Cry for the Strangers

by John Saul

  “Pounding all day?” Whalen countered.

  “Well, you can’t remodel a building without some pounding.”

  Whalen grunted in reluctant assent. It was true, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He decided to shift gears. “Don’t know what he thinks he’ll accomplish by opening an art gallery here,” he grumbled. “Nobody’s going to buy his junk.”

  “Then he won’t be here long, will he?” Chip grinned. “I’d think you’d be down there every day helping out. After all, the sooner he gets the place open, the sooner he’ll go broke, right?”

  Harney looked sourly at his deputy but couldn’t help smiling.

  “You’re too sharp for me, Chip. Too sharp by a long shot. So tell me, what’ll we do about the Randalls? I’m just not sure I can stomach another set of strangers right now. They upset me. And don’t give me any lectures about how I can’t keep the town the same forever—maybe I can’t, but as long as I’m chief of police, I’ll damn well try.”

  “What are they going to do about a place to live?”

  “Merle told them to come and talk to me.”

  “Then it’s easy,” Chip suggested. “Just tell them the old house isn’t for rent.”

  “I told that to the Palmers but it didn’t stop them. They just talked old Mrs. Pruitt into selling them that crummy cabin at the other end of the beach. If she’d have talked to me first, I’d have bought the cabin myself, but she didn’t No, I think the best thing to do is just try to talk them out of the whole idea. If that doesn’t work, I’ll rent the old Baron place to them. A month on Sod Beach in that wreck ought to change their minds for them.”

  “You’re a devious old man, Harn,” Chip said with a smile.

  “Not devious at all,” Whalen said. “I just don’t like strangers. Now, why don’t you get to work on Pete Shelling? The file’s right here.”

  “What’s to work on?”

  “Search me.” Harney shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned it was just an accident, but I figure if Miriam Shelling should come walking in here again, it wouldn’t hurt at all to be ‘working on the case,’ if you know what I mean.”

  Chip laughed out loud. “Now tell me you aren’t devious.”

  “The old dog knows some old tricks, that’s all,” Harney said with a wink. A moment later he was gone and Chip Connor was alone in the tiny police station.

  * * *

  Glen Palmer watched the police chief drive past the gallery and started to wave, as he did every day. But suddenly he changed his mind and his hand dropped back to his side, the gesture uncompleted. What was the point? Whalen never returned the greeting, never even so much as glanced his way. Glen wasn’t sure if it was conscious rudeness or if the man was merely preoccupied, but he knew he resented it. The chief’s coldness seemed symbolic of the attitude of the whole town. Glen had come to believe that if he could only win the chief’s approval, his acceptance in Clark’s Harbor would begin. But so far he had been unable to make a single dent in Whalen’s shield of hostility. All in good time, he told himself for the hundredth time, all in good time.

  That was also the attitude he was trying to take about the gallery itself, but it was more difficult every day. He glanced around at the front room. Tomorrow he would begin spending all his time on the display area. The office could wait, but the display area could not. If he could finish it in the next couple of weeks they could open for business by Memorial Day—and the hell with what the office looked like.

  It would be a pretty gallery, Glen was sure. The rough-hewn plank paneling would show off his primitive painting style to its best advantage, and his sculptures, finely finished and glowing with their hand-rubbed patina, would provide a nice contrast. Reluctantly, he decided to swallow his pride and ask Rebecca to pitch in. With a wry chuckle he admitted to himself that her help would speed the work fivefold at least He should have done it weeks ago but his ego had prevented it. And now another afternoon was gone with not enough done. Time to call it a day. He put his tools away, locked up the building, and climbed into the ancient Chevy that served as the Palmers’ second car. It refused to start.

  “Damn,” he said aloud. He twisted the key again and listened to the angry grinding of the starter. Three tries later he got out of the car and raised the hood to stare at the engine. But he knew even less about motors than he did about carpentry. He slammed the hood down again and, with the blind faith characteristic of people who know nothing about cars, got in and tried the starter once more. Again the grinding noise, but weaker this time. Glen decided to give it up before he ruined the battery as well.

  He searched his mind. Pruitt’s gas station would be closed by now. He considered searching out Bill Pruitt and talking him into taking a look at the car. No good. Pruitt had never been particularly friendly, less so after his mother had sold the Palmers their cabin—no doubt against Bill’s advice. Glen was sure that even if the owner of the town’s sole service station could be persuaded to do something with the car, the bill would be padded because of the late hour. He’d leave the Chevy where it was and walk home. He could take care of it in the morning.

  He walked along the road at first, thinking of trying his luck at hitchhiking, but soon put that idea aside: he was enjoying the walk and the exercise was relaxing, so he left the road and cut through the forest to the ocean, emerging from the woods at the south end of Sod Beach, near the old house he and Rebecca had originally tried to rent. Now he was glad Harney Whalen had refused to rent to him: though the house was larger than the Palmers’ cabin, it stood exposed on the beach, unprotected by the sheltering forest that nearly surrounded the tiny home he and his family occupied And it had that awful look of abandonment, a look he hadn’t recognized the first time he had seen the place. Then it had seemed picturesque; now he found it forbidding.

  He skirted the house quickly and made his way down to the surf line, where the sand was packed hard and walking was easy. In the distance he was pleased to see the faint glow of the lantern in his window, just beginning to contrast with the fading light of the evening. Smoke curled from both chimneys of the cabin and he wondered what Rebecca was fixing for dinner.

  He almost passed Miriam Shelling without seeing her, and probably would have if she hadn’t waved to him. At her movement he veered away from the lapping water to angle across the beach.

  “Hello,” he said as he approached her, smiling tentatively.

  Miriam stared at him for a long time, not speaking. Glen was about to turn away from her when she raised her hand again and made a vague gesture.

  “You didn’t believe me, did you?”

  It was an accusation. Glen hedged, studying her. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said. The odd glaze was gone from her eyes; now she seemed to be nothing more than a tired middle-aged woman.

  “Today,” she said, “when I came into your—what do you call it?”

  “The gallery?”

  Miriam nodded. “The gallery,” she repeated dully. “You should have believed me.”

  Glen watched the woman carefully, trying to fathom what might be going on in her mind. She seemed much more in control of herself now than she had earlier. But you never knew with people like her.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “Waiting? For me?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just waiting. Something’s going to happen, and I’m waiting for it.”

  “But why here?” Glen pressed.

  “I don’t know,” Miriam said slowly. “It just seemed like a good place to wait.” Suddenly her eyes were filled with anxiety as she looked up at Glen. “It’s all right, isn’t it? You don’t mind if I wait here?”

  “No, of course I don’t mind. I don’t own the beach. But it will be getting cold soon.”

  “A storm’s coming,” Miriam Shelling said softly. “A big one. Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. It can’t hurt Pete now.”

  “But what about you?” Glen a
sked gently. He wondered if he ought to invite Mrs. Shelling home with him, then thought of the children. He didn’t want them hearing any of this ominous nonsense she kept muttering.

  “I’ll go home soon,” she said. “I guess I can wait there just as well as here. You go on now—I’ll be all right.”

  Glen started away but turned back when he heard Miriam Shelling calling to him.

  “Young man? You be careful, you hear? It’s going to be a big storm.”

  Glen smiled at her and waved “I’ll be all right,” he called. He walked on and didn’t look back again till he was near the cabin. When he did finally turn, Miriam Shelling was gone. Glen felt an odd sense of relief, as if a momentary threat had passed. He went into the cabin as the last of the sunlight faded from the beach.

  “I didn’t hear you drive up,” Rebecca said as Glen came in.

  “I didn’t drive—I walked.”

  Rebecca felt a sinking sensation as the meager balance in their checking account flashed in front of her eyes. “What happened to the car?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew. It wouldn’t start, and you know how I am with cars. I thought about walking over to see if I could find Bill Pruitt but he charges double after six.”

  Rebecca was about to press him for details when the children came tumbling out of their tiny bedroom, Missy demanding to be picked up and Robby saying, “Look at me! Look at me!”

  Glen swung his daughter off the floor, then looked at his son. He set Missy back down and knelt next to Robby.

  “What happened to you?” He asked the question of Robby but his eyes went immediately to Rebecca.

  “He was defending our honor,” Rebecca began, but Robby cut in.

  “I had a fight,” he said in a rush. “Four guys ganged up on me and I got a black eye, but I won. Did you bring Snooker home?”

  Glen glanced at Rebecca but she shrugged helplessly. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “He must be off on a hunting expedition.”

  “He’s never stayed away all day,” Robby said accusingly.

  “Well, he must be getting adventurous, just like his master,” Glen replied. “But he’ll be back, you’ll see. Just wait until morning.”

  “He’s not coming back,” Missy said softly. She looked ready to cry. “He’s not ever coming back.”

  “He is too,” Robby shot back.

  “Of course he’s coming back, Missy,” Rebecca said. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know,” Missy said, her eyes brimming with tears. “But he’s not coming back, and I miss him.” The tears overflowed and she fled to the bedroom, where she flung herself on her bunk. Rebecca looked helplessly at Glen, then went after her daughter. Robby stared at his father.

  “He is coming back, isn’t he?” he asked plaintively.

  “Of course he is, son; of course he is,” Glen said, But he suddenly had the sinking feeling that the dog was not going to return.

  After dinner they put the children to bed, then Glen threw another log on the fire. Rebecca watched him but didn’t speak until he had finished poking at the blaze and sat down again.

  “Glen, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Little things, I guess. The car and the gallery and now Snooker. I think Missy’s right I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “Don’t be silly. What could have happened to him? Of course he’ll be back.”

  “There’s something else too.”

  Rebecca suddenly stiffened. Whatever he was about to say, it was going to be important She could tell by the look in his eyes.

  “I saw Miriam Shelling tonight.”

  Rebecca relaxed. “Did she come back to the gallery?”

  “She was on the beach when I came home. Sitting on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the sea.”

  “Lots of people do that,” Rebecca said. She rummaged through her sewing box, searching for a button. “I do that myself and so do you. It’s one of the joys of living out here.”

  “She said she was waiting for something. It was weird.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure she knew herself. But she said a big storm was coming and told me to be careful.”

  “That makes sense,” Rebecca said. “Did she say anything else?”

  “No.” There was a long pause, then: “Maybe we ought to give it up.”

  Rebecca put down her sewing and stared at Glen. “Now you are sounding like I did yesterday. But you’ll get over it, just like I did.” Then she chuckled softly. “You know what? While you were busily getting yourself into a funk today, I was getting out of mine. I decided I really love this place. I love living near the water and the forest, I love the peace and quiet, and I love what’s happening to my children, especially Robby. So you might as well get yourself into a better frame of mind, my love, because I’ve decided that no matter what happens, I’m going to see things through right here. And so are you.”

  Glen Palmer looked at his wife with loving eyes and thanked God for her strength. As long as I have her, he thought, I’ll be fine. As long as I have her.

  And then a premonition struck him, and he knew that he wouldn’t always have Rebecca, wouldn’t have her nearly long enough. He rose from his chair, crossed the small room, and knelt by his wife. He put his arms around her and held her tightly and tried to keep from crying. Rebecca, unaware of the emotions that were surging through her husband, continued sewing.

  Harney Whalen stretched, snapped the television set on, then wandered over to the window before he sat down to watch the nine o’clock movie. His house, the house he had been born in and had grown up in and would undoubtedly die in, sat on a knoll that commanded a beautiful view of Clark’s Harbor and the ocean beyond. He watched the lights of the town as they twinkled on around the bay, then looked up at the starless night sky. A layer of clouds had closed in and the feel of the air told him that another storm was brewing. Harney hated the storms and sometimes wondered why he stayed on the peninsula. But it was home, and even though he’d never appreciated the weather, he’d learned to live with it Still, he began his usual round of the house, checking that all the windows were tightly closed against whatever might be coming in from the sea.

  His grandfather had built the house, and he’d built it well. It had stood against the Northeasters for more than a century, and its joints were as snug as ever, its foundation maintaining a perfect level. Only the roof ever demanded Harney’s attention, and that only rarely. He wandered from room to room, not really seeing the furnishings that filled them but feeling their comforting presence, and wondering idly what it would be like to be one of those people who spent their lives like gypsies, wandering from one residence to another, never really putting down roots anywhere. Well, it wasn’t for him. He liked knowing that his past was always around him. Even though he lived by himself in the house now, he wasn’t really alone—his family was all around him and he never felt lonesome here.

  He made a sandwich, then opened a can of beer to wash it down with. By the time he returned to the living room, the movie had begun, and he sat down to munch his sandwich contentedly and enjoy the film.

  Sometime during a barrage of commercials he felt the uneasiness begin, and he glanced around the room as if half-expecting someone to be there. He noticed then that the wind had come up and left his chair to go again to the window. It had begun raining and the water on the glass made the lights of Clark’s Harbor appear streaked and blurred. Harney Whalen shook his head and returned to his chair in front of the television set.

  He tried to concentrate on the movie, but more and more he found himself listening to the wind as it grasped at the house. Each time he realized he didn’t know what was happening on the television screen, he snapped himself alert and forced his attention back to it.

  The storm grew.

  Just before the end of the movie Harney Whalen felt a nerve in his cheek begin to twitch and wondered if he was going to have one of what he called his “s
pells.” A moment later, as he was about to put the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, his face suddenly contorted into an ugly grimace and his hands began twitching spasmodically. The scrap of sandwich fell to the floor beside his chair, and Harney Whalen stood up.

  Robby and Missy lay awake in their bunks, listening to the rain splash against the window.

  “You want to go look for him, don’t you?” Missy suddenly whispered in the darkness, a note almost of reproach coloring her voice.

  “Who?” Robby asked.

  “Snooker.”

  “He’s out there, isn’t he?”

  “Could we find him?”

  “Sure,” Robby said with an assurance he didn’t feel.

  “But what about the ghosts?”

  “There isn’t any such thing.” Robby climbed down from the top bunk and sat on his sister’s bed. “You didn’t believe that old man, did you?”

  Missy squirmed and avoided looking at her brother. “Why would he lie?”

  “Grown-ups lie to children all the time, to make us do what they want us to.”

  Missy looked fearfully at her brother. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that “Let’s go to sleep.”

  Robby ignored her and started dressing. Missy watched him for a moment, then she, too, began pulling her clothes on, all the time wishing she were still in bed. But when Robby opened the window and crept out, Missy followed him.

  As soon as they were on the beach Missy thought she saw something, but it was too dark to be sure. It was a shape, large and dark against the heaving ocean, that seemed to be moving near the surf line, dancing almost, but without a pattern. She clutched Robby’s hand.

  “Look,” she whispered.

  Robby peered into the darkness. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

  “Over there,” Missy hissed. “Right near the water.” She pushed up against Robby, squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.

  “Let go,” Robby commanded, but the pressure remained.

  “Let’s go into the woods,” Missy begged. “It’ll be safer there.”

  Robby hesitated, then decided to go along with his sister; if Snooker was anywhere around, he was likely to be in the woods. They were creeping over the barrier of driftwood when Missy suddenly yanked on Robby’s arm.