Child's Play

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Help him,” Alex said. It was a sharp, crisp command. Richard raised his eyebrows. Alex had an authoritative stature, but there was something reasonable in the tone of his voice. Normally, Richard would have shrugged and taken his time. Instead, he turned quickly and went to his bags. It became important for him to take them all by himself, and especially important to take the heavy one that made Mr. Kaplan grunt and strain. Reluctantly, the social worker surrendered his hold.

  “I can help you,” Kaplan protested.

  “It’s OK. I got ’em,” Richard snapped. Kaplan shrugged and stepped back as Richard worked his way up the steps. Alex looked very satisfied. For a moment his gaze locked with Richard’s. Then he held out his right hand and Richard permitted him to take the heavy bag.

  “Welcome to Echo Lake Manor. Your room will be the third on the right on the second floor.”

  “So, here we are,” Mr. Kaplan said, starting up the steps. Alex put his hand out in stop-traffic fashion.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Kaplan. I’ll take it from here. I want the boy to feel at home immediately.”

  “I just thought…”

  “My wife has lunch ready. It’ll be all right.”

  “Oh sure.” The field rep backed off the first step. “You know where to reach us if there are any problems.”

  “There’ll be no problems,” Alex said. He put his hand on Richard’s shoulder and moved him into the house. Kaplan watched the door close and then got into the car and drove away. What did he care if someone made his job easier?

  Richard was surprised at the inside of the house. Unlike the exterior, the interior was so well cared for it looked like rooms in a museum. He had to pause to look into the sitting room on his right. The dark brown and black plaid rug in it joined with the grey runner that led down the corridor to the stairway and kitchen straight off to the left. The floor rugs looked worn, but spotless and preserved.

  The sitting room was like a store. He had never seen a room in a house filled with so many things. At first he looked at them with a thief’s eye. He had a vague understanding that antiques and old things like these had a resale value, although he had no idea what any particular thing would be worth. The dark paneled walls were covered with shelves, all of which were filled with pewter figures, some of animals, some of people. There were little glass dishes and cups that looked so fragile they might break if touched. He saw old silverware and all sorts of knickknacks.

  There was a rather large portrait of an attractive woman on the wall. She looked nice. There was something about the expression on her face that made Richard long to know who she was.

  “That’s my mother,” Alex said, anticipating the question. “We had a rather talented guest, an artist, who did the portrait. It earned him two week’s free stay. In those days money didn’t matter as much as it does today. Things mattered; people mattered.”

  “What is this place, a museum?”

  “Hardly,” Alex said, and laughed. “This is the study. It has its own atmosphere, as do many other rooms in the Manor. You’ll understand once you live here a while.”

  Richard nodded, and Alex thought he might already understand what he meant.

  “My father loved this room.”

  “I guess he was a collector, huh?”

  “My mother was the collector. My father couldn’t have cared less about most of this stuff. Come on, let me show you your room. Then we’ve got to get down to the kitchen. Sharon’s been cooking all morning. You’d better have an appetite.”

  “I always have an appetite.”

  “Good,” Alex said. He kept his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “But you should have an appetite for many things, not just food.”

  “Whaddya mean?” They started up the stairs.

  “An appetite for music, art, for literature…for life.”

  “I’ll stick to food,” Richard said. Alex laughed, but it was such a warm, understanding laugh that Richard had to stop and smile at him.

  He was impressed with his bedroom: the double bed with brass head, the matching dressers and desk, the nice closet and the clean, soft blue rug. He especially loved the view from the window. He could see down the small hill to the lake and the dock and across the water. There were some homes scattered along the far shore. All his life he had lived in urban settings, in apartments or houses within the inner city. This was so different and exciting that he permitted himself to feel less cynical and angry.

  He felt Alex put his arm around him again. For some reason, he didn’t resent it. He always hated it when men like Mr. Kaplan did that. He sensed their contrived friendliness, their professional distance. There was a coldness they couldn’t hide. He could actually feel it through their fingers on his shoulders.

  “I think you’ll have privacy here. Ever have your own room before?”

  “Yeah. But it was never as good as this,” he added quickly.

  Alex said nothing. When Richard turned around, he saw that he was staring intently at him. Ordinarily he would have been frightened or annoyed by such a thing, but there was something about Alex’s eyes. There was understanding in them, and sympathy, but also a look of genuine pleasure. Alex wanted someone like him. He could see it in his face and it made him feel significant. With other guardians, he had felt like a beggar.

  “ALEX.” They heard Sharon’s yell punctuated by the Scottish terrier’s barking.

  “Just leave everything for now. Sharon’s calling. Lunch.”

  She was at the bottom of the stairway, Dinky crouched and barking beside her. She reached down to pick him up to quiet him as they came down.

  “Welcome,” she said. “It’ll take a little while for the dog to get used to someone else in the house.” Richard looked at it and the animal quieted some. Sharon extended her hand hesitantly. This time Richard actually grasped it and shook. She laughed nervously. “I hope you like ziti in meat sauce.”

  “Sure.”

  “Boy’s got to build up,” Alex said, squeezing Richard’s upper arm gently. “Only good food. Only the best.” He patted him on the shoulder, and the three of them went to the kitchen.

  Richard ate, aware that Sharon was studying him. Alex was nonchalant, behaving as though nothing had changed, as though Richard had been living there all his life. It was Sharon who forced the small talk, asking questions about his schooling, his favorite foods, his daily schedule. Alex came alive on the last item.

  “We’ll help him organize his day, Sharon. I’m sure that’s been one of Richard’s problems—getting it together, huh Richard?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, I could help you with your math homework,” she said. “I was always good in math.”

  Richard looked at her as though she were someone totally out of touch with reality. It made Alex laugh. Sharon began scampering about the kitchen, moving in little jerks—putting a dish in the sink, wiping a spot on the counter, turning off the tea kettle. Richard was reminded of pigeons in the park—trotting from side to side, unsure of which person would feed them.

  He paused in his eating to look about the room. It was a big kitchen, long and narrow, with plenty of counter space and a lot more cabinets than he had seen in most kitchens. Although the stove was clean and polished, it looked old. There were two standing freezers and a double-door refrigerator behind him, all of a more modern vintage. The kitchen floor was bare hardwood slats, but it looked shiny and as clean as the day it had been put down. He wondered if Sharon was one of those crazy housekeepers who got wild over the sight of a crumb.

  After the meal he and Alex went out on the front porch to talk. Alex told him about the Manor, how it had been a busy tourist house at one time, how he had grown up here, and why he had decided not to keep it up as a resort after his mother passed away.

  “My father never helped much. He wasn’t interested in this work. I’ll tell you more about him sometime,” Alex said. “I want you to feel at home here. I want you to spread out and be comfortable.”


  “Do you use that lake? I mean go rowing or fishing?”

  “No, I don’t,” Alex said, somewhat curtly, “but maybe sometime in the future you can.”

  “I don’t know much about Sandburg,” Richard said, nodding toward the town. “Looked like Hick City when we rode through.”

  “Well there’s not much to it, if that’s what you mean. Population of about twelve hundred year round. But most of the young people are partly city people. There’s so much contact with New Yorkers because of the resort season. You’re originally from Jersey City?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember much about it.”

  “I don’t imagine you would want to. Mrs. Hoffman told me you saw your mother overdose on heroin when you were only six.”

  “So?” Richard’s eyes flashed a mixture of anger and fear.

  “My mother didn’t have the decency to live more than an hour after my birth.”

  “But I thought…”

  “And my father didn’t have the courage to identify himself.”

  “You mean…”

  “That’s right. I was an orphan, adopted. Sort of a foster child from birth.” He slapped his knee and stood up. “Well, you want to take a walk to town? I’ll show you where the school bus stops and give you a little tour through the village. People around here might as well get used to seeing you.”

  Richard heard Sharon in the house and looked back.

  “What about Sharon?”

  “She has her work; I have mine.”

  “What is your work?”

  “I’m an investor,” Alex said as they moved down the porch steps. “For years I’ve been investing in land, projects, businesses. Now, I’m investing in people.”

  Richard looked up at him. Alex was smiling. The look in his eyes was fascinating—almost, but not quite frightening. Alex put his arm around him and laughed. Richard felt lightheaded and excited. He glanced back at the Manor and thought: this is different; this is really going to be different.

  2

  Sharon was on the front porch waiting for them when they returned. She had been sitting there quite a while. She was amazed at how animated Alex appeared. He was waving his arms, pointing things out, talking with dramatic gestures. She couldn’t recall him so excited.

  She imagined this was what it would have been like if their son hadn’t been a stillborn. It was just about fourteen years ago too, she thought. How eerie. For a moment she wondered if Alex had been aware of that and had deliberately set out to find a foster child of the right age. Too fantastic, she thought, and certainly bizarre. No, it had to be something of a coincidence.

  In any case, it would have been something like this—Alex tutoring his son, lecturing to him about life. Alex was brilliant, if a little pedantic. Perhaps their son would have rebelled and deliberately rejected the things Alex cherished. He certainly wouldn’t have sat around listening to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana every night. There was something gruesome and dark about the chanting. She had never gotten used to it. To this day, whenever Alex started his recording, she would get up and go into the den to watch television.

  When they drew closer, she saw that the boy didn’t look bored. The expression of sullenness and distrust he had worn at the kitchen table was gone. He was bright and smiling. Dinky jumped off her lap and ran out to greet them, his tail wagging. Richard stroked him on the head and the dog stayed at his feet.

  “You guys have a nice walk?”

  “He saw the metropolis. Of course, Mrs. Feinstein came out to get all the details.”

  Richard laughed.

  “What was so funny?”

  “Alex made up a story about me. He said I was from Jersey City and I won a free trip to the Catskills by collecting the most Coke bottle caps.”

  “Nine thousand eight hundred and seventy-three, to be exact.”

  “Alex, you didn’t.”

  “Serves her right, the old busybody.”

  “Hey Alex, can I go down and look at the boats?”

  “Sure.” Richard ran off toward the hill, the dog at his heels.

  “Dinky likes him,” Sharon said, smiling. “And you like him a lot, don’t you?”

  “He strikes me as an intelligent boy. I think he’ll do well here.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said. For the first time, she believed he really would. It made her consider Alex with even more respect. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do, if he made up his mind to do it.

  She stood up when she saw Richard disappear over the knoll. Perhaps this would be a good thing, she thought. It would bring Alex out of his private world somewhat and tear him away from all those horrible childhood memories. He had no real friends. She had often been afraid that he would grow old and tormented, like his father. At least now he would develop a relationship, other than the one they had. It was one that she never considered complete, especially after he had developed his impotence and they had moved apart physically.

  “I’ll see to the turkey,” she said.

  “You’re feeding him so much you’ll spoil him.”

  “It’s a big occasion, coming into a new home. Besides, I was too nervous to do anything else.” She went inside.

  Alex stood there for a moment looking in the boy’s direction before following her.

  Richard went to his room early that evening. He was tired and excited. He couldn’t remember eating so much in one day. Now he wanted to be alone in his new room so he could think about his new life and his new family. He loved the room, the grounds, and the lake. Mr. Kaplan was right: He could enjoy privacy here, and there would be a lot of room. There was so much to explore, so much to do.

  He thought about Alex and Sharon. She was simple and easy. He saw nothing threatening about her. In fact, she practically tiptoed around Alex and him. He imagined she would stay out of his way. She was nothing like Beneatha Cross, the wife in the last foster home. That woman had been a tyrant. He laughed remembering how he had set fire to her wardrobe closet. Served her right, the old bitch.

  Alex was a puzzle. Sometimes he seemed very young. And then, at other times, Alex acted much older than he looked. Yet he had to admit his first impressions of him were good. He liked being around him, liked the way he talked. He especially liked the way he sized up people, capturing them with a single remark, like when he’d said, “Mrs. Hoffman is a woman who keeps her private life locked in cellophane.” The image made Richard laugh. Then he realized it wasn’t so stupid. Alex was saying Mrs. Hoffman was a phoney; you could see right through her.

  Darkness had fallen so quickly, it surprised him. When he stopped thinking so hard, he realized he was lying in an unlit room. The moonlight was insufficient because the moon was at the other side of the house. Even so, when he stood up and went to the window, he was fascinated by the silver glow on the lake. The water was so still it looked like part of a painted landscape. Only a few of the houses on the other side had windows lit.

  There was barely a breeze. The trees looked frozen, their shadows carved into the grounds. The world appeared dreamlike. Perhaps it was unreal; perhaps he wasn’t really in a new home at all. He opened the window to feel the cool night air. It was then that he saw something move below. He followed the liquid darkness until it took the form of Alex Gold.

  Alex moved silently, as though in a trance. To Richard he seemed to be gliding toward the lake. He went down the knoll and stood near the dock, gazing out over the water. Richard wondered. Who was this man who was so eager to take him in? Some foster parents did it for the money; some did it because they were lonely. Others were do-gooders. He felt that none of these reasons were Alex’s.

  Richard heard Sharon on the landing and turned to listen as she entered her room. When he looked back out the window, Alex was gone. None of the shadows moved. There was only the moonlight, the darkness, and the silver lake.

  He went to bed. Later, just before he fell into sleep, he heard Alex come up the stairs. He followed the sound of the footsteps,
realizing that they led right to his door. For a few moments he listened hard, holding his breath to concentrate. There was a deep silence, but he felt certain Alex was just outside his door, standing there listening for him.

  After a few moments Alex walked away. Richard heard the door to his room close. It was very quiet again. He thought he heard the sound of whispering, but realized it was only the breeze. He fought the weight of his eyelids for as long as he could and then he retreated into his own darkness.

  It got so it was just like looking at a clone: His eyes were often as intense; his posture was just as correct; his diction improved and became as clear and as sharp. Most of all it was the tone of his voice, especially whenever he spoke to her. It was Alex’s tone, sometimes condescending, sometimes humoring, sometimes indifferent, and sometimes sweet. Sharon wasn’t sure exactly when it happened. Suddenly one day she noticed it and it frightened her.

  When she thought about it, she realized it wasn’t difficult to understand how it happened. From the very first week the boy had arrived, he and Alex were inseparable. She knew it was wrong of her, but she couldn’t help being jealous. She had thought she would play a major role in the boy’s life, but all she was doing was cooking the meals and cleaning clothes. Alex had never spent much time with her, and now even that was diminished.

  Alex would be there waiting for Richard when the school bus dropped him off. He helped him with his homework and he fixed up a little gym in one section of the basement. They would go for long walks on the grounds and talk. They never asked her to go along and she rarely knew of what they spoke. At first she thought Alex might be relating his past, telling the boy about his father, but whenever she did hear them talking, they were talking about more up-to-date subjects. When she asked about the other conversations, Alex said, “I’m just trying to build up the boy’s self-image.”

  It was characteristic of Alex to go at something full force and completely whenever he chose something, so she wasn’t totally surprised by his intensity. She could respect that. What she hated was that they were being so private about their relationship. It made her feel lonely. Once she offered to walk along with them.