The Houseguest by Thomas Berger Page B

discourage him, he despised women who employed such little phrases. Also, it was really difficult to suppose that in only a few years she had been transformed from that repulsive child into an attractive woman. He regretted having called her, the probable result of which would be that he and Audrey would now get an invitation to the wedding.
    He heard a splash outside, and went to the high little window in the alcove to look out at the pool, the northern half of which could be seen from this perspective. Audrey, not he, had wanted this house of unorthodox perspectives: she had had a crush on the architect, an imperious, leonine-headed man who was a celebrity in his field and charged an appropriate fee.
    Suddenly a swimsuited girl with an exquisite behind walked into his field of view. For a moment Doug had no idea whatever of who she was, even found himself hoping she might be a trespasser, perhaps one of the young female Finches, of whom there was always a new supply, probably dim-witted owing to the poor genes circulated throughout generations of intermarriage. Doug had seen such youthful slatterns over the summers since his own pubescence, but owing to his fear of the males of their blood, and also a certain delicacy of taste that gave preference to flesh of better breeding, he had not had a struggle with himself to abstain from making a personal approach.
    But this one, whoever she could be, was on his property.
    Then she turned her face so that it could be identified, within its tight white bathing cap, in profile, and of all people this person was his daughter-in-law. How had he failed until this moment to notice that she had the cutest little ass on the island? Because she habitually wore loose skirts or oversized shorts, and he had never before seen her attired for swimming.
    He decided to join her at poolside, but before he could leave the room the telephone produced an electronic tone within the polished wooden box in which it was kept. There were only two such tones before the answering machine took over. Chuck’s story of happening to be present when Connie Cunningham called and surrendering to the typically human impulse to answer a ringing phone was difficult to accept: to reach the instrument before the machine was activated, he would have had to work quickly for one who was presumably a stranger to Doug’s communications center.
    Doug now manipulated the volume control on the answering device, so that he could listen to the voice of the caller, if indeed any came, for one of the useful functions of the machine in dealing with the likes of Connie Cunningham was to discourage them from leaving any message or even an identification.
    But the voice proved to be that of a man, an unpleasant, cynical man if his current mode of expression was representative.
    â€œPick it up, you fucker you. I know you’re there. Don’t jerk me off.”
    Though Doug included amongst his acquaintances nobody who could have spoken in this style except in jest, he felt an inexplicable obligation to reveal his presence at the other end of the line.
    â€œI’m afraid,” he said into the instrument, “you have the wrong number. That is—”
    He was interrupted brutally before reaching the first digit.
    â€œNo,” said the voice, “ you got the wrong phone, sonny boy. Now put it down and get me Chaz.”
    Offended by the man’s tone, Doug hung up. Hell with it, why give civility when it wasn’t returned. He put the phone back into the box. In another instant the machine was accepting another call. After listening to his own recorded voice announce the number and ask for a message, he again heard the voice of the previous caller. This time it was even uglier.
    â€œYou do that to me again, dicklicker, and I’ll make you scream for mercy. Now you go find him. You tell him Jack Perlmutter says okay. You do that and maybe I won’t hurt you.” Perlmutter, assuming it was he