Free The Houseguest by Thomas Berger Page A

desire, expecting as she did that his purpose was to hurt and not to caress her: in the next moment he would begin to squeeze, and there was nothing she could do about it.
    But he defied her flight forward and did nothing else: she got neither fondling nor pain.
    â€œDon’t you worry,” said he. “Everything’s in order.”
    His hand was suddenly snapped away as if by spring.

Doug had done nothing whatever to deserve the tone in which Perlmutter addressed him. The unprovoked attack, the display of bluster: the classic tactics of the bully, in this case all of it behind the impermeable electronic curtain. Perlmutter could well be a little down-at-heels clerk, who in a pre-telephone age would have been but another Cratchit.
    Doug was not obliged to suffer threats from anybody but the women with whom he went illicitly to bed and, sometimes, their husbands. He would be prepared, next time Perlmutter phoned, and he would do what he could to insure that the man did call back: Doug had no intention of giving a message to “Chaz.”
    Scarcely had he made that resolution when he betrayed it. Someone was rapping sharply on the door of the study. He went out and opened the door. It was Chuck Burgoyne.
    â€œSay, Chuck,” Doug said plaintively, “there was a phone call for you, from a guy who for no reason at all was really insulting. He—”
    â€œLook here, Doug,” Chuck said, grimacing, “Lydia almost drowned in the ocean just now. Luckily I was there to pull her out. You should make sure your guests know about that undertow: you should post signs on the steps to the beach.”
    â€œLydia?” Doug asked, as if he had difficulty in identifying her immediately. “Lydia? Is she all right? Anything I can do? Should we call a doctor or something? That won’t be easy on a Sunday, I can tell you. The people up here are not moved by compassion. They close the hospital on the weekends so the staff can go fishing, for God’s sake.” This was of course an exaggeration, but once when the child Bobby had fallen on slippery shore rocks and broken his arm, the volunteer ambulance, a Finch at the wheel, took forever to collect the boy and take him to the island hospital, where the lone attendant had to summon a doctor from his home, halfway around the bay. When the physician arrived he said he had been smoking mackerel, and smelled of it.
    â€œI’m sorry you were bothered by that call,” said Chuck. “No doubt it was a wrong number. People can be nasty as they want when they remain anonymous.”
    Doug felt a quick affection for the houseguest, as he always did for those whose theories echoed his own. “You know, I was just thinking the same thing myself? It doesn’t take much courage for a man to—”
    â€œThe coward wouldn’t give his name?”
    Doug frowned. “Actually, he did. … Jack Perlmutter.”
    After a moment Chuck said, “I imagine there’s been some mistake.”
    â€œI’m sure I got the name right.”
    â€œNo doubt,” said Chuck. “But I know Jack Perlmutter. He’s a decent man, Doug. Under no condition would he speak abusively. He’s known for his geniality.” Chuck slapped him on the shouldercap. “But why are we just standing here? It’s easy enough to get to the bottom of this.” He went to the desk as if he owned it, opened the oak box, and removed the handpiece of the telephone. He brandished it at Doug and grinned. Without an obvious search of memory he quickly punched a series of buttons.
    â€œHi, Jack. … . That’s right.” Chuck explained why he had called. “One moment—” He took the phone from his face and handed it to Doug.
    Doug was reluctant, but finally he accepted the gift and made a lugubrious hello into it.
    He was greeted by a voice that could have been that of the earlier abusive Perlmutter: there was no way of