A Stranger's House

by Bret Lott

  I crumpled up the note in my good hand, threw it in the trash bin next to the cages.

  I habituated them that day, the same work I’d intended to have done the week before, and by Thursday I had them used to the dark and to the tone, ready to be hooked up to the potentiometer. All the rabbits had come through fine: a little irritation in a couple of the rabbits’ eyes, but no major problems. Only yesterday, Wednesday, had Jack finally given the go-ahead for surgery, the rabbits’ conditioned inhibitions at high enough of a percentage to warrant our going into their brains.

  I still hadn’t called Mr. Gadsen, hadn’t seen him, and didn’t intend to.

  Someone placed two glasses of water before us on the table, and 1 looked up.

  It was Grady.

  He was smiling, the order pad in one hand, the other holding his pen, ready to write. “You ready to—” he said, and stopped. He got a puzzled look on his face, his smile faltering a moment. I glanced at Tom. He was looking at Grady, too.

  “Wait a minute,” Grady said, all smiles again. He put the pen behind his ear, plugged back into that shiny black hair. “Now wait a minute. I know you,” he said. “I know you two.” He put his hands on his hips.

  “Chesterfield,” Tom said. “Your grandfather’s place?”

  “You shouldn’t have told me,” he said, and shook his head as if he were going to scold him. He even pointed a finger at Tom, then at me. “I would have guessed. I would have.”

  Tom and I smiled, looked at each other. “I don’t doubt it,” I said, and Grady’s smile grew until I could see most of his teeth: clean, white. Not what I would have thought, for some reason.

  He said, “So, what brings you out here?”

  “Would you believe a Fribble?” Tom said, and gave a small laugh. I smiled.

  “I know better than that,” he said. “You told me you two live in town. You could get that at the Friendly’s on King instead of coming all the way out here.” He was still grinning. “You two are up to something else.”

  I said, “The jig is up.”

  He lost the smile for a moment, and I saw the kid in him again, the puzzled boy. He was practiced at the adult, but not proficient. He said, “Excuse me?”

  “The jig is up,” I said again. “That means the game is over. That you figured us out. You figured out we were lying to you.” I folded my hands together in front of me on the table. I was looking up at him. Cigarette smoke from somewhere drifted into my lungs.

  “Oh, oh,” he said, and laughed. “It’s Claire, right? That’s your name.”

  “Right,” I said. “Good memory.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “It’s Martin, actually. He’s the one with the memory. He’s the one who remembers everyone we’ve ever met. Seriously. He does.” He turned to Tom. “And you’re Tom, right?”

  “Right again.”

  “We wanted to know if we could talk to you,” I said. “About the house.”

  “You guys really buying it?” he said. He had quit smiling.

  I looked at Tom. He said, “We put in the bid, your grandfather took it. Or at least his lawyer took it. We’re just waiting for escrow to clear now.” He paused and smiled at me. “I guess we are.”

  “So,” he said, “sure we can talk, but—” With one hand he pulled the pen out of his hair, and half turned from us to point to the rear of the room. He turned back to us. “If you’ll look back here to my right and behind me, ladies and gentlemen,” he went on, “you’ll see my manager. She’s back there, as always, with Leo, one of Northampton’s finest. If she sees us talking too much over here, she’ll ride my butt the rest of the night and on into tomorrow, too.”

  I looked past him to the last booth. There sat the manager, a plump girl with a perfect tan, her golden hair up and in curls atop her head. She wore the white blouse female managers wore, hers too tight, straining against her breasts so that the seams in her bra were visible beneath the material of the blouse. Leo was sitting next to her in his dark blue uniform and black nylon jacket. He, too, was overweight, his neck thick, face puffy. He had a sundae in front of him, and was looking at it, laughing. The manager said something to him and took a drag off her cigarette.

  “Real executive material,” I said.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Grady laughed. “Tell you what,” he said. “We get off in twenty minutes. You want to, we can talk after that. We can shoot the breeze then.”

  I looked at Tom.

  He said, “I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

  We ordered, and when Grady was gone to get us our coffees I looked back at the manager to see if she’d even noticed Grady at our table. She was still whispering things to Leo, her cigarette sucked down almost to the filter, the stub in her pouty mouth, and I knew she hadn’t even seen him over here. He just wanted to get away from us, and I wondered what he would be able to tell us.

  Then for some reason I glanced back at the metal door, and saw Martin there in the small, square window.

  All I could see was his face, nothing else, filling the glass, looking at me. He turned and was gone, and I realized then that that was the reason I had looked to the window, what I had expected to see: a man who remembered names, remembered people. I wondered, too, if while he looked at me he were again touching his own hand, imagining on his own flesh a scar like mine. The same scar I was touching now, the adhesions mountains at my fingertips.

  I took my hand away. I took a sip of water, let an ice chip slip into my mouth, and felt it melt, my tongue cold against the roof of my mouth once it was gone.

  “What we wanted to know,” Tom said, and I could see his breath out there in the parking lot, the small clouds illuminated by the little lamps on the side of Friendly’s, “is why the heck now. I mean, why are they selling it now? After so many years. Sure, we’re buying the thing, but this lawyer just won’t tell us anything. We just want to know.”

  We were leaning against the trunk of our car, the metal cold on my bottom. Tom and I stood as close to each other as we could.

  Grady stood a few feet off, his back to the restaurant and the lamps. I could barely make out his face, his shoulders up in the cold, one hand jammed deep into his pants pocket, the other holding a cigarette. He held it with his thumb and first three fingers, as if it were some little peashooter. I knew he imagined that was how adults did it. He looked away from us, took a deep drag off the cigarette, and held it. He didn’t say anything.

  I took in a breath, the air sharp and clear in my lungs. I said, “Is it something structural? Because we’ve had some people out to look at it, some experts, and—”

  “What experts?” he said. He turned his head to me. “What did experts have to say about the place? What do they know about the place?” I couldn’t see his face, but on his voice was an edge, not an assumed toughness, but real emotion: hate, I thought, or maybe fear.

  He looked at his feet, shot out a breath. The cigarette hand was down at his side.

  “I’m sorry,” Grady said to the ground. Tom looked at me, and back to Grady, cleared his throat. I could feel my hands in my coat pockets begin to sweat.

  “It’s just that,” Grady said, and looked straight up into the night. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, just barely lifting one foot off the ground, placing it gently back on the pavement, lifting the other. “Just that, Jesus. That that’s the house where my daddy grew up. The house where he was born. In that old house Martin and I go out to three times a year. And my grandfather, my grandfather never asked me about selling the house. He never even asked. That’s what’s wrong.”

  I could see now that his eyes were closed, and I lost him. I had no idea who he was, I saw, no idea of his age, where he lived, anything. Maybe Tom was right; maybe he was not to be trusted. For a moment I was frightened, felt the cold burn into my eyes, then remembered this boy, remembered he was only a person, that he had a father and a mother, must have had someplace to live.

  I said, “Where do you live?” a
nd my voice sounded small and fragile in the air. “What do your parents, your daddy, think of this? Selling the house. Have you heard anything from them?”

  “Hah,” Grady said, a loud, violent burst of air, a cloud shooting from inside him. He looked at the ground again, then at us. He took another drag. “My daddy. My daddy. He’s dead, so he doesn’t think much of this arrangement at all. He doesn’t think anything of it, I imagine. He’s dead. He died seven or eight years ago.” He paused a moment, leaned his head a little to one side. He was still shifting his weight, gently rocking from side to side. “Nine years. That’s it. Nine years ago. One tends to forget these things, you know. I was ten years old.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Tom pulled his hand from his coat pocket, put it around me, and I leaned into him.

  “Yeah, me too,” Grady said. He was quiet a few moments, and said, “And my mother. There’s a case. She’s living out in California someplace. Some place named something Spanish. Mission del Mar or something. Jesus, she left about two months after my daddy died.” He stopped, slowly shook his head. He let the cigarette drop in front of him. It hit the ground, and a few sparks floated up, disappeared. He stepped on the butt, moved his foot away, and the three of us stood looking at where the amber piece of light had been only a moment ago.

  He took a deep breath, and put his free hand into his pocket. He shrugged. “That left me reared by my grandparents. My grandmother, well. My grandmother, she’s dead, too. She was beautiful. She was a beautiful lady, and she loved me. She took care of me. But my grandfather. What an old fart.” He paused. “We lived in town here, in this big old thing a few doors down from the coffin factory. You’ve seen that, right?”

  He looked up at us a moment, and I nodded, though I’d only heard of the place, never actually seen it. Kids used to talk about it when I was in school, and would dare one another to ride bikes out here to Florence and past the place at midnight, but I’d never been one to take the dare.

  “I was with them until about four years ago. That was when my grandma died. And that was when I figured to go it on my own.” He was looking straight at us, waiting, I knew, for us to say something about that, about his moving out when he was only fifteen.

  I went along with him. I said, “But you were only fifteen. You were too young.” I took my hands from my coat pockets, crossed my arms, holding myself in this cold.

  “Yeah,” he said, and nodded his head, and I could just make out in the dark the faintest smile on his face. “But I got a job. This job right here. Been here for four years. Believe it? Four years at a rinky-dink Friendly’s.” He laughed. “I think it’s some kind of record. For somebody my age, at least. To be here for that long, I mean.”

  I was starting to get cold now, my feet beginning to feel like stones, my cheeks beginning to tingle. He still hadn’t answered our question. I said, “But the house. Is there something wrong with it?”

  He stood still a moment, quit shifting his feet. He was looking at me, and seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Just then the door at the rear of the restaurant shoved open, and light spilled out onto the cement and pavement.

  Someone leaned out to look at us, and though he was about twenty yards away I could see it was Martin. His head hung there out the door, looking at us.

  Grady quickly turned to the scrape of the door across the ground, to kitchen sounds escaping the building, and I felt warmer. Just that sound, the comfortable sound of glasses and silverware and people talking, warmed me up.

  “Hey hey,” Grady said, almost shouting. “The man of the hour. Come on out and say hi to the—” He turned to us. His eyes were half in light, and were shiny, some moistness caught by the lights of the building. He was smiling. “What was your last name?” he said.

  “Templeton,” Tom said, and took his arm from around me.

  “Templeton,” Martin said from the door, and his voice, taut and high-pitched, seemed to echo with some sort of strength across the lot and through the cold air. He came out wearing only the blue-checked shirt and pants and workboots, and started toward the three of us, his steps heavy, his arms swinging forward and back in an exaggerated gait. He said, “Templeton. That’s a good name,” the word good accented, his voice tightened even more on that word, the pitch a notch higher; and I imagined for a moment someone’s hands around his throat, squeezing out puffs of air, words, ideas from this man’s head and heart, as if forcing them were the only way to get them out.

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” Grady said, and quickly took a few steps toward Martin. Martin stopped, halfway across the lot He let his hands fall to his sides. Grady stopped, too, said, “Now wait a minute. You’re forgetting something, right? What are you forgetting?”

  Martin stood there, crossed his arms, put his hand up to his chin, a pose you could tell was instinct for him, the move so quick and smooth. He said, “I’m thinking.”

  “Good,” Grady said. “But I hope you don’t freeze to death while you’re at it.”

  Martin looked up and snapped his fingers, a loud, hard pop in the air. “Ah,” he said, and wheeled around, taking the same heavy steps back toward the restaurant, where the door still stood open. He disappeared inside.

  Grady hadn’t moved, still stood a few feet out in the lane, half-turned to the door.

  A moment later here was Martin again, now wearing a thick, heavy CPO jacket, green buffalo plaid. He already had it buttoned up to his neck, the collar turned up. He was putting on a knit cap, too, and was walking right toward us. “My coat,” he said, his hands at his head, adjusting the cap, making certain his ears were covered, the cap far enough down on his neck. “And cap.”

  “Precisely,” Grady said, in his voice not condescension, not fun, but congratulations. The sound of encouragement. Martin made it to Grady, who put his hand on Martin’s shoulder, shook it. “Exactly. Great, Martin, great.” They turned and started back toward us.

  Finally Martin stopped adjusting the cap. He said, “Templeton is a good name. It’s a good name.” He put out his hand to Tom. “Tom Templeton,” he said, “my name is Martin Hosmer.”

  Slowly Tom took his hand from his pocket and shook. This, too, was an exaggerated movement, Martin working his hand up and down five or six times, then stopping suddenly.

  He turned to me. He said, “Claire Templeton is a good name, too.”

  He held out his hand, and I took it. We shook just as he and Tom had: up and down, up and down, up and down, the sudden stop. His hand had been warm in mine, and I thought of him washing dishes back in the Friendly’s, the hot water and clouds of steam.

  He said, “Is your hand okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, “just fine. No problems anymore.” I heard my voice. It was still too loud.

  “Good.” He nodded several times and sort of bowed at the same time, his eyes on my hand, then me, then my hand again.

  “Well,” Grady said, and took his hand off Martin’s shoulder. He put his hands together in front of him, and started the rocking movement again. “I don’t know what it is your experts told you, but there’s not anything wrong with the place. I showed you around. I showed you some of the basic troubles of the place, but none of that’s of any matter, really. And that’s all the problems I know of, actually. But I’ll tell you what.” He paused a moment and glanced at Martin, who now stood with his hands clasped in front of himself, too. “I’ll tell you what. Martin, here, well. Martin here is good with wood. He’s good with fixing things, with telling what’s good wood or what’s bad, weak places in the wood and stuff.” He put his hand to Martin’s shoulder again.

  Martin gave a quick shrug, almost too fast to catch. He was looking at the ground, grinning.

  “We’ll meet you on Saturday morning,” Grady went on, looking now at Tom. “And we’ll look the place up and down to see what really needs to be done. What do you think?”

  Tom said nothing for a few moments. We stood there, the four of us, our breath
s turning the circle of air before us into thin veils of white in the dark.

  Tom said, “Okay.” He seemed to straighten his shoulders, set his jaw, and I knew that to be a look of resolve. He pushed himself from off the trunk. His feet were spread. He said, “This Saturday. Around 11:00.”

  “Great,” Grady said, and he turned, an instant later Martin turning, too, and they headed back toward the rear of the restaurant.

  I said, “Where are you guys going? Aren’t you off work now?”

  Grady turned and, walking backward, called out, “Oh yeah. We’re heading home. Got to get the bikes.”

  Martin disappeared behind the large, black dumpster pushed up against the back wall of the restaurant, then Grady went behind it, too. Tom and I looked at each other again.

  From behind the dumpster came first Grady, then Martin, both pushing bicycles, three-speeds, I could see, Martin’s with wire side baskets, Grady’s with a wire basket fixed to the handlebars. They came toward us and into the lane; Grady put one foot on a pedal, took two quick steps with the other foot, and climbed onto the bike.

  Martin, only a few feet behind him, did the same, and the two were riding through the lot.

  “Grady,” Tom called out. “What about a phone number?”

  Grady was almost at the entrance to the lot, but wheeled sharply back toward us, Martin, again, doing the same, and as they came toward us I could see their generator headlights, the dull yellow light given off because they were moving so slowly through the lot. They reached us, and Grady said, “No phone. That’s a luxury. I’m a runaway, remember?” Slowly he passed by us, and then came Martin, his hands gripping the handlebars, his eyes on the rear tire of Grady’s bike. He had a huge grin on his face, sheer joy, I imagined, at follow-the-leader through the Friendly’s parking lot.

  “I’ve got to get Martin over to his place,” Grady said, and turned back toward the entrance. “Then I’m on my way.” He was quiet a moment, and said, “You two ought to get bikes, too. Keeps a human being healthy.” He took his hands from the handlebars, and clapped them to his chest a couple of times. “Just breathe that night air,” he shouted.