice Guy Down The Block, Mr. Hello and How’s It Going, Mr. I Always Give To The Heart Fund! The fake and the fraud and the counterfeit—GONE!!!

  He wanted to tear off his clothing, strip himself of these garments worn by Michael Louden, to feel only his flesh and his wondrous freedom, but he could not. Soon he would go into the cold night… The Stranger into the Night of Death.

  But now—NOW—was Death in this house. In Michael Louden’s house…

  The Stranger opened the drawer by the sink and took out the butcher knife. Where to begin? Which one? (NOW this silent night yes this holy night NOW!!!)

  The Stranger knew. Kim Louden—and then the mother, Beth Louden—and then, yes, that for last, Marcy, “Daddy’s girl,” that uncomprehending bleat of “Oh Daddy” as she tried to understand why her father who was not her father had the knife and was killing her!

  The Stranger went upstairs.

  The steps did not
creak.

  “Wake up. It’s time for you to wake up.”

  Beth twisted free of the bonds of thick sleep. She sat up. The overhead light glared.

  He stood at the side of the bed. He gripped the knife in his right hand, holding it hip-high, the point toward the floor.

  “Michael?” she said.

  “No,” he said, “Michael is dead.”

  She thought he sounded patient, almost kindly, as though he were trying to help her see it all clearly. She knew he was not Michael. She said, “There never was a Michael.”

  He did not answer.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” she asked.

  “Soon,” he said. “There’s something I want you to see first. Will you come with me, please?”

  She stepped down the hall with him. She knew she was not dreaming; she no longer dreamed.

  They went into the children’s bedroom. She stood with her back to the dresser at the foot of Kim’s bed. He was at her right.

  The room was lit by the lamp on the night-table between the beds. In the aquarium-cage on the stand by the window, Chopper, the brown and white guinea pig, ran furiously in circles, pinewood chips flying. From the poster above the headboard, ET gazed down at Kim.

  All the blood, she thought. Such a smal child and so much blood “You killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill Marcy.”

  “No, not yet. First you and then the other child.”

  The thoughts streamed through her mind with such speed that they were a single sheet of thought: Kim was dead could not be saved and Marcy lived and would live had to live had to live live live…

  Almost inaudibly, she whispered, “I want to tell you something.”

  He leaned down, a stranger’s face close to hers, striving to hear.

  The scream shot out, a scream of all the hurt and rage that she had buried within her, and as she was screaming she transformed her hand into a weapon—Curved sharp prongs of the garden weeder! Kill the weeds!—and clawed at his left eye. She felt the thin resistance of the membrane of his eyeball, the pressure of the liquid beneath, but he was turning, pulling away, saving his eye as she ripped deep into the flesh of his face, the bloody skin slimy under her nails.