Authors: William Sleator
"Seems like an inappropriate place for your family to come for a vacation, in that case," Zena said sympathetically. "Not thoughtful to you."
"Mom has friends who come here. And I have a lot to read," I said, feeling pitiful—what would they think of someone who spent his vacation reading? I felt a blush coming on.
"What are you reading?" Manny inquired. I held the book in front of my face. "Oh, I love science fiction," he said, clasping his hands together fervently. "But I haven't read that volume. What's it about?"
"It's about these aliens that invade the earth," I said. "These sort of sluglike things, like exposed brains, that attach themselves to people's backs and control them."
"How loathsome," Zena said, and turned down the corners of her mouth.
"Not to mention biologically naive," Joe said, 'chuckling. "There's no way an organism like that could evolve naturally."
"Why not?" I said, wanting to defend my taste in literature. "Nobody knows what conditions might be like on other planets. Anything could be possible, couldn't it?"
Joe stroked his mustache.
"Well I think it sounds enchanting," Manny said. "I love creepy stories like that. It reminds me of our game. Can I borrow the book when you're through?"
"Sure," I said. "Hey, would you guys like to go on one of those excursions—"
"Speaking of creepy stories," Zena firmly interrupted me. "We were all entertained by the story you told us last night, about this house. You made us rather intrigued. Would you disapprove if we had a peek inside, just so we could see where it really happened?"
"I guess not," I said. Something about her request didn't ring true. It wasn't what I had said that had kindled their interest—they had wanted to look inside the house yesterday, the moment they had arrived, before I had told them the story about it. I remembered what Ted had said about their reaction when they couldn't rent the house themselves. As I held the door open for them, I had the peculiar sensation that I was making a mistake. But I dismissed it immediately. I wanted to play the authority and show them around.
"Gee, it's so much more comfortable than our place," Manny said, his eyes wandering over the wood paneling. "As though the person who built it actually planned to reside here."
"But it's so dark," Zena said, She looked out the dining room windows. "And you can't even see the water. Our monstrosity next door gets in the way."
"He was right when he said the cottage had a better view," Joe said, peering inside the fireplace.
"Look at this!" Manny called from the kitchen. "You could actually cook in here."
The rest of us trooped in after him. "Do you three have some kind of special interest in old houses?" I asked.
"Sure, Barney," Zena said, peering into the cabinet under the sink. Joe was opening and shutting the cupboards and Manny was poking around in the refrigerator.
"This thing is twice as great as ours," he said. "Can you believe this? Frozen scrambled egg substitute. Margarine.'" He sounded shocked.
"Dad has to watch his cholesterol," I explained. "Hey, listen, there's some really famous old houses over in Dunstable. Kind of museums. Maybe we could go see them sometime."
"Sure, Barney," Zena said, exploring the broom closet. Manny was going through the drawers of cooking utensils. "Look at all the tools that are included with this place. Much more than they provide for the cottage," he said.
Were they actually looking for something, or just making jealous comparisons between our house and theirs? I was beginning to find their behavior a little annoying. "You wanted this place, didn't you," I said bluntly.
"What do you mean?" Zena turned around and stared at me.
"That's what Ted said. You wanted this house, not the cottage."
"Well you have to admit it, it is nicer," Manny explained reasonably.
"Yes, but since you hadn't seen it, how did you know? And what are you looking for now?"
"Perceptive, aren't you, Barney," Joe said. But it didn't sound like a compliment. "You're astute; we do have an interest in old houses. It's kind of a hobby, a harmless one. Like our game. You don't have any objection to our looking around, do you?"
"Uh . . . no, I guess not," I said, feeling foolish.
"Well, if you'd stop asking questions and let us get on with it, then perhaps we'd have time later to teach you our game. Just drop over after lunch. Sound fair enough?"
"Sure, that would be great."
"Agreed." He pulled open the basement door. "Where's the light?"
"On the left."
There wasn't much to see down there, just a few pieces of the usual basement junk and a lot of pipes. But the three of them behaved as though they had discovered an Egyptian crypt that had been sealed up for the last live thousand years. They ran around exclaiming and poking through the moldy debris. Did they really expect to find something valuable?
Watching them made me feel a little edgy, but I didn't have the nerve to ask them to stop, so I went back upstairs and waited in the living room. I began to wonder what would happen if Mom and Dad returned and found them in the house. It had been well over an hour since I had left the beach.
Our three neighbors almost didn't notice me on their way through the living room to the stairway to the second floor. Only after I coughed did Manny say,
"Oh, is it agreeable if we go upstairs?" but he didn't even slow down.
Then Zena turned back from the landing, abruptly, as though she had just remembered something, and said, "Would you like to show us your room, Barney?"
I trotted after them, remembering that the bed wasn't made and hoping I hadn't left any dirty underwear lying around. I needn't have worried, though. They did Mom and Dad's room before mine. Most people will just stand politely in the doorway to a bedroom and peer inside, but not these three. They made a thorough search, poking into the closet and under the bed, examining the windows, opening the dresser drawers. It didn't make sense; my room was the one with historical interest. Still, it gave me a chance to dash ahead of them and clean up.
When they finally did reach my room, they didn't bother making even a token attempt to pay attention to me. It was I who waited politely in the doorway, sensing that it was important to keep out of their way. The banter stopped. Their faces hardened and withdrew. More like archeologists than ever, they examined the paneling and the windows in minutest detail, unblinking, their fingers stroking the wood with the reverent intensity of the blind. In the silence I became aware of the surf and the bird cries, and listened to the static bleat of a radio rise and fall in volume as some kids carried it partway up the road and then turned back.
I felt shut out and restless, but I was afraid to make a sound. I began to wonder how I was ever going to get rid of them. Almost two hours now had gone by since I had left Mom and Dad at the Beach. I knew they weren't going to let themselves burn, and it was also lunchtime. Surreptitiously, I crept into the room and looked over their shoulders out the window.
The view from upstairs was not obstructed by the one-story cottage next door.
The ocean air was so clear that, even though Mom and Dad were about a hundred yards away, I could easily read Mom's expression as they passed the kids with the radio—she wondered why they were coming down our dead-end road. And she probably wouldn't like it if she knew how thoroughly the people from next door had gone through our belongings. She might think they were casing the place to see if there was anything to steal, and maybe she would be right. What else could they be doing? And if they did end up stealing anything, it would be my fault.
There was no time to stand around berating myself. Even if the neighbors were perfectly innocent, I still didn't want Mom to find them in the house.
But they hadn't even noticed Mom and Dad; they were behaving like zombies.
"Uh, listen . . . uh, those are my parents coming back," I faltered, twisting my hands. "See?"
They started, like people coming out of a trance, and froze for a moment. Then they turned slowly to look at me, their faces still dead.
"They might not understand what you're doing in our house," I went on. "I think, maybe you should go now."
It was as though they did not know who or what I was, as though they really couldn't see or even hear me. Their icy unresponsive stares cut me off like a solid wall; I had never felt so supremely unnecessary. But they were the ones who were acting like crazy people, not me. What was the matter with them? Wasn't there anything I could say to get them to respond?
"I'm not kidding," I said. "It could be embarrassing. And . . . and then I might not be able to ask you back to see this house again."
Then they woke up, like a freeze-frame melting back into action. Joe shook his head irritably and glanced out the window; Manny ran a hand through his hair. Zena frowned and moved toward me. "Don't worry, Barney," she said, "we won't get you in trouble."
Suddenly they were moving fast. Before I knew it I was running after them into the kitchen. "Thanks for the tour, Barney," Zena said. "And I think you're accurate about your parents. It might be well if they didn't know we'd been here."
"Can I come over, after lunch like you said?" I asked, before agreeing to keep their visit a secret.
"Sure, sure, Barney. Come on over. We'll do something fun, perhaps play a round of the game," Zena said, pulling open the back door.
"Yes, come for a visit," Manny echoed as though he meant it, and they were gone.
They managed to get across the yard and back to their cottage without Mom and Dad noticing a thing. It was a small thing, their ability to get around without attracting attention, but it had the adeptness of a skill acquired with practice. It was the same as the way they had so thoroughly 'Searched the house, working efficiently—another -acquired skill. As I went over it in my mind, I began to realize that they really hadn't missed a single cupboard or closet. |v Yet it was hard to believe that they were thieves.
If that was the case, they were too good to waste time at a dump like this, where there was obviously nothing of much value and only one family to steal from. Thieves with their apparent expertise would be working large and expensive resorts, where the booty would be worth something.
But if they weren't thieves, then what were they?
From the dining room window I watched the neighbors greet Mom and Dad from their front patio, where they were already relaxing by the time Mom and Dad reached it. They spoke pleasantly together, until the neighbors got up and went inside.
". . . so impressive, that deep sense of commitment, don't you think?" Mom was saying, as they came into the house. "But they're such cheerful young men, not at all stuffy. I'll bet they're doctors. That's why they give that impression of social responsibility."
"Not just the men," Dad said. "The girl seemed so involved in the problem of poverty, so deeply concerned. But charming at the same time. I'll bet she's a doctor too."
"Probably a social worker—she doesn't seem as bright as the men."
I was amazed. Mom and Dad weren't stupid, yet their impression of the neighbors was totally out of whack. Responsibility? Concern with poverty? I wanted to scream with laughter. But I kept quiet.
I would take advantage of the neighbors' invitation and visit them this afternoon. But this time I would turn the tables; this time I would be the one to find out about them.
But when I went over an hour or so later there was no answer to my knock. The house was empty, and unlocked. For a moment I felt hurt that they had forgotten their invitation and gone off without
me. Then I saw I was being silly; they had provided me with exactly the opportunity I wanted. I felt a prickling of excitement—I hadn't expected the situation to be reversed quite this neatly. It was like some funny game of taking turns, and I barely hesitated on the threshold.
And now I wonder: How differently would things have ended if I hadn't found what I did that day?
In the bright sunlight, their cheap little cottage was about as sinister as a dairy bar, which was actually what it looked like from the outside. The inside, with its linoleums and plastic furniture and picture windows, was equally eerie. If the place really had been dark and mysterious, I probably wouldn't have had the nerve to sneak inside at all. As it was, the fact that I was secretly entering someone else's place to try to search out information about them was exciting enough. And I didn't even have to feel guilty. They were the ones who had started it, after all; they were only getting what they deserved.
There was not much to poke into in the barren living room. A chartreuse plastic easy chair squatted on one side of the fireplace, a maroon one on the other side, and facing it, a pink painted wicker love seat, beginning to unravel. The square wooden dining table with captain's chairs around it was placed beside the largest window overlooking the water. The board game was no longer on the table, or anywhere else to be found. I was disappointed. I had been looking forward to examining it.
I leafed quickly through the books and periodicals on the mantel and tabletop—collections of horror stories, the Sunday New York Times, People magazine, some lurid mysteries, a large illustrated paperback about windsurfing. Nothing to learn there.
The kitchen was smaller and more primitive than ours, the haphazard collection of plates and cups arranged on open pine shelving, the meager assortment of pots and pans under the sink. I didn't go through it very thoroughly. Who ever kept anything important in the kitchen? If anything was to be found, it would have to be in one of the bedrooms. I pushed open the flimsy door to the bedroom beside the kitchen.
In the darkness, a deformed face swam toward me, all huge bulbous forehead, with tiny squashed-together eyes and two pursed, fishlike mouths hanging from the nonexistent chin.
I hardly shrieked much at all, and quickly complimented myself on how cool I was to realize, without even bolting from the house, that it was merely a warped mirror on the opposite wall. But I turned on the light immediately. There was a sagging double bed, a narrow closet, and a small dresser. And nothing to be found but men's clothes and a very large assortment of toiletries.
Each of them had a separate bedroom, I learned that much. I came to Zena's last. The lingerie, much of it with delicate lace embroidery, I found 'particularly interesting. It smelled like Zena's per fume. And if I hadn't taken the time to go through carefully, I never would have found the photocopied sheets paper-clipped together, pushed off into the bottom corner of the drawer.
And if Zena hadn't underlined certain passages in red ink, and scribbled flamboyant comments in the margins, I probably wouldn't even have given the papers a second glance. But the marks made me curious, and I sank down on her bed and began to read.
On my way over to their house, I hadn't thought much about their car being there, since I had assumed they were at home. And when I saw that they weren't home, I forgot to think about the car at all. If I had thought about it, I might not have stretched out so comfortably in her room and forgotten where I was; I might have been better prepared to expect them to return suddenly and without warning.
The papers were a photocopy of an old diary, scratched in archaic longhand, smudged and stained and difficult to read. But I persisted: The heavy underlining meant that Zena had thought the document was extremely important.
September 1864
Last night, only two minutes past two bells it was, an unpredicted, unexplaind comet sighted, streaking so slowly across the breadth of the night sky that all men on watch were able clearly to see it, creating much uproar and hullabaloo, and cries of "Money, money, money!" I like it not. Long have I studied the skies, and yet have never seen celestial body move in such an erratic course.
September 1864
It is with the utmost reluctance that I put pen to paper on this most grievous day, when for shame alone my soul would rather to expunge from this account, than record for all posterity these most black and bitter events.
Only yesterday it was, at six bells, that the survivor was sighted from the crow's nest; yet now it seems many months, rather than mere fleeting hours, ago, that the tragedy commenced. The body, clinging to the blackened spars, was seen to appear to move; I could not but order a lifeboat to the rescue. And, indeed, when he was borne to the deck, I was able to ascertain that the foreign mariner did breathe, and ordered brandy and poultices, and did all in my limited power to soothe and refresh the invalid; and only minutes later was rewarded by the opening of his bloodshot eyes, and by his garbled and unintelligible expressions of gratitude. Though his tongue was as outlandish as his garb, I perceived nevertheless a miraculous calm in the fact of such dire circumstances.
By this time, of course, I had realized what this document was. This was even better than the article Ted had mentioned. Zena had managed to dig up Captain Latham's own handwritten account of the tragedy, probably from his log, and had made photocopies of it. Their behavior in our house this morning now began to make a little more sense. Clearly, they had some intense personal interest in the morbid little incident.
But what was their interest? And why had they pretended to know nothing about the story last night? They knew more than I did—they had brought these papers with them. The sheets were creased and smudged and torn in places, as though they had been studied for weeks. It seemed now that they had come here precisely because of the captain's story, despite the fact that they claimed they had never heard it before. Why did they have to be so secretive?
Sunlight poured through the window onto the fragrant unmade bed. I felt a slight chill. This was not the time to speculate about their motivation, I told myself. So they had some reason to be secretive. In that case, I had better finish reading now, while I had the chance.
And if, perhaps, the poor soul had been less debilitated by the ravages of thirst and extreme fatigue, then perhaps some form of meaningful intercourse could have been established, so that, as we are widely ranging a group of seamen as is to be found on any ship that sails the seas, there might have been one among us who could have been enabled to deduce the origin of our unfortunate new companion. Yet is was not to be, for quickly he relapsed again into his somnolent state; and, though our ministrations had appeared to offer him some refreshment, as evidenced by the improved tone of his complexion, which, on his being brought aboard, had displayed a morbid greenish pallor underneath the pitiless fiery blandishments of the sun but was now of a more sanguine, almost lavender hue, his physical condition was as yet too dangerously tenuous to allow us to attempt to question him further; and, instead, I had him borne with utmost care to my own cabin; and there I had him installed with Ethan, my beloved, trusted, gentle Ethan, to tend to him, with his special loving simplicity, as I went about my already sorely interrupted duties.
When I returned, my brother Ethan knelt upon the floor in an attitude of prayer. The shape on my bed was covered completely by bedclothes, and my first thought was that the foreigner had died of natural causes, and that my brother was praying for his soul. I was roused at once to anger. "And did I not instruct you to send word at once of any change in his condition?" I cried. But my brother remained crouched, his face hidden from me, a strange trinket clenched in his hand. "Why did you not heed me?" I demanded. "With my knowledge, I might have prolonged his life!" Still, my brother did not move or speak, adding more fire to my fury. "Speak, man! You are not deaf and dumb!" I bellowed, and shook him violently by his collar.
And then my brother slowly turned to gaze upon me, and I perceived that he had not been praying but rather weeping like a babe. Yet, it was not sorrow that transformed his eyes, but horror, horror of such depth that it was as though he looked not upon my countenance, but upon the countenance of some fiend of the pit.
His first feeble utterance was, "It is the Devil, the Devil, he revealed his true nature to me, Tobias. I had to do it. It is the Devil."
Again, weeping overcame him. I pushed him aside with an oath and tore the bedclothes from the shape beneath. And there I—
"But Manny, I'm about ten shades darker than you. Just look!" Zena cried from the front of the house. There was a burst of laughter, and footsteps on the small cement patio.
If they had been driving, and I had heard the car approach, I would have had plenty of time to put things in order, and maybe even get out the back. As it was, I had no chance to open the correct drawer, rearrange its contents, and replace the document as I had found it. I didn't think much; I just shoved the papers into my back pocket and leapt off the bed and out of the room. It was bad enough to be discovered inside their house at all, but to be found snooping around in Zena's bedroom would be unthinkable. I would have to try to replace the locument later.
When they marched through the front door seconds later, I was standing with my arms flung across the mantel, like someone in an old-fashioned play, pretending to look at a book.
"Barney! What are you doing here?"
What I was doing was blushing furiously. I couldn't tell whether they were angry or merely surprised. "Well, uh, you asked me to come over, but nobody was here, so I thought . . . you wouldn't mind if I just read this book for a minute."
They looked at one another slowly; then Zena was giggling. She had a rapid, high-pitched, silly giggle, like a teenager's, that bore no relation to her husky speaking voice. "And just what is it that you found to read, Barney, hmmmmm?" she asked teasingly, moving toward me and lifting her eyebrows.
She didn't seem to be angry, but I wondered how she would feel if she knew what I really had been reading. I looked at the book in my hand for the first time. "When the aversive stimulus is the withdrawal of positive reinforcement," said the paragraph at the top of the page, "the resulting non-reinforcement of enough items ..."
"I see, A Psychological Approach to Abnormal Behavior," Zena said, reading the title on the jacket. "A little weighty for a Sunday afternoon, but certainly a step up from science fiction. So you're an abnormal psychology enthusiast, is that it?"
"I ... well I just ... it seemed . . ."
"Well who isn't interested in abnormal psychology?" Manny demanded, hurrying over to the fireplace to defend me. "I love looking in volumes like that and discovering how abnormal I am."
"You have to look in a book?" Zena asked him.
"Everybody's abnormal, when you come to the bottom of it," said Joe, glancing at his watch. "Who's coming with me—to pick up the windsurfers?"
"I'll go," Manny said.
"I think I'll stay here and entertain Barney," Zena said. "Also, I need to do some work on my tan."
"Hey, that's not fair," Manny whined, quickly holding his arm up to hers and comparing them with a critical eye.
"Relax, Manny, well take the top down," Joe said. "Everybody knows you tan better in a moving vehicle than when you're just lying still."
"Is that really true?"
"Well I never heard of it before," Zena said.
"It's because of relativity and time dilation," Joe explained with a straight face. "The greater your velocity, the slower time moves for you, so you have more time in the sun. Also, you age slower, so you stay younger looking."
"No, but wait a moment," Manny said, sounding really concerned. "If time slows down for you, then it actually signifies you have Jess time in the sun than—"
"If you don't get going now, it'll be too late to get any sun, even if you travel at the speed of light," Zena said impatiently.
"Come on, Manny."
And then, in that strange sudden way, the two men were gone. "Well, perhaps now we can get to discover each other, Barney," Zena said, her smile widening. "Perhaps we could even play the game."