Stranger in the House

P
ropelled by a pudgy hand, the red sedan labored up the side of a pile of dirt and then zoomed down and tumbled into a trough on the other side.

“Mommy, look! The car crashed. It came over the hill, and it fell down.”

Anna Lange halted the gentle rocking motion of the glider with her feet and smiled at her son. “You made it fall down, Paul.”

The child beamed up at her, satisfied that she was paying attention. He wiped his dirty face with his equally dirty forearm and shook his head mischievously. “Unh-unh,” he told her. “It just fell down.”

Anna laughed in spite of herself at the picture he made, seated happily in the grass, his striped T-shirt and little blue shorts already smudged with dirt. Scooby-Doo winked and waved a paw from the bill of the baseball cap that her son was wearing. When Paul looked up at her, he had to tilt his head back to get a clear view out from under it. Anna noticed that his socks had ridden down and were already disappearing into the backs of his miniature Keds.

Making a revving noise with his lips, Paul extricated the auto from the ditch. “Have to hurry up and go to work now,” he said. Waddling on bent legs, the child drove the car through the wooden gate of his play yard toward the sandbox, where a yellow steam shovel lay on its side. Paul abandoned the car outside the sandbox, clambered over the low wall of the box, and plopped himself down beside the large toy. He righted the steam shovel and carefully began to rotate the crank that lowered the scoop into the sand, all his attention now focused on his task.

Sunshine glinted off the stray amber locks which curled around Paul’s cap as he bent his head to his mission. Anna gazed fondly at her son and wondered briefly what new vehicles were in store for him on his fourth birthday next month. So far her parents in Ohio had provided their grandson with every simulated make and model that Detroit had to offer.

A breeze rippled through the sultry afternoon, and Anna lifted her face gratefully to greet it. She placed a protective hand on her stomach. She was three months pregnant, and the heat seemed more oppressive, the humidity more stifling than it had been other summers. Sometimes she wondered if she should have given in and had central air installed in their historic old house. She’d never liked air-conditioning. She couldn’t see why people tried to eliminate summer by staying inside in a frigid, artificial climate. But lately it seemed as if she always managed to be pregnant in the summer. “Well, Roscoe,” she said, patting her stomach, “looks as if you’ll be ringing in the New Year.” She and Thomas had dubbed the newest addition Roscoe about a week after she learned she was pregnant, just as they had referred to Paul as Mortimer and called Tracy Clem in the months before their respective births.

Paul, who had been mumbling and humming to himself as he dug, added one scoop too many to the mountain of sand, and the pile collapsed into the hole as if struck by an earthquake. The child let out a yelp.

“Shhhh, Paul.” Anna reproved him. “Tracy’s asleep.” She cocked an ear toward the house, where the back door and windows were open. Her daughter had contracted a summer cold the day before and had spent a feverish night. The pediatrician assured Anna that it was nothing serious, but the child had been whiny and disconsolate all night long. Finally, in the morning, she had fallen asleep, after a series of witch hazel baths and a lot of soothing from Anna.

Paul looked up at his mother with wide, innocent brown eyes. “Can Tracy come out now?”

“Not today, honey. She doesn’t feel good today. You play.”

Paul resumed his digging and Anna closed her eyes briefly. It had been a long night, trying to keep Tracy quiet so that Thomas could get some rest. He had an important meeting this morning and she knew he had to be alert. If Tracy’s crying had bothered him, he did not mention it at breakfast. He had been his usual cheerful, preoccupied self. “It’s amazing,” she had told him once. “Sometimes I think you’re at work before you even get out of bed.”

Thomas had grimaced at her remark, but her smile reassured him. He worked harder than any man she knew, but it was all for her and the kids. She had planned to go back to work at her ad copywriting job after Paul was born, but two weeks after she got back to her office she found herself crying one day after talking to the babysitter, and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to continue. Thomas was actually pleased by her decision to stay home. “I’ll take care of us,” he promised her, and of course, he had.

She opened her eyes and looked out across the rolling, shady backyard, bounded by woods that afforded a sense of privacy. The only sound that broke the peaceful silence was the singing of birds and the occasional, almost inaudible whoosh of the cars which passed by on the leafy Millgate Parkway, a dignified, tree-shrouded old highway which cut through back Stanwich, adjacent to some of the loveliest and wealthiest homes in all of affluent Fairmont County.

Theirs was far from the grandest house around. In fact, their lovely old home had once been the care-taker’s house on an enormous estate. Their nearest neighbors, the Stewarts, lived in the manor house on the huge property, which had long ago been subdivided and sold separately. The Langes’ home was small by comparison to the elegant Stewart mansion, but it was more than large enough for their young family and was magnificent in contrast with the other houses and little apartments they had lived in.

Anna smiled, thinking of the pride Thomas took in their home. She knew what it represented to him. His had been a chaotic childhood, with an absent father and an alcoholic mother who dragged him from boarding-house to railroad flat and back. He had worked his way through college, and moved to New York City where they met and married. After a lot of effort, he attained the position of assistant treasurer in the Phelps Corporation, which was based in New York. It was not long after his promotion was announced that Thomas had taken her to see the beautiful old Victorian house in the suburb of Stanwich.

“It’s too much,” she had protested. “How can we afford it?” “We’ll have to afford it,” Tom had said, teasing her. “You have to have somewhere to spread all that junk of yours.” She had laughed again at their old joke. It was true. She had a collection of antique bottles. She’d dried every flower he had ever given her, and she couldn’t bear to throw away a magazine that had a sweater pattern or a recipe she might like to try. It had not taken long for them to fill up their new house. If Thomas worried about the cost, he never complained about it. But then, he was a master at keeping his worries to himself. After eight years of marriage she certainly knew that. Sometimes she worried that he would get an ulcer.

Tired of his job, Paul abandoned the sandbox and the play yard and went out exploring. She watched him as he tramped through the grass. He bent down to pick up a dandelion and blow on it.

Anna pushed herself out of the glider and walked toward her son. “Do you want a ride on the swing?” she asked him. Paul nodded eagerly and reached up to take the hand she extended to him. They walked along together toward the swing set at the back of the yard. When they were almost there, Paul disengaged his hand from hers and ran toward the swing, where he hoisted himself up on the seat and kicked his sneakered feet impatiently.

“Okay,” said Anna. “Hold your horses.” Just as she approached the swing set, Paul squealed and slipped off the swing. He began to tear across the yard as fast as his pudgy legs would move, shrieking and laughing.

“Look at the kitty,” he cried. “Can we keep him?”

“That’s all I need,” said Anna, rolling her eyes sky-ward.

The fluffy black-and-white cat, which had appeared at the edge of the woods, stood frozen for a minute, whiskers on end, as the child barreled gleefully toward it, arms waving wildly. Then the cat turned and bolted into the safety of the trees. Paul started gamely after it, branches and leaves snapping against his short, bare legs.

“No, you don’t, buster,” said Anna, swooping down on her son and lifting him back into the civilized territory of the lawn.

Paul started to cry. “I want the kitty,” he wailed.

“You’re really getting heavy,” Anna observed with a grunt. “I can’t do this much longer. The kitty had to go home.”

Paul continued to cry as Anna carried him back in the direction of the house. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked noisily on it through his tears.

“What’s this?” she chided him. “I thought you gave that up.” He rubbed his eyes with small, dirty fists. Anna held him securely under his little rump.

As they approached the house, she heard the weak but unmistakable wailing of Tracy from inside. Anna placed Paul on the ground and offered him her hand. “Come on. We’ll go and see how Tracy feels.”

“No,” Paul protested sullenly. “I don’t wanna.”

“Okay, then,” she said, lifting him under the armpits and depositing him inside the large fenced play yard that Thomas had built. “You play quietly. I’m going to see how Tracy is. You be good.” She wagged a finger at him and smiled as she lowered the latch on the gate. “You be a good boy, and I’ll bring you a cookie when I come back.”

Paul watched her forlornly, wiping his face again. Then he headed toward his sandbox. He threw one glance over his shoulder to the woods where the cat had disappeared. “Where’s the kitty?”

“The kitty’s gone, Paul. You play now.” Anna ran up the back steps and threw open the door to the house. “I’m coming, baby,” she called as she dodged the Wiffle ball and plastic bat in the foyer and mounted the stairs to her daughter’s room.

Tracy was standing in her crib, whimpering, when Anna entered the sunny pink and yellow bedroom. One look at her mother, though, and the child burst into wails of misery. Anna lifted the fretting child in her arms and began to murmur to her. The child’s summer pajamas were damp with perspiration. “Oh, poor thing. It’s too hot to be sick, isn’t it? Poor Tracy.” Anna put Tracy back in her bed, and Tracy immediately began to howl again. Anna spoke soothingly to her daughter as she rifled the contents of the dresser drawer for a fresh pair of pajamas and then ducked into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth. Glancing at her watch, she realized that it was time for another teaspoon of ibuprofen.

After removing Tracy’s damp pajamas and sponging her feverish daughter, she gave her the medicine and a cup of water.

“Hey, where’s Fubby?” Anna hunted around under the crib for the stuffed rabbit that Tracy loved to chew on. She located the toy wedged between the leg of the crib and the wall and offered it to her whimpering child. Tracy clutched the rabbit and smiled wanly at her mother.

“You want a story?” Anna pointed to a stack of books piled on a table beside the rocker.

“No,” Tracy said fretfully.

“How about a little song to sleep?” Anna asked her. Tracy nodded. “The Winky song,” she cried. She settled down in her crib, and Anna began to sing softly. By the time Wynken, Blynken, and Nod were out on the silver sea Tracy’s eyelids were drooping. Anna gently patted the little form and tiptoed out of the room.

Anna headed down the stairs to return to Paul. Just as she was passing through the foyer, the phone on the hall table began to ring. She rushed to grab it and caught it on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Anna. It’s Iris. Did I catch you on the run? You sound breathless.”

“Hi, Iris. I was upstairs with Tracy. She’s got a little cold, and I just got her off to sleep.”

Anna’s neighbor was immediately remorseful. Oh, dear, I hope the phone didn’t wake her up.”

Anna listened up the stairs. “All’s quiet,” she assured her worried friend. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to call you about this. I have to go to a tea for the village green beautification committee, and I wondered if you wanted to go with me. Lorraine can watch the children. She can come over there if you don’t want to wake Tracy.”

Anna was bemused by the suggestion. Iris was a shy, ill-at-ease woman who trudged off reluctantly to countless social functions mostly, Anna suspected, at the behest of her appearance-conscious husband. Edward was an Ivy League-educated millionaire with a passion for high society, while his wife, who was born into a self-made immigrant family, seemed to dread rather than enjoy the social set. She often invited Anna to the endless teas and charity functions, freely offering the services of her maid, Lorraine Jackson, to mind Anna’s children. Occasionally, Anna took her up on the offer, for unlike Iris, she enjoyed the company of the other women at these events, and it was a nice change from being home. However, a sick child had a compelling hold on its mother, which, Anna thought, Iris probably did not understand, having no children of her own. Anna passed on the tea party without a second thought.

“Not today, Iris. I couldn’t leave Tracy. Thanks all the same.”

“Oh,” said Iris, and Anna could hear her disappointment.

“Well, maybe the next time.” Anna felt a little sorry for her friend, realizing how awkward she felt at these gatherings. “I’ve got Paul outside,” Anna said. “I’d better get back to him. Thanks for asking me, Iris.”

Anna hung up the phone, listened once more up the stairs and then started toward the back of the house. On the way she remembered her promise of a cookie. Having detoured to the pantry, she rooted around until she located the butter cookies that Paul liked. Anna took two for him and then, after a moment’s guilty debate, one for herself. It seemed, when she was pregnant, that she was always hungry. She returned to the back door, opened it, and stepped out onto the back porch.

“Paul,” she called out, “I brought you a cookie.” The child did not answer. She could not immediately see him in the play yard. He must be in the sandbox, she thought.

Frowning slightly, Anna descended the steps and hurried toward the play yard. “Paul,” she called sharply. She rushed up to the fence and reached for the slats.

“Where are you?” she demanded. Gripping the top of the fence, Anna looked inside. She did not see her son.

Her throat constricted. Her gaze swept the play yard, searched the sandbox. The yellow steam shovel lay abandoned on its side. The red car leaned against the sandbox wall. The child was not there.