"The Walker in Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Michaels Barbara)

I

Spring came early that year. An unseasonably warm spell brought crocuses and daffodils leaping out of the ground in sunny splendor and encouraged the cherry blossoms to bloom on schedule for the first time in ten years. When the women met in the supermarket they gloated over the lovely weather, and hoped frost wouldn't blight the blooms of peach and cherry and apple. Fruit prices were as high as Everest already.

Mark's fancy did not lightly turn with the season. It had focused on its goal even before the daffodils appeared. Actually, according to Nancy Groft, spring didn't make young men turn to thoughts of love. They thought about it all the time, winter, fall, and summer. If "love" was the right word…

Pat smiled dutifully at Nancy 's jokes, but she wasn't really amused. Although she would never have admitted it to Nancy, who had been rendered callous by the love affairs of four sons ("you have to get tough, honey, or you bleed to death,") she was worried about Mark. He wasn't eating. Even Nancy would have agreed that was a bad sign.

To say he wasn't eating was an exaggeration, of course. He ate what a normal human being would eat-about half of his usual capacity. Pat knew what was bothering him, and in her opinion, it was only about fifty percent love. If "love" was the right word…

The other fifty percent was outraged ego. Mark was a fast worker-as Pat's generation might have said-but in this case he didn't even get a chance to start working. Kathy's father drove her to school every day. It was a long drive, almost thirty miles, and they left before seven. After a week or so Mark became desperate enough to rise at six thirty-a hitherto unheard-of concession for a girl-but it did him no good. Kathy and Friedrichs emerged from the house together, got in the car, and drove off. Their garage was on the side of the house away from Pat's, so Kathy didn't even see Mark draped over the fence like a pensive gargoyle. Pat saw him, though, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Friedrichs also drove his daughter home. Usually they didn't arrive until six or seven p.m. Some nights it was even later. Presumably they ate out a good deal of the time. The Friedrichs' telephone number was unlisted, and Mark didn't have quite enough nerve to march up to the door and ask to speak to Kathy.

The weekend, for which Mark held high hopes, was equally unproductive. It rained both days and Kathy scarcely left the house. Mark shut himself up in his room, which just happened to overlook the house next door; he had virtuously announced his intention of catching up on schoolwork, but Pat knew he spent most of the time staring morosely out his window. One of Friedrichs' first acts upon moving in had been to hang curtains, so Mark was denied even a glimpse of his new flame.

It was typical of the perversity that pursues lovers that his mother should see more of Kathy than Mark did. Once, between showers on Saturday, she caught sight of the girl wandering in the wet garden. Mark was out, rendering emergency assistance to a friend whose car had run out of gas on the highway. Another day Pat actually met Kathy as she left for work. Mark had given up his early-morning vigils by then, and was still asleep. The girl had just time enough for a smile and a shy "good morning" before her father's peremptory voice called her to hurry.

She was a darling, Pat had to admit that. Petite and dainty as a Meissen shepherdess, even in the navy-blue skirt and tailored jacket Willowburn required of its students, she had charm as well as beauty. The shy smile and nod had been quite delightful. Obviously, Pat thought, she had not inherited her father's rotten disposition. Nor had she inherited his looks; her features were delicate, unlike Friedrichs' craggy bones and jutting nose, and her eyes were as blue as cornflowers. No wonder Mark was smitten (and how he would have jeered at that word and all it implied)! Pat rather suspected that Kathy was not indifferent. When she walked in the garden she kept glancing at the wall between the two houses, as if hoping to see someone there.

In the middle of the third week Mark's vigilance was finally rewarded. When Pat came home that Wednesday night she was tired. The flu season was upon them and the office had been full of coughing, sneezing victims. But one look at Mark's glowing face made her forget her fatigue. He had started dinner, and insisted that she sit down, put her feet up, and sip her sherry like a lady while he finished concocting his specialty-spaghetti. Pat did not argue. It was lovely to relax, with the cat's heavy warmth sprawled across her knees, listening to the cheerful noises from the kitchen-pans clattering, water boiling furiously, and Mark singing at the top of his lungs, stopping only to swear when he dropped or spilled something. He had a perfectly terrible voice. Jerry had been tone deaf, and his son had inherited this trait.

Pat tickled Albert under his lowest chin. He was a tabby-the best color for a cat, Jerry always said-with a white bib and three white paws. He had come to their door one rainy night and kicked it-at least, that is what Mark claimed. His parents found it hard to believe that a shivering, wretched three-month-old kitten could kick a door that hard, but they agreed solemnly that it was probably coincidental that Mark happened to be at the door at that precise moment. As Albert grew in bulk and dignity, it was not difficult to believe he could kick a door if he felt like doing so. The necessity did not arise. He had his own door and often brought friends to lunch, for he was a gregarious soul, in a perfectly Platonic way. He had been altered at the appropriate age, Jerry commenting that his estimation of his own virility did not rise or fall on the nocturnal habits of a tomcat, for God's sake, and there were already too many stray kittens in the world.

Albert purred. Pat sipped her sherry. She felt wonderful.

Mark came in to announce that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. Pat gestured toward a chair.

"Join me, kind sir. And tell me why you're in such a good mood."

"I'll have a beer," Mark said. "As for my mood, why shouldn't I be in a good one?"

"Because it's muggy and warm and your paper for that psych course is overdue."

"I do hate omniscient mothers."

"You can do it this weekend, if you work every minute," Pat murmured.

Mark pulled the ring on the beer can and stopped the overflow with his forearm.

"Shirt's dirty anyhow," he said cheerfully, anticipating his mother's protest. "You're a sly one, aren't you? How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That I have a heavy date Friday night. With Kathy."

"You're kidding!" Pat registered appropriate surprise and admiration.

"Nope. The old Robbins magic did the job. I met her at the gate this afternoon…" Mark hesitated. Pat kept her face straight with an effort. She knew Mark was wondering whether to admit that he had lurked in the yard all afternoon, as he had for days. He decided not to admit it. "I just happened to be there when they got home," he went on casually. "They were early today. Teachers' meeting, or something. Anyhow, he went on in the house, and she sort of hung around, and I asked her, and she said yes."

"That's wonderful. Every boy-I mean, young man -on the street has tried to date that girl."

For a moment Mark looked as smug as Albert.

"I know. I won five bucks from Rick."

"Mark! You didn't!"

"Bet? Sure. Why not? Let's eat. I think the spaghetti's done."

They had barely sat down when the telephone rang.

"I'll get it, it's probably for me," Mark said.

It usually was for him. Pat went on eating. She heard him say, "Hello," and then, "Well! Hi, there." The tone of the second greeting made her look up. By then Mark had disappeared with the phone. It was on a long cord, and Mark carried it with him into the hall or, when even greater privacy was required, into a closet. This call was of the latter variety. Pat heard the door close and grinned. The caller must be female. Kathy, no doubt. No other girl could arouse quite that degree of enthusiasm just now. Then her smile faded. That the girl should telephone so soon after accepting an invitation from Mark might not be a good sign.

When Mark reappeared in the doorway she knew her hunch had been correct. He stood for a moment holding the telephone as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. His face was a mask of bewilderment.

"She can't go out with me."

"That's too bad. A previous engagement?"

"No." Anger replaced Mark's initial surprise. He slammed the telephone back onto its wall holder. "I asked how about Saturday night, or Sunday. She finally admitted her dad says she can't go out with me. Ever."

"Oh, Mark. Did she say why?"

"She was crying," Mark said. He turned. "I'm going over there."

"Mark, wait!" But he was gone. The front door slammed.

Pat stared miserably at the remains of her spaghetti. It was all very well for Nancy to talk about becoming hardened to the troubles of one's children. Pat only wished she could. Her anger against Friedrichs flared, and she fought to control it before Mark returned. She would have to help him overcome his anger, not add to it. She hoped he didn't lose his temper and say, or do, something unforgivable.

He was back in five minutes. The door slammed again and Mark's footsteps pounded down the hall, making bric-a-brac rattle. He took his seat without speaking; his face was white with rage, his mouth pinched together.

"Break something," Pat suggested sympathetically. "Those glasses are expendable; dime-store stuff."

Mark's tight lips relaxed slightly.

"The guy is sick," he muttered. "I mean, really sick."

"What did he say?"

"He answered the door. I bet he never lets her do it. She might meet somebody who could contaminate her." For the first time Mark appeared to see his mother's worried look. His eyes lost their flinty glare. "Hey," he said. "Relax, will you? The Robbins honor is untarnished. I did not punch the old devil in the nose. I didn't even say anything rude. All I said was I thought a condemned man had a right to defend himself."

"Cute," Pat admitted. "The legal touch. What did he say?"

"He stood right there in the doorway and told me what he had against me. Honest to God, Mom, you never heard such garbage. The guy is a hundred years out of date. He should be living in 1880."

"What did he say?"

"Well." Mark abandoned any pretense of eating. He pushed his chair back and pondered briefly. "As near as I can remember, he said he didn't want his daughter going out with a guy who drove too fast, drank too much beer, played rock and roll too loud, didn't mow the lawn or help around the house, stayed out till all hours instead of studying, and was too stupid or too lazy to get admitted to a decent college. There may have been a couple of other things, but I forget them."

"Of all the unreasonable, unfair…" Pat's voice rose. She counted to ten and tried again. "How does he know all that?"

Mark began to laugh. His temper was quick to explode and as quick to cool off. He reached out a long arm and patted his mother on the shoulder.

"Thanks a lot, Mom."

"I didn't mean that. I meant-"

"I know. He must have been watching us all this time. The grass did get pretty long last week. And you had to go and mow the front, where everybody could see you… Okay, okay, I know I should have done it before you had to. And a couple of the guys did leave some beer cans along the driveway one night. And that warm night when the windows were open I guess I did have my hi-fi turned up pretty loud…"

Pat said nothing. She was shocked at the intensity of her rage. Hearing Mark recounting his little sins, with that compulsive, touching fairness of his, she was thinking of the crudest accusation of all and resenting it even more bitterly than she had resented Friedrichs' sneer at her. Mark had had his choice of several excellent colleges. He had turned them all down when his father died, in order to stay with her. She pushed her chair back from the table.

"I'm going over there and tell that-"

"Mom!" Mark grabbed her and hugged her till her breath came out in a gasp. "Cool it," Mark said. "What a termagant you are! I can defend myself, you know. I'd look like a damned fool if my mommy went running over there to scold the mean man for hurting my little feelings." His voice changed. "Seriously, Mom, I appreciate it. But it wouldn't do any good. He'd just be rude to you. The man is neurotic. He's going to ruin that chick's life, but it's not your problem."

"You're right," Pat said. She put her arms around Mark and hugged him back. "I'm sorry for the girl, but there's nothing we can do about it."

All the same, she spent the rest of the evening thinking about what Friedrichs had said, and inventing horrible fates for him. Not until she was in bed and almost asleep did she isolate the odd feeling of uneasiness that had plagued her since dinner. "It's not your problem," Mark had said. Just a casual pronoun-only somehow she suspected its choice had not been casual at all.