The Walker in Shadows

by Barbara Michaels

  All those years the house next door stood empty, tied up in legal complications-or perhaps, for Mr. Platt was no fool, being held for the inevitable rise in price. The shrubbery grew taller and ranker every year. Occasionally old Hiram hacked some of the weeds down, but he did not discourage the growths that ensured his privacy.

  As Pat sat sipping her coffee and watching the moving men struggle through the windy weather with their bur-dens, she could deduce where many of the pieces of furni-ture would go. The houses were not only duplicates, they were mirror images of one another. The oriel window in her bedroom faced the oriel in the master bedroom next door. Unfortunately the Gothic tracery and small panes made it impossible for her to see inside the room, but she assumed that the heavy carved headboard of the Victorian double bed would be placed in the master bedroom, along with the matching dresser and marble-topped washstand. The smaller dresser, painted white-French provincial probably, though she couldn't make out the details-must belong to a girl child, unless husband and wife had separate bedrooms. The second-best bedroom, corresponding to the one Mark occupied, was at the back of the house, on the same side as the master bedroom. Perhaps the white furniture would go in that room. She had seen only two dressers carried in, which didn't necessarily prove that only two bedrooms would be in use…

  At that point in her speculations her front-door bell rang.

  Pat peered through the spyhole in the door before she opened it. When they first bought the house, she didn't even bother locking the doors most of the time. But the city was moving out to join them, and with it came fear.

  What she saw through the spyhole, grotesquely distorted by the glass, was a face set in a hideous leer. Fingers wriggled at each ear and a long pink tongue protruded.

  Pat opened the door.

  " Nancy. How nice to see your lovely face."

  Nancy 's hair was bright red-the result of art, not nature. She was twenty pounds overweight, and was always on a diet. That morning she was wearing a padded jacket belonging to one of her large sons. It did nothing for her figure.

  "Have you seen the new neighbors yet?" she asked, shedding the jacket. "What kind of furniture do they have? I didn't realize you were home; why didn't you call me? If I hadn't seen your car when I happened to take a walk-"

  "On a day like this?" Pat grinned at her neighbor, whose dislike of healthy exercise was as notorious as her constant dieting.

  Nancy grinned back. She had very large white teeth; in any other woman the dental display might have been alarming, suggestive of werewolves. Combined with Nancy 's snub nose and plump cheeks, the teeth were rather endearing.

  "Damn you, you're always catching me in my little lies. All right, I came because I was dying of curiosity. I planned to break a shoelace or something outside their gate. But this is better. Don't tell me you weren't looking."

  "Of course I was. Let me warm up the coffee and then we'll go back to my room. I've got a beautiful view from the corner window."

  Perched on a kitchen stool, Nancy continued to chatter while Pat heated the coffee and toasted English muffins. She was Pat's closest friend on "the street," as its inhabitants called it. She was also the neighborhood gossip, and proud of the title. When you wondered why the police cars had been parked outside Number 146 last night, you called Nancy. She always knew, just as she was the first to know that the Andersons had finally split up and that the funny-looking white dog that knocked over your garbage can belonged to the Dunlaps on Azalea Court. But she had a heart as big as her curiosity; hurt children and weeping wives carried their problems to her, and every stray dog and cat in the area arrived at her back door, as if the Humane Society had drawn them a map.

  Pat poured coffee and offered cream and sugar. Nancy took both, and helped herself lavishly to raspberry jam, heaping it on the toasted muffins. A raspberry patch had been one of the amenities to emerge from the weeds when Jerry started his yard work; Pat made jam every summer, and pies too. Jerry loved red raspberry pie.

  Carrying their snack, they went upstairs and sat down in the window seat. Jud sat on Nancy 's feet, drooling in a disgusting fashion. Like all dogs, he knew a sucker when he met one. Nancy fed him scraps of muffin, but her eyes were glued to the window.

  "A piano! A baby grand, no less… Somebody is musical."

  "Brilliant deduction," Pat said affectionately. "Maybe the daughter plays. You did say there was a daughter?"

  "Mm-hmm. High-school age. Most of them take piano lessons, don't they?"

  "Some of them do." Like Pat, Nancy lacked female children. She had four boys, ranging in age from ten to eighteen. Nancy pretended to know nothing of the habits of young girls, although her home often overflowed with them. Her boys were handsome and popular, and, as Nancy often complained, young girls these days had no modesty at all, the way they chased the boys.

  "Maybe Friedrichs plays himself," she went on indistinctly, through a mouthful of muffin and jam. "No reason why a lawyer shouldn't play the piano, I guess. A baby grand seems a little lavish for a teenager, unless she's a juvenile Myra Hess."

  "Maybe it belongs to Mrs. Friedrichs," Pat suggested, knowing that this game of endless, fruitless speculation was one of Nancy 's favorite activities. Pat rather enjoyed it herself. Had not Jane Austen written great novels about the minutiae of neighborhood life?

  "My dear, didn't I tell you?" Having finished her muffin, Nancy gave Pat her full attention. Her black eyes widened. "There is no Mrs. Friedrichs. Or if there is, she's sick, or in Europe, or something. I've seen him- Friedrichs-several times. When the painters were here, last month. I tell you, sweetie, if I weren't happily married to my darling fat little bald husband, I'd set my cap for Mr. F. He's rather gorgeous-tall and muscular and long-legged. And he's got hair. It's beginning to turn gray, but it's so nice and thick." Nancy paused for a deep breath, and continued before Pat could comment on this ingenuous description. "Norma-you know how nosy she is- Norma introduced herself to him one time, imagine her nerve. He told her his daughter was in school-"

  "Ah, so that's how you found out about the daughter," Pat said, highly entertained. "Didn't Norma ask him about his wife?"

  "Yes, she did. Not that bluntly, of course; even Norma wouldn't have so much gall. She said something about looking forward to meeting Mrs. Friedrichs… Well, my dear! Talk about black looks! He just glared at her and walked away, at least that's what Norma said."

  "So maybe he's divorced. It's common enough."

  "Or maybe he's a widower." Nancy gave Pat a candidly speculative look. That was one of the things Pat liked about her. Paradoxical as it might seem, widowhood was easier to endure if people took it for granted, without apologies or excessive delicacy. But this time Pat shook her head, smiling.

  "Don't matchmake, Nancy. It's a repulsive habit."

  "You don't need anyone to make matches for you. Once you make up your own mind…" Nancy left it at that. She turned her attention back to the window. "That chest of drawers looks like Sheraton. Handsome piece of furniture."

  "Could be a good reproduction." Pat pressed her forehead against the glass, squinting, but details were hard to make out. They were all more or less interested in antiques. The whole neighborhood was history-conscious, especially since the Bicentennial.

  The movers began carrying in carton after carton, anonymous in their brown cardboard concealment. But Nancy could speculate even about cardboard boxes.

  " China and glassware? No, the boxes are too small. Books, maybe. He's got a lot of them, hasn't he? Anyhow, Norma figured something nasty had gone wrong with the marriage, and fairly recently, or he wouldn't have looked so angry. After Norma told me he was a lawyer I asked Sol Jacobs if he'd ever heard of him, and he had. He's from Chicago. Friedrichs, I mean, not Sol. Had his own practice there, Sol said, quite a good one. Now he's come to work for the Justice Department."

  "A political appointment?"

  "I guess so." Nancy dismissed this with a shrug of her plump shoulders. Her husband wa
s a contractor, and she shared the nonpoliticals' mild contempt for those who ate from the government trough, as she put it. "He must have money, don't you think? I mean, a grand piano, and the house wasn't cheap… And look at that!"

  It was a massive sideboard, black with age and covered with ornate carving, so heavy that the whole crew had to lend a hand to transport it.

  "Jacobean," Pat guessed, her nose flat against the glass. "If that's genuine, it is a magnificent piece of furniture."

  Carved chairs and a trestle table followed the sideboard. The two women were so engrossed they failed to hear Jud's whine of welcome, or the footsteps ascending the stairs. Mark had been tiptoeing-purposely.

  "Aha," he shouted, in the bass tones of a villain in a melodrama. "Caught you!"

  Both women jumped. Nancy banged her head on the paneling and swore.

  "Damn you, Mark, what's the idea of sneaking up on us like that? You scared me out of a year's growth."

  "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," Mark said. "The Snoop Sisters! Haven't you anything better to do with your time?"

  He flung himself onto the chaise longue and swung his leg over the end.

  "Take your feet off the couch," Pat said automatically.

  Mark frowned at her, but obeyed. When his black brows drew together he looked unnervingly like his father, which was odd, because all his features were his mother's, from his curly brown hair and pointed nose to his full-lipped mouth. Only recently had Pat realized that she had let him get away with too much this past year because it was easier for her to cope with Mark's smile than with Jerry's frown, on Mark's face.

  "It's almost noon," he went on. "Here's the starving student, back from class, no lunch ready, not even a piece of bread defrosting. And here's his doting mum with her nose glued to the window, spying on the next-door neighbors. Helluva note."

  "You cook your own lunch most days anyway," Nancy said unsympathetically. "And when your poor mother is home sick in bed-"

  Mark let out a wordless hoot of derision.

  "She's a malingerer," he said, dwelling pleasurably on the syllables. "She conned me into getting her a magnifi-cent gourmet breakfast, and now look at her. Blooming with health. It was a trick, wasn't it? Just so you could stay home and snoop on the new neighbors. I mean, women are really-"

  "Spare me the analysis," Nancy interrupted. "I get enough of that kind of juvenile impertinence at home. Isn't there something you should be doing, Mark? Homework, or baseball practice, or-"

  Mark rose to his full height, which was considerably over six feet.

  "I see through your machinations, Mrs. Groft," he said crushingly. "You know full well that basketball is my game, not baseball. You ought to know, since your own son is on the team. But I can take a hint. I do not need to have a brick wall fall on me. As a matter of fact, I have many worthwhile things to do. I am meeting a friend for a spot of lunch. Are you sure, dearest mother, that I cannot do anything for your hypochondria before I leave?"

  "No," Pat said. "I mean, yes, I'm sure. Don't be late for dinner."

  "When am I ever late?" Mark ambled out before she had time to deliver the crushing reply his question deserved. Jud trailed hopefully after him. Sometimes Mark took him for rides. He liked going in the car with Mark. They went nice and fast, with loud music playing and the windows down, so that the wind blew delightfully through his ears.

  But this time Mark abandoned him. The women upstairs heard the door slam, and a mournful howl from Jud. Then they saw Mark saunter down the walk.

  He had parked his car, a cherished antique Studebaker, on the street, instead of going to the bother of opening the gate. The whole lot, something over two acres, was fenced. It had cost a small fortune, but Jerry had insisted on doing it when they bought the dog. The county leash law was seldom observed in that semirural area, but Jerry had had strong views on letting animals run loose, to annoy neighbors and endanger themselves on the highways.

  The boxwood hedge along the front fence had been trimmed in the fall and had not yet gained its spring growth. Pat and Nancy had a clear view of Mark's head and shoulders as he strolled toward his car, rather more slowly than was his wont. Then they caught a glimpse of something else, something as bright gold as sunshine on a summer day, moving along on a level considerably below Mark's gangling height. Nancy nudged Pat.

  "That must be the daughter."

  She was blond-that much was apparent. Something else became equally apparent as the two women watched, although they saw no more of the girl than the top of her shining hair. Mark saw her at the same time the overhead watchers did. He came to a stop, so suddenly that he rocked back on his heels. The shining fair head stopped too, facing Mark. It was on a level with his shoulders.

  Mark turned slightly and leaned against the fence, folding his arms in what he probably hoped was a pose of sophisticated nonchalance. Tilting his head attentively, he seemed to listen as the invisible girl spoke. Then he burst into laughter, his shoulders shaking, his mouth opening wide.

  "It's as good as an old Laurel and Hardy silent film," said Nancy, enthralled. "Pretty soon another suitor will come along with the custard pie."

  "She must be very pretty," Pat said, trying to raise herself high enough to see over the hedge, but failing. "Mark wouldn't react that way unless she was-"

  "I knew it!" Nancy hooted with laughter. "Here comes the third angle of the triangle."

  "He's too old to be a suitor," Pat said. "He's wearing a hat. Have you ever known a nineteen-year-old boy to wear a hat? Or a raincoat?"

  The newcomer's height almost matched Mark's, but he was heavier and broader of shoulder. Rain had begun to streak the window, so the snoopers were unable to see his face clearly, shadowed as it was by the hat brim. Pat got an impression of strongly marked features, heavy eyebrows, and a general air of disapproval-though she could not have specified the precise reasons for that impression.

  "It's Friedrichs," Nancy said, swiping vainly at the wet pane. "I think… Damn this rain."

  "Whoever he is, he's the winner," Pat said, as the blond head turned and retreated, side by side with the raincoat and the hat. Mark stood staring after them, oblivious of the rain that was falling more heavily, streaking his face and flattening his hair.

  "He hasn't got an umbrella," Pat said, swinging her feet down to the floor.

  Nancy caught her arm.

  "Does he own an umbrella? Mine wouldn't be caught dead carrying one. He won't take cold, they never do-at least not from getting wet. Doesn't he look ridiculous?" Nancy chuckled. "That's why he came home, the little hypocrite. One of the boys must have told him about the girl. Lecturing us on snooping, and then-"

  "You're mean," Pat said, watching her son slouch slowly toward his car. His head was still turned in the direction of the house into which the fair head had disappeared. He stumbled over an obstruction of some kind and kept his feet only by a comic series of contortions.

  Nancy 's laughter increased in volume.

  "Serves him right," she said heartlessly. "I hope he's thoroughly smitten. He's broken enough hearts in his time. He's ripe for a painful love affair."

  "Maybe you're right," Pat said, smiling.

  Later she was to remember Nancy 's comment, and wonder whether she would have agreed with it if she had had any premonition of how peculiarly painful this affair would be, not only for Mark, but for the others who were about to be drawn into its perilous course.

  II

  As Pat suffered through the first months of widowhood she realized that the greatest thing Jerry had done for her was to help her cultivate independence. Bad as those months were, they would have been worse if she had not learned to think of herself as a complete person in her own right. In losing Jerry she had lost the most joyful part of her life, but she had not lost part of herself. She was not maimed.

  Not that it came that easily, or was that consciously acknowledged. It had never been conscious, on either part. Jerry had been that rare creature, an adu
lt human being. He gave freely and accepted only willing gifts. They fought, of course. Like his son, Jerry had a quick, indignant temper and a loud voice. He was as impatient of cruelty as he was of deliberate stupidity. But their arguments were always about acts or ideas, never about personalities, and some of the loudest concerned Pat's tendency-as her husband viewed it-to let other people take advantage of her.

  Mark was the most consistent offender. Jerry admitted that it was natural for a child, the most egocentric of all creatures, to demand unreasonable concessions from parents; but he maintained that the only way to teach people consideration for others was to force them to be considerate. One of his pet hates was what he called the guilty-parent syndrome.

  "You've been reading that damned child-behavior column again," he would roar at Pat, when she agonized over some imagined failure in dealing with their son. "Damn it, you're a good mother! You know a lot more about how to raise a child than some fool psychologist who sits in his office all day writing columns. You're not guilty! Stop feeling guilty or I'll rap you!"

  At four o'clock on that rainy day when the new neighbors moved in, Pat went down to the kitchen and began cooking a large, elaborate dinner. Maybe Mark had not meant his criticism to make her feel guilty. On the other hand, he probably had.

  Pat shook her head, smiling ruefully, as she gathered the ingredients for Mark's favorite, made-from-scratch muffins. At least she knew why she was going to so much trouble, on a day when she really didn't feel too great.