"For no reason?" cried Keese.
And as if he had not heard this, Harry completed his plea: "And you're not that type of guy."
"Oh, no?" Keese asked sardonically. "Maybe you've got me wrong."
Harry said no more. In a moment his feet could be heard descending the basement stairs.
Enid said, behind Keese: "You're perilously close to committing a crime."
Keese whirled on her. "Is it a crime to drive someone out of your house? I'm not confining him. I'm merely simplifying his exit. I was telling the truth, Enid. I'm going right now to open the outside door."
His wife laughed bitterly. "What a welcome you've given them to our neighborhood!"
It annoyed Keese to have her persistently ignore his side of the matter, but he was worried now that until he unlocked the outside basement door the situation could be considered—well, what? Illegal restraint? Perhaps even kidnaping?
He left his chair and went towards the door to the yard, feeling in his pocket for the key to the outside entrance to the basement. He failed to locate it immediately, and he continued to search as he let himself out and went around the house to the cellar door. He suspected that Enid had come in from tending to the wolfhound again, of whom she had apparently become an addict, but he neither heard nor saw the animal.
He had arrived at the concrete steps leading down to the basement door, but the key was not to be found on his person: he had ransacked his clothing and while doing so had discovered the enormous hole in the right-hand pocket of his "work" pants. The key had undoubtedly been lost through this hole, but where had he been at that moment? Probably on the stairs between the basement and the kitchen. Perhaps Harry even found it: if so, then he was merely pretending to be a prisoner, for the purpose of mocking Keese. Another marvelous scheme had gone awry!
But perhaps he was giving up too soon. He found sufficient energy to trudge around the corner of the house and kneel in the strip flowerbed against the foundation and peer through the narrow window into the game room.
Harry and Ramona were nonchalantly playing pool. How he wished he could hear what they were saying, for they were undoubtedly plotting more mischief—or at least gloating over that which they had perpetrated against him. Of course they had already overreached themselves by any reasonable standard: who in the world would actually believe that he had made aggressive sexual advances to both of them? Watching Ramona confidently manipulate her cue, he understood that he disliked her sort of young woman, the sort who were forceful with the wrong matters and consequently squandered their spirit meaninglessly. Elaine could be willful, sometimes tiresomely so, but her main thrust was always towards the positive. On the other hand, Enid in her twenties had been almost recessive, at least in the character she revealed to others. Keese could well remember how chagrining it had been for him to hear her evade a hostess' inquiry as to what she would like to drink. It had taken him years to understand that this was not indecisiveness but rather a purposeful means to establish her existence as one that could not be disposed of by the mere provision of refreshment. Keese could not really understand how Enid had any friends. He admired her, but found her to be without charm. But in point of fact she had a great number of what seemed dear friends, whereas he, a much more likable person by any measurement, had no intimates whatever.
He thought of that state of affairs now, as he crouched spying into the basement. Who apart from a few relatives, who had so to speak an obligatory interest, would miss him when he was gone? Perhaps that very plain girl at the office, the one with the unusually large nostrils and the skin problem—or was her sweet sad smile given so freely to everyone?
Something stirred in the corner of his eye and he turned and found himself face to face with the wolfhound. They stared neutrally at each other for a second or two, and then it was Keese who gave way. He got to his feet. He had no feeling whatever about Baby, who obviously returned the favor and had come to the window only to look in upon its owners and whimper faintly.
Well, Keese thought, they can scarcely feel they are prisoners if they are so blithely playing pool. But without the key his plan to induce them to leave by the outside basement door was useless. And he had nobody to blame but himself: he should have tested his pocket for soundness before dropping in the key. He added another promise to the earlier one by which he vowed not to seek revenge on Harry again; this one imposed a ban on all careless procedure.
He returned to the kitchen, where oddly enough Enid had remained, and not only that but had stayed in precisely the same position, elbow on table, left forefinger mustached under her nose.
"You can relax," he said. "They are happily playing pool, not writhing in their chains."
She took the finger from beneath the nostrils and pointed it at him. "All the same—"
"I know! I don't want to keep them here. I'm trying to formulate a plan by which to get rid of them, but it's far from easy." He saw her look of horror before it developed. "By 'rid of' of course I mean that literally and not figuratively. I don't intend to murder them, for your information."
Enid was hardly appeased. "Little did I think yesterday that today I'd need such an assurance. This monstrousness seems to have come from nowhere."
"No," said Keese, "it came only from next door."
"Maybe I should worry that, having disposed of them, you'll turn on me."
"Look here," Keese shot back, "I may be fighting the battle of my life and you are behaving like a sympathizer with the other side. Is not this your home as well as mine? Will you not defend its honor, its self-respect?" He pounded a fist into a palm. "And the pity is that you could do a far more effective job than I, if you wanted to."
"But as it happens I see no need for defense," said Enid. "I am not going to allow your sense of persecution to affect me. I am going to behave exactly as I always do, insofar as I am permitted."
"What does that mean? You act as if I would stop you. Don't you always do just what you want? Have you not been feeding that wretched dog? Did you not give it the meat that was supposed to be my dinner?"
"I think I see what you're getting at," said Enid. "You are implying that if I had not fed Baby you wouldn't have done any of these awful things."
Of course this had not been his point at all, but now that she had brought it up—but, just a minute!
"What do you mean, 'awful things'?"
"Earl, if you are so far gone that I have to explain," Enid said, standing up, "then you are too far gone to be saved." She pushed her chair neatly against the table and began deliberately to leave the room. At times there was something almost majestic in Enid's movements, and this was such an occasion.
He rose and followed her. "Where are you going now?"
"Do I need your permission?" She went stately through the dining room. At forty-five Enid seemed younger than she had five years earlier; at the same age Keese had felt he was really finished, irrespective of how long he would exist, and he had not since been rejuvenated.
"What I mean is," he said to her back, "are you going to be out of the way?"
They had now emerged into the front hallway, and Enid turned to go up the stairs. "Earl, I'll appeal to your reason once more. In all the years I've known you, there wasn't a better-balanced man in the world. I think you can limit this to a temporary aberration and make amends. Get the car hauled out of the swamp, release our neighbors from the cellar, and apologize to them. They're reasonable people, Earl. And—" She would have gone on, but Keese threw his head back, pointed his muzzle at the ceiling, and literally howled in chagrin.
"Well," said Enid, shrugging, "there you see what I am up against." She mounted the stairs.
Keese sat down on the bottom step and put his face into his hands. Perhaps if Harry and Ramona continued to play pool he could quietly search the stairs to the kitchen, find the basement-door key where he had dropped it, steal around the house again, and unlock the door. Let's see: when they decide again to try to leave, Harry will come u
p and try the kitchen door. Locked. Then he'll go back down the stairs and try the door to the outside. Open! He and Ramona will exit. But what if instead of going on across to their own home they merely come around and re-enter one of the doors of this house? Certainly by this time a normal couple would have had enough, but obviously they weren't normal. Of course Keese could lock all the doors to the outside, but there would be something degraded in that measure. He and Enid had, years ago, moved to the country from the city precisely so that they "would not have to keep the doors locked." Crime had since then extended its tentacles far beyond the city limits, but the Keeses had not been touched by it, and Keese felt that to turn a key was somehow to lower one's flag.
He arrived at the conclusion now that his only effective protection would lie in numbers. He went to the telephone in the niche beneath the stairs. The instrument rested on the phone book, which was covered in the yellow plastic wrapper, imprinted with advertisements, that was provided gratis every other year by the association of local merchants. Keese seized the directory and looked up the Abernathys' number.
Hardly had the last digit been dialed when a raspy voice answered. Keese said: "Chic? Earl."
"Earl?" asked Abernathy. "Earl?"
"Come on," said Keese, "no jokes, please. I was wondering if you could come over."
"You mean to your house? Now?"
"Exactly."
"No."
Keese said harshly: "You don't mean no, Chic."
"Then what do I mean?" Abernathy asked coldly.
"Sorry. I'm overwrought. What I mean is, I'd like to see both you and Marge over here, if possible. I could use some company. I've got a problem."
Abernathy said: "No, I don't want to come over. But I'll ask Marge if you'll wait a minute." He went away from the telephone. Keese had begun to feel angry at the abrupt and absolute refusal, without even a word of explanation, but he decided to wait for Marge's verdict before giving vent to his feelings.
Marge came on herself rather than let Chic speak for her. This seemed to Keese to be a pleasant courtesy. He had always preferred her to Chic anyway. In point of fact he had never liked Chic at all.
Marge said: "Earl?"
"I realize," said Keese, "that this is spur-of-the-moment, but I really need to see somebody."
"What's the nature of your problem?" asked Marge. She had a high, ingenuous-sounding voice that might have been produced by a ten-year-old girl.
"It can't be described on the phone," said Keese.
"Then can't it wait? You'll be over here for dinner tomorrow night. By the way, I was going to do Polynesian, but I've changed the menu to spaghetti and meatballs."
"Be that as it may," said Keese, "I can't wait. I've got the problem right now, and I can't come over there and leave my house unguarded."
"I don't want to," said Marge. "It would bore me, and I never do anything boring if I can help it. Life's too short."
"You mean you won't help me in an emergency?" Keese almost screamed.
"The police and fire departments are there for that sort of thing. Besides, you've got new neighbors who are a lot closer than us. Go over and ask Harry 'n' Ramona. They'll be glad to help."
"You know them?" asked Keese, panting.
"They're our dearest friends," Marge said. "That's why they moved here."
A surge of hatred went through Keese like a shot of some energizing, maddening narcotic. "You rotten bitch!" he cried and slammed the phone down.
There went a friendship of a good fifteen years! The Abernathys were the Keeses' oldest friends locally. Keese now told himself that he had never liked either of them: it had been an association of convenience and habit. All the same, he regretted this turn, and he dreaded the time when Enid would learn about the rupture.
Then he remembered that he had mentioned the Abernathys when they had all sat down to eat Harry's spaghetti, and the new neighbors' response had been only an ugly sneer. Not even an acknowledgment of acquaintance! Marge's "dearest friends"? Either they did not reciprocate her tender feelings or they had been playing some devious role for Keese's benefit.
Howie Johncock came to mind next. Shaken by the failure with the Abernathys, Keese now required a steady type. Howie was certainly that: bald, genial, and uxorious, he was slightly older than Keese.
Johncock answered only after many rings. Obviously he had been asleep, but he was one of those persons who could not admit having been awakened, believing it a flaw to be caught napping whatever the hour.
"Earl Keese. Look—" Keese went through the same preliminaries as with Chic Abernathy.
"I can't, Earl," said Johncock when he could speak. "Millie's sick."
Keese was determined not to repeat his error with the Abernathys and allow the situation to deteriorate to the point of no return.
"Gosh, I'm sorry. Anything I can do?"
"'Fraid not," said Howie, "but thanks anyway. She's just got to sweat it out."
"Cold then, or flu? After she's warmly tucked in maybe you could just step around here for five minutes."
"Well, anyway, we'll see you tomorrow night at Chic 'n' Marge's," said Johncock. "Bye for now." He hung up.
Now Keese regretted having been so cautious. He should have given the bastard both barrels. In this mood he found and dialed the number of Gene Lacy, and when someone picked up the instrument Keese, in panicky anticipation of rejection, poured a stream of abuse into his end of the line, stunning the listener into silence.
Fortunately he had not given his name at the outset, and when he cooled somewhat he was quick to hang up. Of course it was possible that his voice could be identified, but except in the rare event that Lacy had a tape recorder hooked up to his telephone and wanted to go to the trouble and expense of having voiceprints made, it would be difficult to prove. Yet the thought that he might be taken for a mere obscene telephoner rankled.
While he was deliberating on the choice of the next name—he was nearing the end of the list of couples who belonged to their social circle—the phone rang.
A jovial voice cried: "You old son of a bitch!" And proceeded to laugh heartily. "You really had me going, damn if you didn't!" It was Gene Lacy, who believed that Keese's call had been in the cause of high wit. He continued to roar happily for some time. Lacy was the soul of generosity; Keese wondered why he hadn't thought of him earlier. Lacy was just the man. For another, he was physically formidable, as tall as Harry and much more thickset.
Keese waited for the laughter to fade. Then he said: "I thought I ought to soften you up first, Gene old boy, because I have a favor to ask." He felt cautious once more. "You don't know the new couple who moved in next door to us, do you? Harry and Ramona?"
Lacy's reaction was markedly cool. "Naw, naw," he said. "You're losing me now."
"I guess I haven't made myself clear," said Keese. "I'll explain when you get here. Can you come over for a minute?"
"Can't you pull it on the phone?" Lacy asked.
"Oh, I get you," said Keese, to whom this role was altogether new, "you mean some kind of joke? No, no, I'm not kidding now, Gene. My home has been invaded, see."
"That's not funny at all, Earl." Lacy groaned. "Your stuff is getting worse by the minute. I'll do you a big favor and hang up." He did so.
Keese continued to hold the instrument across his face. He couldn't believe in the reality of what was happening.
When he heard, "It's hopeless, Earl. You're all alone," he might have believed it was his imagination had he not recognized the voice: Harry was manning the recreation-room extension.
Keese decided to bluff it out. "How's the pool game going?"
Harry answered ebulliently: "Ramona's beating my pants off."
"She wields a wicked cue," said Keese. "I noticed that."
"That's not some double-entendre, is it?" Harry asked, his tone going ominous.
"Not at all!" Keese assured him. "I admire her prowess."
Harry then asked stoically: "You're not going to let us
out of here, are you? You're simply not going to listen to any argument of mine."
"That's not true," said Keese. "I've got nothing basically against you, Harry. It's just that you don't always act right."
"O.K.," Harry said with a groan. "I'll give you back your thirty-two bucks. I never intended to keep it in the first place. Just throwing a scare into you."
Keese hated to feel cheap. "That's not what bothered me," he said with feeling. "It was those crazy sexual accusations. First I was supposed to have made advances to Ramona, and then to you. Can't you see that's not funny? Suppose it got around and people heard it who took it seriously?"
"I'm sorry," said Harry. "Will you accept my apologies?"