now, it's safe, and I can live here. Alone, if I want."
The kitchen was tidy, which surprised meâI'd always thought of Abner as a slob. One wall, opposite four large windows and a door that faced the beach, had an upper row of freshly polished knotty-pine cupboards on it, a stainless-steel double sink below, more knotty-pine cupboards to the left of it. At the center of the room there was a small table with a white enamel top and wooden base, painted white, and three old ladder-back chairs with cane seats. A rounded-top General Electric refrigerator, circa 1960, stood next to the sink, and a huge, battered gas stove was kitty-corner to it. The side of the stove next to the outside doorâthe door that led to the beach was badly chipped, and I guessed that the door hit it every time it was opened. There was a cream-colored cereal bowl in the sink that had a spoon in it, a little milk, and some remnants of what looked like Rice Krispies.
I sat in one of the ladder-back chairs. It wobbled. I hoped it would hold me. Abner stood in front of me, at the sink, with his arms folded in front of him. I asked him, "What do you mean, 'alone'? What about that woman I sawâwhat was her name? Al? What about her?"
"She doesn't live here. She's a guest."
"Oh," I said. "It must be nice to have guests like that."
"I've got lots of guests here. I've got at least a dozen guests. Maybe you'll meet some of them." This seemed to amuse him.
I stared at him for a few moments, then I said, "Where, Abner?"
"Where what?"
"For God's sake, where are your guests?" I held my hand up, palm out, as if stopping traffic. "Sorry, Abner. It's just that I hate to see a friend . . . teetering on the edgeâ"
"The edge of what, Sam?" He was clearly confused.
I sighed. "Abner, I'm sorry, but maybe I'd better go."
"Go?" He shook his head. "You can't go, Sam. They won't let you."
Another sigh. " 'They' won't let me? Who's 'they,' Abner?"
"My guests, the people in the house."
"Abner, Christ!" I pushed my chair back noisily. The racket seemed to jar Abner because he stiffened up. I stood, glanced first at the door to the beach, then toward the hallway that led back to the great room. "There are no 'other people' in this house!"
"Yes, Sam, there are. They live in the walls. Most of them. Except Madeline, of course. She lives upstairs." He grinned flatly.
Again I stared at him, and for a moment I felt an incredible urge to slap him around, as if that might shake the rocks out of his head. Instead I said, "Abner, you need help, probably a lot more than I can give you." Then I turned, went quickly down the hallway, to the great room, and out the door.
I had to walk at least three or four miles until I found a bus stop, but I was back in my apartment early that evening.
EIGHT
Â
He called soon after I got back.
âSam? I'm sorry, I guess I was spooking you a little, wasn't I? It's just that . . . how do I explain this? It's just that when you get used to a thing, when a situation, no matter how bizarre it is, becomes a real part of your life, you take it for granted, and you talk about it as if everyone's life has the same sort of situation in it. Am I making any sense? Tell me if I'm making any sense, Sam?"
"You're not making any sense, Abner."
"Okay." He paused. "Okay. Tell me what you don't understand."
I sighed. "Listen, Abner, we share some⦠interesting memories. We went to the same high school, we did some stupid things together. We were friendsâ"
"I thought we still were friends, Sam."
"Sure. Sure we are." I didn't know how to continue. It was clear that Abner was in some kind of trouble. Whether it came from outside him, from something in that house, or from within, didn't matter much to me then. I'd assumed that I was going to renew acquaintance with a close friend from high school, that we'd have some good times together, and that that would be that. I didn't expect him to be carrying the kind of emotional baggage
The kitchen was tidy, which surprised meâI'd always thought of Abner as a slob. One wall, opposite four large windows and a door that faced the beach, had an upper row of freshly polished knotty-pine cupboards on it, a stainless-steel double sink below, more knotty-pine cupboards to the left of it. At the center of the room there was a small table with a white enamel top and wooden base, painted white, and three old ladder-back chairs with cane seats. A rounded-top General Electric refrigerator, circa 1960, stood next to the sink, and a huge, battered gas stove was kitty-corner to it. The side of the stove next to the outside doorâthe door that led to the beach was badly chipped, and I guessed that the door hit it every time it was opened. There was a cream-colored cereal bowl in the sink that had a spoon in it, a little milk, and some remnants of what looked like Rice Krispies.
I sat in one of the ladder-back chairs. It wobbled. I hoped it would hold me. Abner stood in front of me, at the sink, with his arms folded in front of him. I asked him, "What do you mean, 'alone'? What about that woman I sawâwhat was her name? Al? What about her?"
"She doesn't live here. She's a guest."
"Oh," I said. "It must be nice to have guests like that."
"I've got lots of guests here. I've got at least a dozen guests. Maybe you'll meet some of them." This seemed to amuse him.
I stared at him for a few moments, then I said, "Where, Abner?"
"Where what?"
"For God's sake, where are your guests?" I held my hand up, palm out, as if stopping traffic. "Sorry, Abner. It's just that I hate to see a friend . . . teetering on the edgeâ"
"The edge of what, Sam?" He was clearly confused.
I sighed. "Abner, I'm sorry, but maybe I'd better go."
"Go?" He shook his head. "You can't go, Sam. They won't let you."
Another sigh. " 'They' won't let me? Who's 'they,' Abner?"
"My guests, the people in the house."
"Abner, Christ!" I pushed my chair back noisily. The racket seemed to jar Abner because he stiffened up. I stood, glanced first at the door to the beach, then toward the hallway that led back to the great room. "There are no 'other people' in this house!"
"Yes, Sam, there are. They live in the walls. Most of them. Except Madeline, of course. She lives upstairs." He grinned flatly.
Again I stared at him, and for a moment I felt an incredible urge to slap him around, as if that might shake the rocks out of his head. Instead I said, "Abner, you need help, probably a lot more than I can give you." Then I turned, went quickly down the hallway, to the great room, and out the door.
I had to walk at least three or four miles until I found a bus stop, but I was back in my apartment early that evening.
EIGHT
Â
He called soon after I got back.
âSam? I'm sorry, I guess I was spooking you a little, wasn't I? It's just that . . . how do I explain this? It's just that when you get used to a thing, when a situation, no matter how bizarre it is, becomes a real part of your life, you take it for granted, and you talk about it as if everyone's life has the same sort of situation in it. Am I making any sense? Tell me if I'm making any sense, Sam?"
"You're not making any sense, Abner."
"Okay." He paused. "Okay. Tell me what you don't understand."
I sighed. "Listen, Abner, we share some⦠interesting memories. We went to the same high school, we did some stupid things together. We were friendsâ"
"I thought we still were friends, Sam."
"Sure. Sure we are." I didn't know how to continue. It was clear that Abner was in some kind of trouble. Whether it came from outside him, from something in that house, or from within, didn't matter much to me then. I'd assumed that I was going to renew acquaintance with a close friend from high school, that we'd have some good times together, and that that would be that. I didn't expect him to be carrying the kind of emotional baggage
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