The Unwanted by John Saul Page B

Cassie’s voice had betrayed nothing, the two of them had just had their first confrontation, and Cassie had won.
    That’s ridiculous
, she told herself. All she did was make a very nice gesture toward Jennifer, and I should accept it at face vlaue.
    But for some reason she couldn’t. And as she went backdown the stairs, she realized why. All through their conversation she’d had the unsettling feeling that she wasn’t truly talking to Cassie at all, but to someone else, some persona Cassie had devised to present to the world. Beneath that persona, Rosemary thought, there was someone else—the real Cassie.
    Of that person, she was certain, nothing at all had been exposed.
        Eric finished his yard work at six-thirty, put the tools back into the garage, swung its lopsided door shut, and started across the driveway toward the back door. At least the lawn looked all right, and he’d gotten most of the weeds out of the garden. But the Cavanaughs’ house still didn’t look nearly as nice as the Winslows’ house next door, and Eric knew exactly why: paint.
    If he could only talk his father into buying a few gallons of white paint, Eric knew he could make their house look a lot better than it did. But he also knew it was hopeless, for he’d asked his father about it last year. Ed had only glowered darkly at him and told him he should keep his mind on his schoolwork and not worry about the house. “Besides,” he had added, “I don’t have money to waste just to put on a show for the neighbors. Only reason to paint a house is to sell it, and I don’t plan to sell this place.”
    But there was another reason why his father wouldn’t buy paint, and Eric knew all too well what it was: most of Ed Cavanaugh’s money was spent on liquor.
    It had happened again today. His father had left right after breakfast, having announced that he was going down to the pier to finish the repair job on the
Big Ed
. But when lunchtime came around and his father hadn’t come home, both Eric and his mother had known where Ed was, though neither of them had said anything. Then, half an hour ago, the truck had pulled into the driveway. When his father climbed down from the driver’s seat, Eric immediately knew that he was drunk. His step was unsteady, and his eyes held the bright glaze of anger that meant he was looking for a fight. Eric had looked away as quickly as he could, concentrating on clipping the edge of the lawn next to the sidewalk. But he hadn’t been quick enough.
    “You staring at something, boy?” Ed had growled. “Well, let me tell you something—anyone works as hard as I do deserves a little relaxation, and if I stop off for a coupla beers with my friends, that’s my business. Got it?”
    Eric had nodded mutely, not daring to challenge his father, but sure in his own mind that it had been a lot more than a couple of beers his father had shared with his friends. Maybe it started that way, but after the second beer Ed would have switched to a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser, and bought the same thing for anyone willing to listen to him talk while they drank his booze. Only when there was no one left willing to listen, would his father have finally come home. Eric kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his work, and after a few seconds which seemed to stretch out into eternity, his father had shambled down the driveway and into the house.
    Now, unable to put off going inside any longer, Eric pulled the screen door open and went into the service porch. He could hear his father’s voice from the kitchen beyond. Though he couldn’t see him, Eric knew Ed was sitting in the breakfast nook, a half-empty glass of bourbon in front of him, his glazed eyes fixed dangerously on his wife.
    “Some reason why supper’s late again?” Ed Cavanaugh was saying, his voice slurring slightly, his words edged with bitter sarcasm. “You been doing something useful again, like sitting on your ass watching TV all day? Seems to me if