The Houseguest by Thomas Berger Read Free Book Online Page A

“winterized” by them and stored in one of the barns at the disposal of that family. But it was more than possible that, as his father routinely suspected of anything managed by the Finches, this job was poorly done. If so, Bobby did not want to be the one who told them so, for his childhood bête noire, Dewey Finch, now ran the automotive branch of the Finch enterprises. Once when Bobby was twelve and Dewey fourteen or fifteen and much thicker-set than he, the brutal islander had cornered the rich kid in the gas-station toilet and forced the younger boy to masturbate him, after the performance of which degrading act he predicted that Bobby would be far too humiliated to report it, and of course he was right.
    Dewey had obviously not forgotten that episode, for he still smirked today if Bobby was so careless as to gas up one of the cars when his enemy was on duty.
    On the walk back he saw a red squirrel that looked no bigger than a good-sized mouse and heard the sounds made by a larger animal he could not see but had set to flight amidst the trees. Many beasts lived in these woods. Deer were not uncommon. A gardener when Bobby was a boy, of course another Finch, scared him with tales of wandering bears, but in later years he determined that there had been no bear-sightings locally since the turn of the century.
    As he was approaching the house, Chuck came around the wing nearest the parking area.
    â€œOut for a constitutional?” asked the houseguest. Chuck wore his habitual uniform: khaki trousers, navy knitted shirt, and leather loafers. Apparently he had brought little else. Since it was not likely he was poor, this was perhaps an expression of his austere tastes. But Bobby really couldn’t understand how anyone would want to stay out of shorts in this season.
    He groaned now. “Car broke down, just stopped in its tracks. Sunday the garage is closed, so I guess what I’ll have to do is take the wagon out there and pull the car back. Mind steering the car, Chuck?”
    â€œWhy don’t you let me walk out and see whether I can get it started?” Chuck asked. “I know a few tricks.” He held out his hand for the ignition keys that Bobby had been swinging on an index finger.
    Bobby felt a great sense of relief. He hated to have trouble with cars, for even the simplest matter pertaining to the internal-combustion engine was mysterious to him: he really had no idea of what, say, a distributor did.
    â€œGod, I’d be grateful,” said he, surrendering the keys. “I’ll go get the keys to the wagon, just in case.”
    â€œNo,” Chuck said evenly. “Let me see first.” He started off up the lane in his, usual brisk, regular, almost military stride. Bobby would have liked to go along with him on this very male mission, but he had the definite sense that Chuck did not require his company. Also, he was hungry and assumed that now Chuck was up, some provision had been made for a meal.
    He found a door that was reasonably near the kitchen and entered the house. In the kitchen he found Lydia eating an open-faced grilled-cheese sandwich with knife and fork. She also had a tall glass of what looked like grapefruit juice.
    He told her what had happened. She frowned and lowered her fork. “He certainly makes himself indispensable around here,” said she. “I gather Chuck is a longtime friend of the family.”
    Bobby shrugged. “I guess so. My parents are probably friends of his.” The molten cheese looked delicious. “Say, Lyd, make me one of those, will you?”
    â€œYou mean you don’t know him?”
    â€œOnly since he came, last week.”
    â€œYou never saw him before?”
    â€œNot that I can remember,” said Bobby. “I don’t think he’s ever stayed here before. Hey, how about it: grill me a cheese?”
    Lydia pointed with her fork. “See that gadget on the counter, Bobby? That’s a