Stranger at the Door

by Gil Meynier

  “Well,” he said, “don’t I?”

  She did not answer him. He wished he could figure out what she was thinking about. It’s funny how people can slip away from you by not letting you know what they are thinking. There she was, looking at the shrubs and the trees across the driveway. Did she know that she was showing him two-thirds of her leg, sunburn-rosy in the light that was shining through her dress?

  Joe folded his arms on his knees and leaned forward and saw some more. Hell, he thought, what’s the use of talking. He chewed his lower lip and wanted to do something with his hands. It made him angry to think that he could do something if it weren’t for the presence of two old women, somewhere around the house. Even out of sight they were bunched up against him, in a way protecting each other, in a way shutting him out. All he could do was look, like the bus driver.

  To hell with that, he thought, and he was about to let himself go and reach for her when she looked at him and said:

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something...”

  He didn’t like it when people meant to ask him something. It froze him and made him tighten up.

  “I lost my rings, at the house.”

  So.

  “Rings?” said Joe.

  “A couple of rings I had.”

  “Why tell me?” Then he thought he had better add: “Were they expensive?”

  “Mrs. Jard found one of them in her dresser.”

  “You mean she had one of them?”

  “She found one of them,” said Dorry, quietly. ‘She wanted to tell the police about it.”

  Joe was proud of the way his thoughts suddenly started racing in his head, and stopped, and gave an answer:

  “She wouldn’t want to do that,” he said, shaking his head, and he wanted Dorry to ask why.

  “Why not?” said Dorry.

  Joe nodded toward the empty rocking chair.

  There was a silence. Then he said:

  “I lost a lot of things that way. But I never said anything.”

  That’ll hold her, he thought. And he congratulated himself because, as the seconds went by, it seemed to hold her pretty well.

  I’m just too smart for this bunch, thought Joe. Feeling good, he began to think of ways of getting Dorry into a rented car, up on the mountain, or better yet—why hadn’t he thought of it before—much better yet, in the old condemned house. That would be something.

  “I think you’d better go,” said Dorry.

  Joe looked up. Dorry was standing. She had gotten up when he wasn’t looking and he had missed a leg-show. He got up, quickly, and stood against her. As she turned away he felt her body, warm and free in her dress.

  “There’s no hurry,” he said.

  This was what he wanted. Not the red-head on the bus, or the scrawny pick-ups around the night-club. This, and, at the moment, nothing else. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a girl so much, or in the daytime, in the sunlight, or with the desire to forget everything, or with the willingness to give up everything, and have a job, and do anything she wanted. At the same time he couldn’t remember ever wanting one enough to want to kill her if she refused him. No, not kill her, because he loved her too much for that, just hold her with all his strength against all her strength, brutal, panting, until she gave up.

  Those were the thoughts he was thinking and he almost acted on them. His hand was on her hip and he felt the firmly modeled flesh of her side as she turned and his hand felt the roundness of her buttock as it moved away and all he thought of was the feeling of that roundness and his hand was still outstretched when she opened the screen door and went into the house, leaving him, alone on the porch.

  Embarrassed, he cursed.

  Well, maybe that was enough. It was something to remember. The feeling of that roundness slipping away. That love business was damned foolishness, but the feeling of that roundness...

  He sat on the step and lit a cigarette.

  He was going to sit there for a while and annoy them a little bit.

  The second cigarette did not taste so good.

  No sound came from the house, behind him. He could have heard them if they had been moving around. He wondered what they were doing. Probably in the back, scared.

  Do ‘em good.

  It was hot. He was glad he was in the shade.

  Over by the water tower Mrs. Fred, in her straw hat, leather jacket, big skirt, was bending over, looking at the ground. She walked clear around the foot of the tower, looking for something. Now, she was crossing the driveway, still looking.

  Joe watched her.

  On the rim of the ditch, along the fence, she seemed to find what she was looking for. She stooped and picked up a rock and threw it across the driveway toward the porch. Joe jumped up and the rock rolled to within a yard of where his feet had been.

  “Hey, you can’t do that...”

  He peered from behind the pillar when a second rock hit the steps.

  “Cut it out...” he called to the old woman, but he knew there was no sense in talking to her.

  Another rock hit the porch and he tried the screen door. It was locked. The rocking chair protected him for a moment, but the old woman was coming closer and finding plenty of stones.

  “To hell with this,” thought Joe, and he jumped off the end of the porch and started off toward the road.

  When he was at a safe distance he turned and looked. The old woman was still throwing stones at him, along the driveway.

  And he thought about the crazy old woman until he got to the bus.

  16

  SITTING in the dark living room of the silent, condemned house, Joe watched the street. The room was streaked with light from the corner lamp-post. Darkness had been slow in coming although clouds had gathered at dusk and filled the sky.

  He had started picking his teeth With a fingernail and had ended up by biting the fingernail, nibbling at it, all around. The last bite, tearing a stubborn shred, had hurt. Shaking his finger, trying to rub the small pain out with his thumb, he got up.

  Time to go.

  He left the house, went down the walk, opened the gate and started toward town.

  At the corner he had to step back to let a car go by. All he could see were the bright headlights coming at him. The car didn’t go by. It pulled up at the corner and stopped in front of him. He started to walk around it but a voice held him and at the same moment he recognized Stringer’s car.

  “Hey,” said the Italian.

  By the light of the dashboard, Joe saw him, sitting there, one leg crooked on the seat, an arm along the back-rest, his head motioning to him to get in. There was a man in the back seat. Joe didn’t get a good look at him because the top was up and Stringer reached over and turned off the dashboard light.

  “Hi,” said Joe, and he wondered how it would be if he just picked up and ran.

  “Get in,” said the Italian.

  Much as he didn’t like to, he got in and sat down, leaving the door open.

  “Been having fun lately?” said Stringer.

  The presence of the unknown man in the back seat made Joe uncomfortable. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “What d’you mean?” he asked, and he coughed to get rid of whatever it was that rattled in his throat.

  “Never mind,” said Stringer. “I’m still interested in meeting that friend of yours.”

  “Friend of mine?” said Joe.

  “The one who isn’t interested in meeting any of your friends.”

  “I...oh...I didn’t know who you meant.”

  “Well, you know now.”

  Joe heard a chuckle from the man in the back seat.

  “Seeing that he doesn’t want to meet me,” said Stringer, “I thought he might like to meet a friend of mine.”

  Joe tried to swallow a sudden lump of fear. He felt as if he were trying to dam up a stream of water with his hands. You didn’t know where it came from or where it went; it flowed past you, through your fingers and you couldn’t stop it.
r />   “I don’t see him any more,” he said.

  “You don’t say!” said Stringer.

  “We’ve split up,” said Joe.

  “Well, that makes everything fine.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have liked to hurt your feelings if he was a friend of yours. But as long as he’s no friend of yours. .

  Why couldn’t they leave him out of it? Why couldn’t they leave him alone? What did Stringer want with Mac; and the man in the back seat, what was he for? Joe wanted to slip his foot onto the sidewalk and get out of the car but he had a dread of feeling hands reach out for him. He hated brutal people but brutality wrapped up in smiles and innocent-sounding words frightened him more than anything.

  The feeling of being trapped by the actions of unknown people came back to him and he started breathing faster, trying to push a feeling of nausea back into his fluttering stomach.

  “I had an idea,” said the Italian, “that we might make a social call.”

  Joe shook his head. He wanted to say: No. Leave Mac alone. But most of all he wanted to escape from the car. He didn’t want to stand up for Mac. He couldn’t, after what he had said at the pool, and again just now. But he couldn’t go and see Mac with the Italian. Not when he was trying to get back in.

  “I don’t see him any more,” said Joe and his mind frantically searched for an excuse to get away.

  The Italian watched Joe’s pale, weak face and nervous hands. Whatever his plans had been, he seemed to change his mind. His voice was cold.

  “At what time does he leave off work?” he asked.

  “Two, three, four o’clock,” said Joe and, guessing that the Italian and his friend might turn up at the gambling joint, waiting for Mac to come out, he added: “Sometimes three, but more likely four o’clock.”

  That would give Mac time to get away, at least for tonight, maybe.

  “Okay,” said the Italian, turning and reaching for the starter. “We don’t need you. Get out.”

  As if he had been given a reprieve, Joe scrambled. He cursed at the Italian who, as a last insult, had started to drive off before Joe was even out of the car. Shaking, standing on the sidewalk, Joe wondered what to do.

  For the first time Joe felt noble and unselfish. He wished he had had something to eat so that with less emptiness in him he could feel more assured. He hurried down the street toward town. He was going to warn Mac, even though Mac had been rough with him the last time. He felt all mellow at the thought of how grateful Mac would be. Maybe Mac wouldn’t realize what Joe was doing for him. Yes, he would. Joe would make him feel that it was just the two of them in the world against everybody else and Joe was a good boy to have on your side. Loyal, not afraid to buck tough guys like the Italian.

  Well, not exactly buck them. The thing to do was to get away before the Italian and his friend got there.

  The same damn tricycle was lying on the law near the funeral home. Somebody could make a living swiping little red tricycles. He had to slow down. He was breathing fast and he felt the beginning of a stitch in his side. Walking downhill was no effort, but when he reached the level, down by the railroad, he had to stop. His side was hurting. Funny how big things you want to do are always mixed up with little things, like a stitch in your side. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. The last he remembered was coffee. He remembered drinking it and pouring the rest of it down the sink. That’s when they had a kitchen. Mayhew was still alive, then.

  Joe shivered. Leaning against the breast-high retaining wall of a corner lot at the foot of the slope, he pressed his fist against the sore spot in his side. The pain daggered him a couple of times when he breathed and then it faded away. He looked up and down the street and crossed the pavement and went into a lunch counter.

  It was hot and smelled of grease and coffee. Two mechanics from the garage next door were eating their meal. One of them said “Hi,” then they turned their faces toward their plates. In no hurry, the fat man behind the counter came and stood in front of Joe. Joe couldn’t think of what he wanted. The pot-roast and noodles on the mechanics’ plates looked greasy, shining, slimy. He couldn’t stand to look at it.

  “Give me some corn flakes,” he said.

  The fat man in the dirty apron turned and reached up to the shelves.

  “Got any bananas?” said Joe.

  “H-ah!” said the fat man, handing him a box of flakes in a bowl and a bottle of milk.

  The mechanics looked up and grinned. One of them said to the other: “That girl that came in, in the station-wagon...” Then he whispered and Joe did not hear the rest of it. While he ate his corn flakes the other mechanic, the one who was listening to the whispers, said: “Aw, cut it out. I never saw her before,” and there was silence in the small café, except for the radio with weak tubes next to the cash register. The fat man behind the counter stood by the window and looked into the street.

  While he was waiting for his change, Joe put aside six dollars and seventy-five cents. The coins made a weight in the breast pocket of his shirt and the bills made a bulge. That was for the car. He’d have the money ready *so that he could get away quick, in case anybody was snooping around.

  He didn’t feel any better for having eaten. Now there was the trepidation you feel before you start in a race. The fat man was slow in making change and Joe wanted to hurry him up. He took three or four toothpicks from the glass on the counter, dropped all but one of them on the floor and picked his teeth while he waited. Suddenly he was not in a hurry any more. He was a little afraid of what he had to do. Being noble and unselfish is all right...but, hell, he was not doing it only for Mac; he was doing it for the both of them because from now on they were sticking together. Then he thought of Mac and his gargling, and the smell of cheese in his room, and his endless games of solitaire and the way he never said anything. Well, they didn’t have to live together.

  It was hot and muggy downtown. Heat seemed to come from the buildings and the store fronts. The clouds were like a moving ceiling in the glow of the neon signs. Some signs just stuck their names in your face. Others wiggled, darted, flashed on and off, as if anybody gave a damn.

  The night man was in the shack at the back of the car lot and the black convertible was at its usual place. Joe walked into the shack and placed his money on the table. The nightman shook his head.

  “Fifty bucks deposit,” he said.

  “What’d you mean?” said Joe.

  “Fifty bucks deposit,” he repeated.

  “Since when?” said Joe. “I’m an old customer.”

  “Since always,” said the nightman. “Somebody ate the boss out for the way he was running the business, so he turns around and eats me out. Now everybody pays fifty bucks deposit. I don’t give a flop who you are.”

  “But how was I to know?” said Joe...I’da brought more money...”

  The nightman pointed to the sign.

  “It’s been there all the time,” he said.

  “Goddamn it, I’m an old customer. I never paid a deposit.”

  “You pay one now.” Then he added: “You can give me a check.”

  Joe had never written a check. He hesitated.

  “Okay,” he said.

  The nightman pulled out the drawer in which the blanks were kept.

  “What bank is it on?” he asked.

  Joe did not know how complicated this thing was going to be. He hesitated again.

  “Hell,” said the nightman, “you don’t have a check account. Don’t tell me.” And he pushed the drawer shut.

  “Well, what the hell am I going to do?” said Joe.

  “Walk.”

  Joe was all fists and tightened jaw. He couldn’t make the rest of him leave the shack. Something, he didn’t know what, was taking the car away from him. And he knew he couldn’t talk the nightman into anything. He took a deep breath.

  “Look,” he said.

  “Unh-unh,” said the nightman, and he leaned back
in his chair until it rested against the wall. “Somebody ate the boss out. The boss turns around and eats me out. Can’t do it.”

  Joe turned on his heels and walked out of the shack. The gravel on the car lot grated under the thin soles of his shoes.

  He didn’t look at the black car as he left the lot. His thoughts were surging apoplectically behind his pinched lips and squinting eyes. He cursed for a block as he walked toward Congress Street in the muggy heat of the goddamn town that was blinking its goddamn lights, as if anybody cared.

  That’s what I mean, thought Joe. Everything is against me. Everything, he repeated to himself. The first fifty bucks he got he was going to go back and take the Packard out and wreck it for them. Yeah, like hell he would. They probably would keep the whole fifty. It wasn’t worth it. It’s with things like that that they have a fellow all tied up. Wherever you turn, there’s something. He’d do this and he’d do that if he had the money, but he didn’t have the money. He could get the money, maybe, if he had a car, but he didn’t have a car. He could be a big shot if people didn’t treat him all the time like a...

  And he had to do something pretty quick. He had put off thinking about a place to live but knew damn well he couldn’t stay in the condemned house. You see how it is: a fellow is all set with a house of his own and they come along and condemn it. And even now, if he wanted to think about it he couldn’t because there was the Italian and the way he was acting. It was the Italian’s fault if Joe didn’t have a racket any more. He could have gotten in again with Mac, they could have straightened out the little misunderstanding if the Italian hadn’t sent him from the pool to get Mac to come and meet him.

  But just now it was as if nothing mattered in the whole world, with millions of people doing all sorts of things, each one knowing three, four people, nothing except the distance from where he was, with the useless Packard behind him, the whole town stretched out ahead of him, and several miles of desert road to the gambling joint. A taxi would cost money. He wondered if he could hitch a ride. To hell with it. He’d take a cab. Some people take them all the time.

  Joe had a vague distrust of cabs. The drivers are usually snoopers. Turning up and saying: sure, on the night of so and so I took so and so to so and so. Well, maybe he was just imagining it.