Strangers (18 page)

She had to laugh, and then she felt she had to explain her reaction. “You
look
like a psychiatrist.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, obviously not offended. “People were always telling me that, so I felt I had to get into the field. I’m just glad I don’t look like a cowboy.”

She told him she was quite interested in psychology herself. In fact…

Vern Engelking and Michael walked over. For an instant, Beth thought she saw a startled look across Michael’s face, but then it wasn’t there, and he was pleasantly smiling, extending his hand, as she said, “Michael, I want you to meet Dr. Jan Pretre.”

“I tell you, I didn’t know…”

“If you were seeing a ghost? Or whether to shit or go blind? Or if you really
do
prefer butter to the higher priced spread? You were surprised. I saw it.”

“Yes,” Michael Louden glumly admitted. Surprise was something he hadn’t felt in years. A Stranger couldn’t afford to.

“It’s all right, Michael,” Jan Pretre assured him. “No
harm done—
this time. Just be careful.”

Late in the afternoon, there had been a sudden change in the weather, a common occurrence in the Midwest, and the temperature began nose-diving. Now, an hour after sundown, many guests had departed and the majority of those who remained were inside, in the warmth, enjoying the offerings of the Engelkings’ well-stocked bar. Michael had slipped away with Jan and they stood talking at the front of the house by the three-and-a-half-car garage.

But how long, Michael asked, would he—
all
The Strangers—have to continue being careful? There’d been so many years of maintaining the sickening guise of one of the
normals,
a meaningless, anonymous blob of humanity. When was the Time,
their
time that so long ago Jan Pretre had promised was forthcoming?

“There are so many of us, Michael,” Jan said tonelessly. “More than you can imagine. More than even I ever thought. Every day I seem to find yet another who bears the mark, whose aura bums the color of fire and blood. We’re everywhere, Michael. Just
be
patient. It won’t be long, not now. Our Time is coming. You can feel it, can’t you, Michael?”

“Yes,” Michael said.

The wind blew cold from the north, and on it, he could smell the promise of
winter kill
, hear the icy shrieks of nightscreams and frigid terror. It was a wind that promised deathblow and bloodspill and the Time of The Strangers.

— | — | —

TEN

NEITHER OF the girls seemed to notice Michael, standing at the open door of their bedroom. Knees up, shoulders against the bed’s headboard, Marcy was reading a
Nancy Drew
book. Kim, on her bed, was on her stomach; propped up on her elbows, chin in her cupped hands, staring at Chopper and Snowball. Side by side on her pillow, the guinea pigs were as inanimate as furry stuffed animals and only their brightly glittering
eyes
were
a sign that they were indeed living creatures
.

Goddamned double-ugly little bastards,
Michael thought,
and that stink from their cage, pinewood chips and guinea pig shit!

“Hey,” Michael said, “
you
kids finish all your homework?”

Two startled faces peered at him. “No homework, Daddy,” Marcy explained. “Not the first day.”

It was the Tuesday after Labor Day, the traditional “back to school” date for much of the United States. It was also Beth’s “back to school” day; she’d left for her class at Lincoln Junior College fifteen minutes ago, leaving Michael to take care of the girls.

Michael glanced at his watch. “Well, then, I guess it’s about bedtime for you two, right?”

“Daddy,” Marcy unhappily protested, “it’s way too early…”

Jesus Q. Christ, Michael thought, she didn’t realize he was joking. There were times he was convinced that Marcy had no more sense than those miserable, brainless guinea pigs!

“And I’ll tell you what!” Michael said, bobbing his head like a spring-necked dashboard ornament, “I’ll even rock you girls to sleep. See, I’ll go out and find a great big rock…” He finished the sentence silently…
and
bash
your itty-bitty heads
in!

“You know, Dad,” Kim said, “your jokes are getting pretty stale.”

Michael put his hands on his hips and with the moronic enthusiasm of Steve Martin, uttered the comedian’s classic, “Well,
Ex-Cuse
me!”

Marcy giggled. Kim made a derisive sound with her nose.

“Okay, if you don’t have any homework and you’re not ready for bed, how about we get in the car, zip over to the Dari-Quik, and get some cones. How’s that sound?”

“Uh-huh!” Kim said.

“Oh,” Michael said, “I am so very pleased that my suggestion meets with your approval, Kimmy dear. You know my one true goal is to make you happy! Put Meatball and Flopper away and let’s go.”

“It’s
Snow
ball and
Chop
per,” Kim said, “and that wasn’t funny, either.”

On the way out the front door, Marcy took hold of Michael’s hand and said, “I like your jokes, Daddy.”

“Good,” Michael said, “So do I.”

He wondered how “Daddy’s little girl” and “little sister” and “sweet loving mommy” would like the big joke he had planned for them. Now
that
joke—oh shit, they’d think it was a goddamned scream!

She parked the Chevette in the “D” section of the lot. She checked to make sure she had the spiral ring notebook, the textbook
Abnormal Psychology,
and then, opening the notebook to the first, unblemished page, she wrote, “Mrs. Beth Louden” with one new Bic pen, then on the line below added the date with the other pen, making sure both ballpoints worked.

It was foolish how excited and yet somewhat fearful she felt, Beth thought, as she stepped out of the car. The feelings she had, the thoughts racing through her mind, were no more sophisticated and mature than those that used to besiege her as a child starting back to school.
Will the teacher be nice?
All she knew about the
course’s
instructor was that his name—or was it a she—was listed in the catalog as K. Bollender.
Her classmates, would they be pleasant, or even fun to be with? Would there be a class brain and a class wit and a class dunce—and oh, please God, don’t let Beth Louden wear the pointed cap!
She so wanted to do well on quizzes and tests and have the right answers when the teacher called on her, and have the right questions that she wouldn’t embarrass herself by asking!

Beth had a moment’s strong temptation to turn around, jump back in the Chevette, and go home. Who ever said there was anything wrong with simply being a wife and a mother—and a damned good interior decorator and a fine gardener, too, so there!

She
had, she reminded herself. This was
her
choice, a decision to become—to
try
to become—more than she was.

And she was pretty darned lucky to have someone like Michael, as supportive as could be. He’d told her she looked just great for her first class. Well, to tell the truth, she
had
very thoughtfully chosen the crocheted, crème-colored top and the black designer jeans (her only pair but definitely pants that made her feel like a casual jet-setter), completing the image of “college student” with new gold earrings and an extra touch of make-up to banish the dark circles that were her inheritance from the stress of last week.

Of course, Michael, being Michael, had had to do some teasing—joking, too. “But you know, I thought all the kids were wearing poodle skirts and penny loafers and Peter Pan collars these days.” But there he was, smiling broadly, waving as she backed out of the drive, calling out, “Excelsior! Win this one for the Gipper!” Beth was sure she knew exactly what he was saying in his own sweet, silly way.

Excelsior,
Beth said to herself as she walked into the octagonal shaped building, Lincoln Junior College.

K. Bollender was Kevin Bollender—“and please, make it Kevin and not Mister”—he told the sixteen people who occupied the desks in room 211. He quickly called the roll. Then he said he realized that they probably were wondering about “this guy” teaching a course called “Abnormal Psychology,” maybe even worrying if he was the instructor for a class like this because “it takes one to know one.”

He had a master’s degree in clinical psychology. He’d been on staff for two years at the Manteno State mental health facility. He was working on his PhD, had finished the required course work and had written the first half of his doctoral thesis.

Other things about their teacher the students could observe for themselves. In his late twenties, six feet tall, Kevin Bollender looked like an athlete who had been shortchanged by his genetic background—not quite enough height for basketball in an era of giants and too slim for football when even high school second-stringers tipped the scales at better than 220. As he went from desk to blackboard to lectern, he had an easy way of moving typical of runners. His hair was brown and curly and all that prevented his being as handsome as any model in
Gentleman’s Quarterly
was a slightly oversized nose; as though proclaiming a lack of vanity, he didn’t mind calling attention to that feature with a thick mustache.

He was, Beth thought,
sexy
—a
hunk
in
his blue jeans and checkered shirt and sportcoat.

A hunk?
Now hold on!
she
sternly told herself. She was a… WifeandMother! She’d taken one step into middle age—
All right,
two
steps
!—
and she had no business getting struck by crazily romantic ideas like this. That was for high schoolers (giggle-giggle, “fer sure!”), hung up on Tom Selleck or Pierce Brosnan, or for undergrads developing the classic and comical crush on
my
professor…

She wondered what his elbows looked like?

Oh, this was utterly absurd! Her thoughts were absolutely shameful!

Now cut it out!
she
told herself. She was getting all worked up over what was merely a minute’s fantasy, nothing more. Everyone had fantasies. That was the reason for the success of everything from paperback romance novels to—what else
?—
Fantasy Island!

And as for her ever acting on this fantasy, doing one single thing to bring it into reality, now
that
would be the real absurdity, just incredible. It could never, would never, not in a million years happen!

Beth made herself concentrate on what the teacher was saying, opening her notebook, raising her pen,
looking
down at the page.

“Now,” Kevin Bollender said, “there was a prerequisite for this class, so everyone in here has had at least one course in general psychology.” That had been her
favorite
class in her first (and only) year in college, Beth thought, the one that inspired her dream of a career in the field or in social work “—so you know that the word psychology literally means the ‘Science of the mind.’ But that’s pretty ambiguous. After all, when we use the word
mind,
we’ve got a vague and abstract term. Uh-uh—if we’re going to call psychology a science, we have to be more precise. We need some objective terms. How about this for a definition of psychology: The science of the behavior of organisms. Can everyone accept that?”

In her notebook, Beth wrote the definition.

A man in late
middle-age
raised his hand. “Wouldn’t that definition have to include something about studying thought and emotions?”

“Good point,” Kevin Bollender said, “and that’s certainly what we tend to think of when we’re talking about psychology. But remember, if we’re to have a true science, it must be objective. We can directly and objectively observe specific behaviors. We cannot observe a thought or an emotion, can we? Ideas and feelings are abstractions. We can only see a particular behavior and then draw some conclusions about the ‘internal’ mental and emotional—and let’s include chemical—processes underlying it.”