Now she was using English. “If you go from under this table moonmen shall find you and eat you to dust and spit you down from their jaws.” She was terrifying them. He wasn’t certain, but she seemed to be spitting at them to make her point.
He could probably dress her by brute force if he had to. He was a realist. She had to dress. The adventure was over. Moitse stood up.
He had learned one thing tonight: he should lock the door and hang onto the key. He did it. He put the key in his pocket.
He confronted her. She touched his chest. The gesture enraged him. He backed away. He turned the stove burner off and the overhead light on. He had to get some normality going.
She said, “They are bad. They are punishing me.” Her eyes were moist.
“You have to get dressed right now,” he said. “You must be dressed, fast. And then you must take your sisters home. Listen to what I say.” He was speaking distinctly, he realized, like the Peace Corps schoolteachers he had met.
She pouted. She was going to be obstinate. The vamping look she’d used before was coming back. He couldn’t believe it. She was going to argue.
“This is insane,” he said.
“We can just go for that bed, rra,” she said. “They shall stay this side, as a promise. Because I shall thrash them.” She was pleading and defiant. She crossed her arms. She pushed her belly forward. That was seductive, he gathered.
He was desperate. He said, “You must dress very fast or I’ll hit you. Do you understand me?” She was still being inappropriate. Her expression meant that she doubted him.
He looked around the kitchen for something to threaten her with, so that she would believe he would hit her. There was nothing except a wooden ladle. A wooden ruler was what he wanted. They were used to rulers from being punished in school, probably. There was one in the living room. Ione had used a ruler to make her itinerary poster. He went to look for it.
He drew the curtains on one window to let in a little starlight. He found the ruler. As he was reclosing the curtain, something alarmed him. Christie’s yard light was on. That was unusual. There was also a light bobbing along the fence. It was Christie’s flashlight. Frank was paralyzed.
He struck himself across the palm with the ruler, to make himself think. Christie might stop. He might stand around and see nothing and go back in. Or Christie might be on some errand that had nothing to do with him at all. He followed the light as it went out Christie’s front gate and then out of sight, as it would if Christie were coming around from the street side.
What would Christie do if Frank sat tight and didn’t answer? Christie was capable of standing outside the house until daybreak, when he could see Moitse and know everything. He was like a bulldog. There was no time. Or Christie was capable of calling the police, saying he was afraid something had happened if there was no answer. Or he could pound on the door, waking up the neighborhood. Frank was going to have to face Christie down and get rid of him.
He ran back to the kitchen. He took Moitse by the shoulders and told her there had to be silence, no talking, because someone was coming there. He shook her. Again he told her to dress. He told her he was ordering her to dress. It was hard not to shout. There was nothing else he could do. He had to get back to the living room and normalize.
He could weep at what he had gotten into. He was facing humiliation beyond belief. The living room looked acceptable. Something had to rescue him. Christie had to stop. Frank would be willing to do anything. He could lose Ione. He could lose everything. He was willing to pray, if Christie could be stopped. Christie could think twice and decide to go home. Agnostics could pray. God wanted belief in Himself, was the main thing — He wanted that more than vows to give up certain vices. If he could defeat Christie, he would be willing to say it was God’s help that did it. Just the act of praying in itself implied belief. That should be enough for anyone. He thought, God, please save me, amen, this will never happen again.
He was a little calmer. There was no sign of Christie’s flashlight. And then there was.
Delay would look bad. Christie was there, knocking politely but steadily. Frank opened the door.
Christie was no threat, physically. He was small, gray-haired, with a heavy, seamed face. He had pronounced lips. His dentures were primitive. Insects were swarming around the stoop light. Christie stood placidly in the storm of insects. Christie had a good baritone voice, an actorly voice. Frank felt a stab: he could have given Moitse the key and told her to get everyone out the back while he kept Christie busy at the front door. But instead the key was sitting in his pocket, reminding him of his stupidity. Christie was wearing black slacks, a dress shirt buttoned to the throat, and a gray foreman’s coat. The effect was clerical. He was wearing sandals and white socks.
Christie spoke. “Good evening, sir. Might I step inside?” His tone was friendly.
“What’s up?” Frank asked.
“Won’t you permit me in, Mr. Napier? There are matters.”
“You have a complaint?”
“Possibly so, yes.”
“Then what is it? Just tell me.”
“We’d best sit down over it, I think.” Christie was being mild. Frank felt his self-confidence pick up. Christie was coming closer, like someone hard of hearing. Frank was encouraged. It was his house. But he needed a good reason for saying no to Christie, who was coming across like a member of the family.
“What do you say to tomorrow, Mr. Christie? I’m pretty tired tonight. In fact, I was dozing.…”
What was Christie doing? He was walking in, almost. He had his foot on the stoop and was inside the screen door, which had never had a lock. Where should Frank draw the line? Christie had his hand on the door and was pressing it, and Frank, slowly back — but smiling apologetically, it seemed to Frank, the whole time. Frank set his foot against the door, but the waxed floor betrayed him. Frank was divided. He was furious. But he was afraid that showing his fury would kill his last chance to manage Christie. He felt sick. The thing was to convert his resistance into the opposite. He opened the door to Christie. Christie was inside.
They stood facing one another in the dim coral light of the breezeway. Christie was upset too. This was costing him something. That meant there was hope. He was going to get out of this, thanks to God. He had to choose his words. He had to get Christie contained in one place, sitting down in one place in the living room. He wanted to batter Christie. But if he could get Christie sitting down, he could go to the kitchen for tea or Fanta or anything and get the key into the right hands and get his little friends out the back door. He had to let Christie see he was astonished at him but that he was honoring Christie’s emotions, whatever they were.
“This is my house,” Frank said. “So won’t you come and sit down, since you’re here.” He was pleased with the way it sounded. He would usher Christie into the living room in the same spirit. He would disarm him.
But Christie was different now, all of a sudden. He was ignoring Frank. Christie was already in the living room, staring around, sweeping the room with the beam of his flashlight. Christie had to sit down: it was all Frank asked.
“Excuse me,” Frank called out. “Would you mind sitting down for a second? You said you wanted to.” Frank switched the ceiling light on.
What was Christie doing? Frank felt like he was always two steps behind Christie. God alone could control Christie. Frank would do more for God. Anytime the church came up, any church or sect, the stupidest, he would be silent. He’d go into radio silence until the conversation got around to something else. Christie was religion with the bit between its teeth, pushing into his house. Christie was Beirut.