The Houseguest by Thomas Berger Page A

sympathetic response of a houseguest and friend of the family to an intimate matter concerning the head of that family. Chuck would hardly be under this roof were he capable of criminality.
    And yet Doug found himself doing now that which would have been most unlikely in any other situation: namely, phoning a woman whom he had determined to discard.
    She answered on the second ring, simultaneously relieving him and putting him under a new threat. Her voice sounded normal enough. If he identified himself, he would be right back in the soup. He silently hung up and consulted his pocket address book for a number at which he could reach Chrissy Milhaven, who was some sort of distant cousin of his on his mother’s side. He had read an announcement of her forthcoming marriage in Friday’s newspaper, in town. Whether he and Audrey would be invited to this ceremony was doubtful: he had had no association with that branch of the family for years and had not seen Chrissy since she was a very plain thirteen. But the photograph in the paper showed the comely face of a person of twenty-three. It seemed worth his while to renew old ties of blood.
    He called the number he had for Chrissy’s parents, for apparently she still lived at home, in the vast apartment they maintained in the city, with its roof garden that went around three sides of the building.
    Luckily a maid answered, so he did not have to speak with Millicent, Chrissy’s mother, an acerb woman with whom he had simply never hit it off.
    â€œHi, cousin,” said he when Chrissy came on the telephone. He identified himself. “Just saw your announcement.” He answered some commonplace, lackluster questions. “Yes, fine. Yes, everybody. That’s right, he did get married, privately. Very privately; some country courthouse. Uh-huh. She’s from—out of town. But say, Chrissy, I must say you’ve become quite a beauty since we last got together. We have some catching up to do before you tie the knot, I should say. It’s been too long.” He suggested they have a drink when he was back in town, middle of the week.
    â€œYou’ll like Stephen,” said Chrissy, with the slight lisp she had retained over the years.
    Doug had always felt superior to a man with impedimented speech, but he found it erotic in a female. Also, he was unusually attracted to women who were soon to be married, and there was something special with a person he could remember as an almost ugly little girl. Finally, that he was at least remotely related to her added its own excitement. The result was a growing lust for Chrissy. He was never gross in a situation of this kind: the force of his passion would be exerted subliminally, concealed within or beneath banalities, but if she were the right subject, she would receive these messages with clarity and make an appropriate response. If not, then no harm was done: she might not even be certain that an overture had been made. In his career of lechery Doug had to date made perhaps a half dozen such attempts on the virtue of a newly created financée. He had been successful only once, but even he considered it astonishing that nobody amongst these young women had apparently been offended by his attentions. Two pretended not to understand him, but three professed to be flattered. As to his successful project, it continued throughout the first year of the bride’s marriage, for the husband while an amiable companion proved intimately enervate.
    â€œI thought just the two of us,” Doug said now, “you and me, for old times’ sake, to catch up on things. After all, we’re family. Then comes Steve.”
    His intonation was that of near levity. But Chrissy’s response proved humorless.
    â€œAs you might expect, I’m awfully rushed these days. When we get back from abroad we’ll have you and Audrey over for a sip or a bite.”
    As if the general rudeness was not sufficient to