Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers

by Strangers(Lit)

  him going, and nothing he told her was more than she could cope with.

  Indeed, her spirits rose, for she was increasingly certain that she knew

  what was wrong with him and how he might be helped.

  He finished, his voice low and thin. "So . . . is that the reward

  for all the years of hard work and careful financial planning? Premature

  senility? Now, when we can really start enjoying what we've earned, am

  I going to wind up with my brains all scrambled, drooling, pissing my

  pants, useless to myself and a burden on you? Twenty years before my

  time?

  Christ, Faye, I've always realized that life isn't fair, but I never

  thought the deck was stacked against me this bad."

  "It won't be like that." She reached across the table and took his hand.

  "Sure, Alzheimer's can strike people even younger than you, but this

  isn't Alzheimer's. From what I've read, from the way it was with my

  father, I don't think the onset of senility-premature or otherwise-is

  ever like this. What it sounds like is a simple phobia. Phobia. Some

  people have an irrational fear of flying or heights. For some reason,

  you've developed a fear of the dark. It can be overcome."

  "But phobias just don't develop overnight, do they?"

  Their right hands were still clasped. She squeezed his as she said, "Do

  you remember Helen Dorfman? Almost twenty-four years ago. Our landlady

  when you were first assigned to Camp Pendleton."

  "Oh, yeah! The building on Vine Street, lived in number one, first

  floor front. We lived in number six." He seemed to take heart from his

  ability to recall those details. "She had a cat . . . Sable.

  Remember how the damn cat took a liking to us, left little gifts on our

  doorstep?"

  "Dead mice."

  "Yeah. Right there beside the morning paper and the milk,"

  He laughed, blinked, and said, "Hey, I see what you mean by bringing up

  Helen Dorfinan! She was afraid to go out of her apartment. Couldn't

  even walk out on her own lawn."

  "The poor woman had agoraphobia," Faye said. "An irrational fear of

  open spaces. She was a prisoner in her own home. Outside, she was

  overwhelmed with fear. Doctors call it a 'panic attack,' I think."

  "Panic attack," Ernie said softly. "Yeah, that's it, all right."

  "And Helen didn't develop her agoraphobia till she was thirty-five,

  after her husband died. Phobias can spring up suddenly, later in life."

  "Well, whatever the hell a phobia is, wherever it comes from ... I

  guess it's a lot better than senility. But good God, I don't want to

  spend the rest of my life being afraid of the dark."

  "You won't have to," Faye said. "Twenty-four years ago, nobody

  understood phobias. There hadn't been much study done. No effective

  treatments. But it's not like that now. I'm sure it's not."

  He was silent a moment. "I'm not crazy, Faye."

  "I know that, you big jerk."

  He mulled over the word "phobia, and he plainly wanted to believe her

  answer. In his blue eyes, she saw a rebirth of hope.

  He said, "But the weird experience I had on the interstate on

  Tuesday.... And the hallucination-I'm sure it must've been a

  hallucination-of the motorcyclist on the roof.... How does stuff like

  that fit this explanation? How could that be a part of my phobia?"

  "I don't know. But an expert in the field could explain it all and tie

  it together. I'm sure it's not as unusual as it seems, Ernie."

  He pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But how do we begin?

  Where do we go for help? How do I beat this damn thing?"

  "I already have it figured out," she said. "No doctor in Elko is going

  to know how to treat a case like this. We need a specialist, someone

  who deals with phobic patients every day. Probably isn't anyone like

  that in Reno, either. We'll have to go to a bigger city. Now, I

  suspect Milwaukee's big enough to have a doctor with experience in these

  things, and we could stay with Lucy and Frank-"

  "And at the same time get to see a lot of Frank, Jr., and Dorie," Ernie

  said, smiling at the thought of his grandchildren.

  "Right. We'll go there for Christmas a week sooner than planned, this

  Sunday instead of next. Which is tomorrow, in fact. It's already

  Saturday. When we get to Milwaukee, we'll look up a doctor. If, by New

  Year's, it looks like we'll have to stay there awhile, then I'll fly

  back here, find a full-time couple to manage the place, and rejoin you.

  We were planning to hire somebody this spring, anyway."

  "If we close the motel a week early, Sandy and Ned will lose out on some

  money over at the Grille."

  "Ned will still get the truckers off the interstate. And if he doesn't

  do as well as usual, we'll make it up to him."

  Ernie shook his head and smiled. "You've got it all worked out. You're

  something, Faye. You sure are. You're an absolute wonder."

  "Well, I will admit I can be dazzling sometimes."

  "I thank God every day that I found you," he said. "I don't have any

  regrets either, Ernie, and I know I never will."

  "You know, I feel a thousand percent better than when we first sat down

  here. Why'd it take me so damn long to ask you for help?"

  "Why? Because you're a Block," she said.

  He grinned and finished the old joke: "Which is only one step removed

  from a blockhead."

  They laughed. He grabbed her hand again and kissed it. "That's the

  first real laugh I've had in weeks. We're a terrific team, Faye. We

  can face anything together, can't we?"

  "Anything," she agreed.

  It was Saturday, December 14, near dawn, and Faye Block was sure they

  would come out on top of their current problem, just as they had always

  come out on top before when they worked together, side by side.

  She, like Ernie, had already forgotten the unidentified Polaroid

  photograph that they had received in a plain envelope last Tuesday.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  On an intricately crocheted doily, on the highly polished maple dresser,

  lay black gloves and a stainless-steel ophthalmo scope.

  Ginger Weiss stood at a window to the left of the dresser, looking out

  at the bay, where the gray water seemed to be a mirror image of the

  ashen mid-December sky. Farther shores were hidden by a lingering

  morning mist that shimmered with a pearly luminosity. At the end of the

  Hannaby property, at the bottom of a rocky slope, a private dock thrust

  out into the choppy bay. The dock was covered with snow, as was the

  long expanse of lawn leading back to the house.

  It was a big house, built in the 1850s, with new rooms added in 1892, in

  1905, and again in 1950. The brick driveway curved beneath an enormous

  front portico, and broad thick steps led up to massive doors. Pillars,

  pilasters, carved granite lintels above doors and windows, a multitude

  of gables and circular dormers, bay-facing second-story balconies at the

  back, and a large widow's walk on the roof contributed to an impression

  of majesty.

  Even for a surgeon as successful as George, the house might have been

  too expensive, but he had not needed to buy it. He had inherited the

 
place from his father, and his father had inherited it from George's

  grandfather, and his father had bought it in 1884. The house even had a

  name-Baywatch-like ancestral homes in British novels, and more than

  anything else, that inspired awe in Ginger. Houses in Brooklyn, where

  she came from, did not have their own names.

  At Memorial, Ginger never felt uncomfortable around George. There, he

  was a figure of authority and respect, but he seemed to have his roots

  in common stock like everyone else. At Baywatch, however, Ginger was

  aware of the patrician heritage, and that made George different from

  her. He never invoked a claim to privilege. That would not be like

  him. But the ghost of the New England patriciate haunted the rooms and

  corridors of Baywatch, often making her feel out of place.

  The corner guest suite-bedroom, reading alcove, and bathin which Ginger

  had been settled for the past ten days, was simpler than many chambers

  in Baywatch, and there she was almost as comfortable as in her own

  apartment. Most of the pegged-oak floor was covered by a figured Serapi

  carpet in shades of blue and peach. The walls were peach, the ceiling

  white. The maple furniture, which consisted of various kinds of chests

  used as nightstands and tables and dressers, had all come off

  19th-century sailing ships owned by George's greatgrandfather. There

  were two upholstered armchairs covered in peach-colored silk from

  Brunschwig & Fils. On the nightstands, the bases of the lamps were

  actually Baccarat candlesticks, a reminder that the apparent simplicity

  of the room was built upon an elegant foundation.

  Ginger went to the dresser and stared down at the black gloves that lay

  upon the doily. As she had done countless times during the past ten

  days, she put the gloves on, flexed her hands, waiting for a rush of

  fear. But they were only ordinary gloves that she had bought the day

  she had been discharged from the hospital, and they did not have the

  power to bring her to the trembling edge of a fugue. She took them off.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Rita Hannaby said, "Ginger, dear, are

  you ready?"

  "Coming," she said, snatching her purse from the bed and taking one last

  quick glance at herself in the dresser mirror.

  She was wearing a lime-green knit suit with a creamy white blouse that

  had a simple lime-green bow at the throat. Her ensemble included a pair

  of green pumps that matched the suit, an eelskin purse that matched the

  pumps, a gold and malachite bracelet. The outfit perfectly complemented

  her complexion and golden hair. She thought she looked chic. Well,

  perhaps not chic, but at least stylish.

  However, when she stepped into the hall ' and got a look at Rita

  Hannaby, Ginger felt at a disadvantage, a mere pretender to class.

  Rita was as slim as Ginger, but at five-eight she was six inches taller,

  and everything about her was queenly. Her chestnut-brown hair swept

  back from her face in a perfectly feathered cut. If her facial bones

  had been more exquisitely chiseled, she would have looked severe.

  However, beauty and warmth were assured by her luminous gray eyes,

  translucent skin, and generous mouth. Rita was wearing a gray St.

  John's suit, pearls, pearl earrings, and a broad-brimmed black hat.

  To Ginger, the amazing thing was that Rita's fashionable appearance did

  not seem planned. One had no sense that she had spent hours getting

  ready. Instead, she seemed to have been born with impeccable grooming

  and a fashionably tailored wardrobe; elegance was her natural condition.

  "You look sma,.hing!" Rita said.

  "Next to you, I feel like a frump in blue jeans and a sweatshirt."

  "Nonsense. Even if I were twenty years younger, I'd be no match for

  you, dear. Wait and see who the waiters pamper

  the most at lunch."

  Ginger had no false modesty. She knew she was attractive. But her

  beauty was more that of a pixie, while Rita had the blueblood looks of

  one who could sit upon a throne and convince the world she belonged.

  Rita did nothing to cause Ginger's newfound inferiority complex. The

  woman treated her not like a daughter but like a sister and an equal.

  Ginger's feelings of inadequacy were, she knew, a direct result of her

  pathetic condition. Until two weeks ago, she had not been dependent on

  anyone in ages. Now she was dependent again, not entirely able to look

  after herself, and her self-respect slipped a bit further every day.

  Rita Hannaby's good humor, carefully planned outings, woman-to-woman

  shmoozing, and unflagging encouragement were not enough to distract

  Ginger from the cruel fact that fate once more had cast her, at thirty,

  in the frustrating role of a child.

  Together, they descended to the marble-floored foyer, where they got

  their coats from the closet, then went out the door and down the steps

  under the portico to the black Mercedes 500 SEL in the driveway.

  Herbert, who was sort of a cross between a butler and a Man Friday, had

  brought the car around five minutes ago and had left the engine running,

  so the interior was a toasty-warm haven from the frigid winter day.

  Rita drove with her usual confidence, away from the old estates, out of

  quiet streets lined with bare-limbed elms and maples, through

  ever-busier thoroughfares, heading to Dr. Immanuel Gudhausen's office on

  bustling State Street. Ginger had an eleven-thirty appointment with

  Gudhausen, whom she had seen twice last week. She was scheduled to

  visit him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until they got to the

  bottom of her attacks of fugue. In her bleaker moments, Ginger was sure

  she'd still be lying on Gudhausen's couch thirty years from now.

  Rita intended to do a bit of shopping while Ginger was with the doctor.

  Then they would go to lunch at some exquisite restaurant in which, no

  doubt, the decor would seem to have been planned to flatter Rita Hannaby

  and in which Ginger would feel like a schoolgirl foolishly trying to

  pass for a grownup.

  "Have you given some thought to what I suggested last Friday?" Rita

  asked as she drove. "The Women's Auxiliary at the hospital?"

  "I don't really think I'm up to it. I'd feel so awkward."

  "It's important work," Rita said, expertly slipping the Mercedes out

  from behind a Globe newspaper truck, into a gap in traffic.

  "I know. I've seen how much money you've raised for the hospital, the

  new equipment you've bought . . . but I think I've got to stay away

  from Memorial right now. It'd be too frustrating to be around the

  place, too constant a reminder that I can't do the work I've been

  trained for."

  "I understand, dear. Don't give it another thought. But there's still

  the Symphony Committee, the Women's League for the Aged, and the

  Children's Advocacy Committee. We could use your help at any of those."

  Rita was an indefatigable charity worker, ably chairing committees or

  serving on them, not only organizing beneficent societies but getting

  her hands dirty in the operation of them. "What about it?" she pressed.

  "I'm sure you'd find working with children especially rewarding."
/>   "Rita, what if I had one of my attacks while I was with the children? It

  would frighten them, and I-"

  "Oh, pish posh," Rita said. "Every time I've gotten you out of the

  house these last two weeks, you've used that same excuse to try to

  resist leaving your room. 'Oh, Rita,' you say, 'I'll have one of my

  awful fits and embarrass you." But you haven't, and you won't. Even if

  you did, it wouldn't embarrass me. I don't embarrass easily, dear."

  "I never thought for a moment you were a shrinking violet.

  But you haven't seen me in this fugue state. You don't know what I'm

  like or-"

  "Oh, for goodness' sake, you make it sound as if you're a regular Dr.

  Jekyll and Mr. Hyde-or Ms. Hyde-which I'm sure you're not. You

  haven't beaten anyone to death with a cane yet, have you, Ms. Hyde?"

  Ginger laughed and shook her head. "You're something else, Rita."

  "Excellent. You'll bring so much to the organization."

  Although Rita probably did not think of Ginger as another charity case,

  she had approached this recuperation and rehabilitation as a new cause.

  She rolled up her sleeves and committed herself to seeing Ginger through

  the current crisis, and nothing on earth was going to stop her. Ginger

  was touched by Rita's concern-and depressed by the need for it.

  They stopped at a traffic light, third car from the intersection, with