People Who Knock on the Door

by Patricia Highsmith

“Ten and a half. I was thinking of something—for dress,” Gus said a bit diffidently.

  “Wedding? Funeral maybe? Try this section, the ones on the floor. See you in a minute, Gus.”

  A man with two small children was waiting for service.

  A few minutes later, Arthur found just the kind of shoes that Gus had had in mind, shiny black leather that kept its shine but was not exactly patent leather and didn’t crack either, and with a buckle at the side.

  “Wow, are these comfortable!” Gus said. “They don’t look so comfortable but they feel like house-shoes. How much?”

  “Eight ninety-five.”

  “It’s a deal.” Gus was admiring himself in the full-length mirror. “Snazzy,” he commented. Gus wore a limp white shirt, black cotton trousers and a leather belt that looked like a hand- me-down from a grandfather. He put his old shoes back on and gave Arthur a five-dollar bill and some singles. “Coming to the barbecue tonight?”

  “Whose barbecue?”

  “Nobody’s. Big collective thing at Delmar Lake. We’re all supposed to bring something like a sack of beers or franks and the entrance is one dollar. Goes to the summer recreation center at Chalmerston High. They’re trying to keep it open, you know, with a cut budget.”

  Arthur wasn’t interested in the Chalmerston High recreation center. “Sounds boring. Doubt if I’ll go, but thanks for telling me.”

  Gus was standing by the cash register. “What’re you doing tomorrow? I’ve got the day sort of free.”

  Arthur handed him the paper bag with his new shoes. “I’m over at Mrs. DeWitt’s doing yard work. Starting around ten tomorrow morning. Didn’t I tell you I was working there lately? Gets me out of church Sunday mornings.” Arthur smiled.

  “Maybe I’ll cruise over and see you. Round eleven?”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Got to fix somebody’s busted dishwasher starting nine-thirty, ten. If I get it fixed—” He waved a hand and departed.

  To Arthur’s surprise, Robbie was going to the Delmar Lake barbecue that evening, and was to be picked up by his fishing pal Jeff at 7. At 6:30, Robbie was in the living room in a new red-and-white-checked shirt and new blue jeans—genuine Levi’s, standing out now like Dutchman’s-breeches—presents from Grandma, Robbie said. With his new deep voice, Robbie was at last ready to crash the teenage social set, Arthur supposed.

  “You’re not going?” asked Robbie.

  “Nope.—Have a good time, Robbie,” Arthur said.

  Robbie was duly called for at 7, and went striding down the front walk toward the waiting car. In the new Levi’s, he reminded Arthur of a bird, maybe a swallow walking on a split tail.

  “Robbie’s so pleased—going out tonight. Did you notice, Mama?” asked Lois.

  “Of course I did.—It’ll be good for him.”

  Arthur’s mother and grandmother were in the kitchen, his father, too, drinking what looked like Tom Collinses. Arthur made himself a gin and tonic. It seemed to Arthur that his father deliberately avoided talking to him or even looking at him, though he was smiling a lot this evening. His grandmother had persuaded his father to play golf with her tomorrow afternoon. Arthur said he would be working, when his grandmother had asked if he could join them, and Lois begged off because she wanted to check the curtain measurements again.

  “If I measure them all again when I’m alone, I can be sure I didn’t make any mistakes. Or if I do make a mistake, then it’s my fault entirely.”

  “Where’re you working tomorrow, Arthur?” asked his grandmother.

  “Same old place. Mrs. DeWitt’s cathouse.”

  “Arthur, do you have to use that expression?” said his mother, but she was smiling a little.

  “Your grandmother’s coming to church,” his father said. “Why don’t you come along? Work in the afternoon.”

  “No, it’s ten o’clock again at Mrs. DeWitt’s and she’s pretty fussy,” Arthur said as if it were a pity.

  That evening, Arthur read a book he had borrowed from the public library on deep sea exploration. It had a section of color photographs, some of phosphorescent animalcules which had always fascinated Arthur. A group of scientists had dived in something like a glass submarine off the Galapagos Islands and discovered geysers of unusually warm water at great depth. The warmth of the water had enabled huge worms and foot-wide red clams to live down there, all of the life forms having adapted themselves to the terrific pressure, so that now they never came even halfway to the surface. Arthur wondered if he would ever make it to a ship like the one the book described, to be one of a team of scientists diving in glass bells to look at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean? The deep sea book was the only thing that kept his thoughts from Maggie that evening. Usually he loved daydreaming about her, but now anxiety seized him when he thought of her. Something could go wrong, and she could die.

  By 10 the next morning, Arthur was at Mrs. DeWitt’s. Her pink and yellow roses were in bloom in their newly cleared beds. A big apple tree stump remained in the center of the backyard lawn, and Mrs. DeWitt had said she wanted it removed, but Arthur had dodged the task, because the two-foot wide stump would take an electric saw and a tractor to get out. Funny, Arthur thought, that though he didn’t own the place and didn’t want to, he looked on the work he had done with a certain pride. Mrs. DeWitt had told him a friend of hers had called it a “transformation.”

  Arthur was inspired to tackle the toolshed for the second time, and to sort out what was usable and what wasn’t. There was an old frame barely recognizable as that of a bicycle, dried-up cans of paint, empty glass jars, and old rags full of spider webs. Arthur amassed a heap on the lawn.

  Mrs. DeWitt came out with a bottle of cold ginger ale for him. “That’s a step in the right direction,” she said, meaning the heap of junk. “I’ll speak to the garbage man, give him a tip, and he can carry that off.”

  Arthur was working without his shirt. Sweat ran down his sideburns and his neck. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Arthur, taking the ginger ale bottle. Mrs. DeWitt suddenly reminded him of an old-fashioned striped mattress. Today her bulk was shrouded in a blue and white striped dress, plain as a nightgown; she wore house-slippers on her bare feet, and her white hair looked as if she hadn’t touched it since she got out of bed.

  “Have some lunch with me today, if you’d like to, Arthur. Got some cold fried chicken and potato salad. Ice cream, too.”

  That sounded rather good, worth putting up with the cat smell for. Then he could work another hour or so in the afternoon. “Nice of you. I’ll say yes.”

  Arthur was sweeping the toolshed floor with a worn broom when Gus’s old four-door car came up the driveway. Arthur raised his right arm in greeting.

  Gus got out of his car and came over, looking around. “Give you a hand with something?” he asked, looking from the heap of junk to the back of Mrs. DeWitt’s house, where at the moment she was not to be seen.

  They decided to tackle the tree stump. With Gus pitching in, it became fun, maybe impossible to get out today, but that wouldn’t matter. There was a pick-axe in the shed and an old saw that was usable. They took turns with the pick-axe, getting enough earth out for the other to attack a root with the saw. Gus removed his T-shirt. His skin was pale and there were freckles on his back, fine as cinnamon powder. His gold-framed glasses, which looked so delicate, stayed on his nose despite his exertions.

  “Bet this so-and-so’s fifty years old if it’s a day.” Gus suddenly jumped on the stump at an angle, causing a root to give a little, and Gus bounced backward onto the grass. He rolled over and got up.

  Arthur took the saw to a root. “How was the barbecue last night?”

  “You didn’t miss much. Reggie Dewey had some hard stuff and he was whooping it up with Roxanne and they both fell off the boat dock—dancing. Then we all went swimming in the dark.
Big deal.”

  Arthur kept on sawing, shaking his head now and then to get the gnats away from his eyes.

  “Since my car’s here,” Gus said, “want to run some of this junk off? I know a dump near here.”

  Gus’s car had a hatch door. They loaded most of the junk in and dumped it at the place Gus knew, then returned to the stump with renewed enthusiasm, because it was nearly out. The last thinner roots Arthur was able to clip, and then with a few pushes and pullings they got the stump out and onto the lawn. Panting, triumphant, Arthur began raking the displaced soil back.

  “Well, howdy-do?” said Mrs. DeWitt’s voice nearby, startling both of them. “You’ve got that thing out!”

  Mrs. DeWitt’s joy was gratifying. Gus assured her he was “just passing the time.” Arthur introduced them. Gus’s face was pink and damp with sweat. He put his T-shirt back on.

  “And all that junk cleaned up and gone!—It’s twelve-thirty and I was going to ask you to come in, Arthur. Lunch is ready. Maybe you’d like a bite with us, too?” she asked Gus.

  “No, thank you, ma’am, my folks expect me before one. I just came by to see how Art was doing.”

  She insisted that Gus come in to wash his hands and face and have a cold drink. Arthur was already washing at the hose tap, letting the water run over his chest and back.

  Gus went hesitantly into the kitchen, out of curiosity, Arthur felt, because he had told Gus about the cats. The oilcloth-covered table looked quite nice with its glasses of iced tea, plates, and green paper napkins and a big bowl of potato salad that a black and white cat had been licking at when they walked in. Gus washed his hands at the sink at Mrs. DeWitt’s suggestion. She made another glass of iced tea.

  “Got the fried chicken in the oven to keep it away from the cats,” she said.

  The telephone rang. Mrs. DeWitt went into her living room to answer it.

  “Arthur?” Mrs. DeWitt called. “It’s for you. Your father.”

  Arthur was surprised. “Hello?”

  “Arthur, I’d like you to come home as soon as possible. Now.” His father sounded grim.

  “What’s the matter? Something happen to Robbie?”

  “Robbie’s fine. Just get yourself home.”

  “Mrs. DeWitt asked me to lunch here, and I intended to work this afternoon,” Arthur said.

  “Will you come home or shall I come and get you?”

  Arthur stood up straighter. “Can I speak to Mom?”

  “No. I’m giving you orders.”

  “R-r-right,” Arthur said with equal grimness and put the telephone down. He went back into the kitchen. “I’m supposed to go home right away. Sorry about lunch, Mrs. DeWitt.”

  “Something happen at home?” Gus asked.

  “No! I don’t know what’s the matter.”

  “What a shame!” Mrs. DeWitt said.

  “I’ll run you home, Art,” Gus said. “Stick your bike in the back of my car.”

  Mrs. DeWitt gave Arthur five dollars. Arthur said he would be back before 2 to work a while more.

  11

  Arthur went into his house via the kitchen, which was empty, though the table was set. Voices murmured in the living room; then his mother came into the kitchen, looking worried.

  “Well—what’s up?” Arthur asked.

  She raised a finger to her lips, and went near the door into the garage, out of hearing of the people in the living room. “It seems the—Bob Cole spoke to your father after church. Bob said he heard—something about a girl. That a girl had to have an abortion. Is that true, Arthur?”

  “Who said that?”

  His father was coming in. “I’ll handle it, Lois.”

  “I was only asking him if it was true,” his mother said calmly.

  “I’ll ask him. Is it true? Is it the Brewster girl?—Never mind your grandmother, because she’s heard it,” his father added, as his grandmother came through the broad door of the living room.

  “Hello, Arthur,” said his grandmother as cheerfully as ever. “This is family business, so I’ll get out of your way. See you later.” She went down the hall toward her room.

  Richard looked at Arthur. “I suppose you know if it’s true or not?”

  Arthur felt like saying, “Yes,” but Maggie had kept it quiet and wanted it to be kept quiet.

  “Arthur—” said his father.

  “I don’t think it’s your business or anybody’s business,” Arthur said, and his father slapped him hard in the face. Arthur at once pulled his right fist back.

  “Arthur! Richard, really!” His mother looked about to step between them.

  “Hey, Mom, when’re we eating?” Robbie was coming in from the hall.

  Their mother sighed. “Take some potato chips, will you, Robbie? She got a cellophane bag from the cupboard. “We have to talk for a few minutes before lunch. Can’t you go out in the yard for a while?”

  “I don’t feel like it.” Robbie carried the potato chip bag back to his room.

  “Are you saying it’s true?” his father asked when Robbie was out of hearing.

  Arthur’s fist was still clenched, but at his side. “I’d like to know the so-and-so who said this. Who told Bob Cole.”

  “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Richard said to his mother, “Just look.”

  Arthur detested his father at that moment. “Yes. And what’s all the fuss about?—Gossips!”

  “All—right, Arthur,” said his father with an air of triumph and patience combined.

  Arthur made an effort to sound calm. “Maggie’s keeping quiet, her family’s quiet. They don’t even—dislike me, by the way.”

  “They should,” said his father quickly. “A nice girl and a nice family.”

  “Yes, and they said—these things can happen.” Arthur suddenly could have cracked up then, so he stood carefully straight.

  “They happen because people make them happen.”

  “If you’re blaming Maggie, you can go to hell!”

  “Arthur!—Let’s not talk like that—any of us.” His mother raised her hands in a peacekeeping gesture. “Let’s continue this discussion after some dinner, if we have to continue it. I mean that,” she added with a look at Richard.

  Arthur wanted to go to his room, but was afraid he would appear to be retreating, so he stayed where he was.

  “Could you call your grandmother, Arthur?” his mother asked.

  Arthur walked down the hall and did so. Then he went into his room. He wiped sweat off his forehead and whirled around when he heard a knock on his door. It was his mother. “I can’t sit at the table, Mom. I think I’ll go back to Mrs. DeWitt’s.”

  She came in and closed the door.

  “Who told Bob Cole, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. But news gets around this town. You know that.”

  Arthur thought suddenly of Roxanne. She didn’t go to that church, but she might have said something to a few people like Greg or Reggie Dewey, who could have passed it on to someone who might attend that goody-goody church.

  “I’ve got to serve dinner. Your father’s going to want to talk to you again and I want you both to keep your tempers—if you can.”

  “You can tell him he’s the one making the fuss. Is he going to tell the neighbors now? Make a speech in church?”

  “Of course not,” his mother whispered. “And Bob Cole spoke to your father in private, in his office there, after church.—Just when did this abortion take place? Before Mama’s visit, I gather.”

  “Hasn’t yet; it’s tomorrow.”

  “Oh? Your father thought it was a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That didn’t work—to be exact. But don’t tell Dad, will you? Don’t say anything else about it. Just let it—die down.”

 
; “Your father tried to phone the Brewsters this noon.”

  “Oh, my gosh! They’re not home, so he can stop wasting his energy.”

  “Would you like me to bring you a plate of something?”

  “No, Mom. No, thanks.”

  As soon as she was gone, Arthur gasped. He clenched his fists and swung his arms a couple of times, then went quietly into the bathroom, which was the next room, and washed his face in cold water. He thought to get out of the house by the front door, possibly unseen, but his father saw him.

  “Oh, Arthur,” said his father, getting up from the table. He came round into the front hall, carrying a napkin in his hand. “I’d like you to tell me where the Brewsters are this weekend.”

  “I don’t know where they are,” said Arthur, and walked out.

  To arrive at Mrs. DeWitt’s again was a pleasure, a little like arriving at old Norma’s cosy house, even though Mrs. DeWitt’s house meant labor. Arthur didn’t see her as he leaned his bike against the toolshed and thought perhaps she was still eating lunch, because hardly forty-five minutes had passed. Arthur started picking up the sawed roots from the grass. He worked slowly and steadily, hardly thinking about what he was doing. By this time tomorrow, the operation would be over, Maggie’s ordeal. She was due home Tuesday midday. And Maggie still liked him—it seemed—just as much as ever! That thought, that fact, was like a fortress to Arthur, a mighty defense against his crackpot father.

  Arthur jumped when he heard Mrs. DeWitt’s high, thin voice near him.

  “Back already, Arthur! Come in and have some ice cream. You can’t have had a big dinner in that short a time.”

  He begged out politely.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. DeWitt came out with a glass of iced coffee and a big piece of coconut cake on a tray. Arthur had a little of both and finally tossed the rest of the cake where Mrs. DeWitt wouldn’t see it. It was nearly 5, when he returned the tray to her kitchen. He didn’t see Mrs. DeWitt, so he took off, sweaty and tired.

  He thought of going by Gus’s house, which was almost on the way, but he wouldn’t be able to talk freely to Gus. He couldn’t talk to Norma Keer either, though Norma would probably be the most understanding of all the people Arthur knew. It wasn’t fair to Maggie to talk to anybody, and that was exactly why his father was being unfair. Maybe even Robbie knew now.