Refilling her wineglass for the umpteenth time, Felicia, the bank teller, asked about the upstairs—perfunctorily, Claire thought—and, putting a smile on her face, Claire took her up to see the kids’ bedrooms and Julian’s office. An older man she didn’t know was standing in James’s room, staring intently at the boy’s bed in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable. She wanted to order him out of her son’s room and out of her house, but she forced herself to be polite and give the guy the benefit of the doubt, and she asked pointedly, “May I help you?”
“No,” he said in a voice that implied he was offended by her very presence. He turned and, without another word, walked past her and Felicia, out of the room, down the hall and down the stairs.
“What the hell … ?” Claire said.
Felicia shrugged noncommittally, and Claire quickly pointed to and identified each of the rooms before ushering the other woman back downstairs.
She searched for the man unsuccessfully in the hall, dining room and living room. The front door was wide-open, and she peered outside before closing it, seeing the back of the man’s jacket as he headed down the sidewalk. Who was he? she wondered. Was he one of their neighbors? Had he even been invited to the party or had he just crashed? She considered hurrying after him, confronting him, but he was already gone and it was night, and the idea of meeting up with him in the dark frightened her.
She closed the door, locking it so no one from outside could come in.
Claire looked for Julian, but he was nowhere to be found. In fact, much of the party had moved outside, to the backyard, and she walked through the kitchen and out the open door to the patio, hoping to find him somewhere in the crowd. Quite a few people were out here, but most of them were standing around silently or speaking desultorily in low, enervated voices. One man she didn’t recognize was sitting on the ground, head between his knees as though he were about to throw up, atop the bare mound of dirt where James had covered up his hole. In the garage, by contrast, the lights were on, and through the dirty window she saw a couple energetically dancing, though the music from the house was not audible out here. From the alley, she could hear the sound of someone rooting around in their garbage cans.
“Julian!” she called out, but there was no answer. None of the people in the backyard even bothered to look over at her.
Where was he?
Claire was about to walk over to the garage, just in case he was in there with the dancers, when a tap on the shoulder caused her to turn around.
It was Janet.
“Do you know what’s going on in there?” Janet motioned toward the kitchen doorway.
Claire was confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Come here,” her friend said, grabbing her hand. Janet led her back into the house and through the kitchen, stopping before the open doorway that led to the basement. From downstairs came a series of rough male grunts accompanied by a woman’s high-pitched cries.
“I don’t know who they are, but it’s been going on for a while,” Janet whispered. “That guy lasts,” she added. “I’m getting sore just listening to him.”
“That is not right,” Claire said angrily. “That’s where we store our stuff. The kids’ toys are down there.” The lights in the basement were off, but she turned them on with the wall switch, and, fists clenched, stomped down the steps.
It was Pam. And her husband, Joe.
Only they weren’t together.
She was on top of a box, skirt hiked up, panties down, using one of Megan’s old Barbies to pleasure herself, inserting the doll’s head, then pulling it out, inserting it again, pulling it out. Much of the doll’s hair had been worn away, and its clothes were ragged, torn. The flesh-colored plastic looked shiny in the overhead light.
He had pushed aside some stuffed Hefty bags and cardboard boxes and cleared a space in the corner (the corner!), where he was standing with his pants and underwear around his ankles, grunting loudly as he thrust into what appeared to be a Christmas decoration.
“What the hell are you doing?” Claire screamed.
There was a sudden cessation of movement. Both of them blinked at her dumbly, almost as though awakening from a trance; then they grabbed and pulled on their clothes, embarrassed. No, more than embarrassed. Ashamed. Pam met her eyes for a brief second, and what Claire saw there was confusion and humiliation. It was as though she’d been completely unaware of what she’d been doing and had only now realized it.
But that did not excuse her and her husband’s actions. Claire looked disgustedly at the shiny, worn-out Barbie in Pam’s hand, at the fouled Christmas decoration Joe had dropped. “Get out of here!” she ordered.
She marched back up to the kitchen and stepped to the side of the door to let them pass. Janet, standing opposite her, looked shocked by what had happened down there, but, unsettlingly, also intrigued. Claire glanced away, not wanting to meet her gaze.
Pam and Joe emerged moments later, hurrying past without looking at either of them, and Claire followed the couple into the living room, watching as they rushed out toward the street and their car, slamming the front door behind them. Julian had appeared from somewhere and was sidling next to her, drink in hand. “What was that all about?”
She wanted to tell him, but not here, not now, so she shrugged it off and asked him where he’d been.
“Upstairs.” He grinned. “Showing off. I convinced Cole to check out my record collection. He was suitably impressed.”
Claire looked around. The house suddenly seemed much more crowded, and she saw several people who had been in the backyard only moments before. Her first thought was that something had happened out there, something that had chased them all inside, but though the men and women around her seemed subdued, they appeared neither frightened nor upset, and she supposed it was possible that they had come in because they were looking for food or drink, or perhaps preparing to leave.
The lights flickered.
Claire froze, half expecting the electricity to go off. It was rare to have a blackout unless there was a thunderstorm or a major wind, but it was not unheard-of, and she thought with resignation that this would probably be an appropriate ending for their party, which seemed to be heading rapidly and steadily downhill.
The lights continued to flicker, making the living room seem as though it were being lit by candles. Glancing through the front window, Claire saw that none of the houses across the street appeared to be affected.
Of course not.
“Do you think it’s—” she started to ask Julian, but her question was interrupted by a loud roar from the rear of the house, a sudden harsh, lionlike sound that made her jump and caused Julian to spill his drink.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. He didn’t sound frightened, but she noticed that he wasn’t going back there to investigate, either. Everyone, in fact, had frozen, as though waiting to see what would happen next.
The sound came again, only lower this time, and halfway through, it began fading away until it dwindled down to nothing.
Wafting in from the rear of the house was a strong scent of burned toast.
Almost as one, the guests moved to the left in order to see down the hallway, the area from whence the noise and the smell seemed to have come. They were looking at one another, talking quietly, wondering what was going on. Claire and Julian shifted over, too.
A tall man was shuffling down the hall.
They all grew quiet.
The man was dressed in heavy clothing, inappropriate for the weather, and he moved slowly, as though his legs did not work properly. Claire tried desperately to figure out who he was, but it was hard to see his face because the hallway was so dark. Too dark, she thought, and she realized that once again something was wrong with the lights, although this time they were merely dim, not flickering.