Chapter 2

Meredith Morgan sat at the maple kitchen table and stared at the page before her. Printed carefully at the top of the yellow sheet was the word Tuesday. She glanced at the clock. It said ten. She wrote ten a.m., then quickly crossed it out. Might as well write down the weather, too, she thought. Beyond the windows, sunlight made the world seem clean, and a light breeze lifted the hem of the green curtain. Beyond the Johnson house next door, the weather seemed to be shifting. The sky darkened, as if a storm might be moving in. It was Tuesday, ten a.m., and she had a million things to do. Some were even worth doing.

First she should sort and tag the miscellaneous junk stacked in the pantry. When they moved to this house—after Richard landed the Mabton job on such short notice—there was no time to decide what to bring. They simply taped drawers shut, threw essentials into two suitcases, and called the movers. Mabton Electronics would pay, as long as Richard could report for work the following Monday.

That Monday had come and gone a month ago. Since then Meredith had been too busy for a moment of quiet thought. The house, an unbelievable find, was perfect but needed redecorating. She spent two weeks before the movers arrived supervising painters, drapery hangers, and carpet and telephone installers. The best part had been watching all that gray disappear.

The gray had been ominous. Throughout most of the house it had only seemed depressing, but the gray in the living room was so complete that it had made her sad and angry, and she did not know why it caused such unease. She only knew that she had to redo the living room first. Charcoal rugs were taken up and light gray walls painted. Gray woodwork came clean with new colors, and pale ash curtains fell into piles on the floor as new patterns appeared over windows. Gray, Meredith thought. She had never known there could be so many shades of it.

She wondered what kind of people could paint the entire inside of a house gray. As a psychological counselor in private practice she had met some deeply troubled souls. The grayness of this house made her think of massive depression and sorrow. Depression happened, sometimes, when minds dealt too long with horror. It would make counseling awfully easy if she could remove depression with one quick coat of paint, the way she had removed gray from this house.

An attorney had worked with Richard on the sale. The former owners had left a few things in the house, but none of them were particularly unusual. She would add their Scotch plaid cooler, their stepladder, and a handful of books to her own collection of extras. Mabton Electronics had paid to move a lot of things that were no longer needed. She would hold a yard sale.

Sort and Tag for Y Sale, Meredith wrote beneath the day of the week. She wished she had the energy to begin, but she did not. The memory of gray walls took some brightness from the day, and sometimes, even now, the living room caused her to feel fatigue even when she was rested. There remained a small edge of fear that she sometimes felt in that room. Her memory of the dream caused an edge of uncertainty. Call Halburton, she wrote below the earlier note. She underlined it twice, feeling guilty that she had not called already.

Professor Halburton was now the head of psychology at Mabton State. Meredith had learned that two weeks ago, when she called his old office number. She got the new number, but then a knock at the back door had announced a neighbor’s first visit. Meredith postponed the call. That night she dreamed of the stranger, then felt lonesome when she awoke beside Richard. The dream made her put off calling.

Gus Halburton was one of the most important people in her life. A decade earlier, when she was finishing her degree in psychological social work, Gustav Halburton had been the difference between her success and failure. He coached her, bullied her, and praised her through a course that, even looking back on it now, felt more like a nightmare than most real nightmares. Statistical analysis baffled her, but Gustav Halburton unreeled the long white reams of computer printout and, in his gentle manner, made it all make sense.

Halburton was the most understanding man she had ever met. They corresponded after she finished school, and when she sent him an invitation to her wedding, seven years ago now, neither she nor Richard thought he would come. Surprisingly, he had, linking the event with a conference he was attending nearby. Having Gus there made the day even more complete.

Yet now, Meredith was afraid to call. Aside from wanting his professional references for when she began taking counseling clients here in town, she simply yearned to see him again. His office would be different, but the feeling would be the same. She longed to sit beside his rows of books, listen to the creak of leather as he shifted positions in his favorite brown chair, and watch him fuss with his pipe, getting it lit only to forget it as it warmed his hand and burned out. Gus always became too involved in listening to remember to smoke.

Halburton knew how to listen. That was exactly why she should call, Meredith told herself. She had hoped they could get together and simply talk about old times, but now she knew Gus would instinctively know something was wrong. He had a sixth sense about people, especially about her. On the other hand, talking the whole thing out with Gus might put an end to the dreams.

Meredith glanced down at the page. She had doodled heavy lines around the last letter of his name. Then she had drawn a faintly familiar face, but the face was not Gus’s. This was a man she knew, or felt she should remember. It was vague, and the sketch seemed to portray an expression of anger or sadness. She shook her head.

The images of the dream felt near, but she could not quite remember the man’s face. She was not sure she wanted to. The dream hovered like a damp fog that the warm day could not burn off. It was there like another presence in the sunlit kitchen, drifting nearby, waiting.

In the first place, remembering dreams was unusual. Meredith generally forgot hers. Those she did recall were dull, filled with minor details she might have forgotten the previous day, or remakes of memory with a few improbable changes. These dreams were completely different.

When the dreams started, the second week in the house, she would awaken remembering being at a cocktail party, in a lounge, or in a park on a summery day. She would gradually become aware that someone was watching her. Lately the dreams were coming more often and, she had to admit, they carried some concealed terror. One morning last week she awakened knowing, even though she had not seen him, that the stranger was a man. Every dream since made the certainty grow stronger. Now the dreams came every night, and each time his presence inched closer. She did not know if he threatened her, but something did. Darkness surrounded him.

Meredith looked down. The ball-point pen dug like a blue knife tip into the paper. Call Halburton, the last item said. Meredith stood and picked up the phone.

Twenty minutes later, Elsa Johnson walked three-quarters of the way around Meredith’s kitchen, pausing to study the coupons and notes on the cork bulletin board, and then completed her circuit. “It’s simply wonderful what you’ve done with it, and in so little time.”

“The house had a lot to start with.” Meredith carried two steaming mugs to the table. “We just brought out what was here.”

“You brought it out, my dear. Not we, you. I saw you over here, husband off at work, having to fetch and carry for yourself.”

That was not true. Meredith wanted to tell the old biddy to mind her manners, but stopped herself. She wanted to get a good start in this neighborhood. Otherwise, she’d show this loudmouth the door. And besides, the Johnson house was nothing to brag about. The flower garden was untended, and the house was shuttered most of the time. When she and Richard first moved in, they had joked and called it “the haunted house.” Then Elsa showed up.

Elsa added cream to her coffee, then two teaspoons of sugar, and finally another dollop of cream. She was plump, in her early fifties, and had a sponginess of complexion that told Meredith that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson enjoyed a drink or two—or three—in the evenings.

Mr. Johnson worked during the day. Meredith had not met him, but thought she knew what he was like. He would be a solid man, both in shape and style, working hard to pay for a house that was not well kept. He’d seldom say much when he was in it. He worked at a commodities exchange, Elsa said. Meredith figured the man rarely spoke because Elsa had a talent for covering any subject like a tarp.

“And after the way the place looked”—Elsa finished stirring and set her spoon beside the red mug—”not that I’m one to criticize.”

“It needed a little color.” Meredith laughed, and wondered if there was anything in the world that Elsa did not criticize. “A dab of paint here and there.”

“That was my opinion.” The older woman began telling about the time she had seen the inside of the house after the gray paint went up. Meredith half listened, half wondered how she would get rid of this woman before the telephone rang. She did not want Elsa overhearing when Gus Halburton returned her call.

At the psychology department a student receptionist had answered. Professor Halburton was not in. Neither was his secretary. Meredith left a message and, feeling better now that she had shaken the morning’s anxiety, set her mind to work on the yard sale. No sooner did she open the pantry door, though, when a knock rattled the window glass of the back door. At once, Meredith knew who it was. She’d opened the door, resigned to procrastinate awhile longer.

“I said to myself, each to his own taste.” Elsa shrugged her wide shoulders. “But I thought gray was odd, what with everything else.”

Elsa’s voice trailed off. She paused for a cunningly slow sip of coffee. Meredith suddenly realized, with a familiar pang of regret, that the back of her neck ached.

Even though she was only half listening, she had unconsciously leaned forward on the table. Her elbows slid ahead as they supported her chin on her palms, and her midriff inched closer until it pressed painfully against the table edge. Elsa Johnson had hooked her again.

“I enjoyed redecorating,” she said, pushing back from the table, “and Richard helped. It was fun doing it together.”

“I see.” Elsa studied her nails. She took another sip of coffee. “Of course, men become so involved with their work and their offices. At least that’s what they claim they’re doing.” Elsa, a chubby and aging woman, managed to look like a teenage boy examining a centerfold.

Meredith reviewed what she could recall of Mrs. Johnson’s gossip. At first there had been descriptions of the house’s former owners, actually descriptions of the wife’s plans to redecorate. New paint went up. Rugs were delivered and dull curtains appeared over the windows. Then, somewhere back in her memory, came a pause expressing Mrs. Johnson’s displeasure. Elsa’s voice dropped low to remark how sad the house became. After the redecorating, nothing felt right. Elsa had gone on to comment on the colors the young wife chose to wear, mostly black and brown, even in summer. Then her voice fell even lower. She remarked how odd it was.

“You said ‘odd,”’ Meredith repeated the word that had drawn her in for the next bit of gossip. “You said ‘odd, what with everything else.”’

“Especially with everything else.” Elsa nodded, studying her nails. They were blood red, but the polish showed chips at the edges. She flashed a matching smile. “Thank goodness I go to the beauty parlor tomorrow. My nails need it.”

The woman could drive a saint to drink. She dropped her voice lower and lower, tossing out hints of horror and scandal. When Meredith drew nearer, Elsa switched the subject.

The woman was a pain in the . . . neck, Meredith thought, and felt tension in her shoulders. In this case the saying was true.

“I’m surprised you smile.” Elsa looked disappointed. “These are sad events, very sad.”

“I’ve learned not to cry over a broken nail.” Meredith suppressed a grin. “They’ll look lovely after your manicure.”

She leaned back, savoring the small victory, and stared out at the green and yellow leaves of the sycamore. Perhaps this trick would work. If she appeared not to care, Elsa would have to give away some tidbit to get her attention. Not that she cared about the former owner’s secrets. This was simply a psychological game.

Elsa drew a breath, perhaps to begin explaining those sad events. Unfortunately the telephone rang.

“Meredith Morgan, please,” a woman’s crisp voice asked from the other end of the line.

“Speaking.”

“Professor Halburton’s personal secretary calling, from Mabton State University.”

“Yes, but I called for Dr. Halburton,” Meredith said. She immediately regretted her mistake. Elsa, pretending fascination with the stem of a sugar spoon, had stiffened slightly at the word doctor.

“Professor Halburton is out of the office until Monday,” the secretary explained. “He is upstate at a conference. You can make an appointment.”

“I’ll call later.” Meredith was glad Elsa did not know what kind of doctor Halburton was. The older woman shifted in her chair, turning what she called her good ear to the conversation.

“Is this an emergency?” The crisp voice was following what Meredith knew was standard procedure. If Gus was away and a counseling patient needed help, his secretary could be told. “If this is an emergency, Doctor can be contacted,” the woman went on.

Meredith felt amused. She had a vision of Elsa throwing her back out to hear every word of the symptoms. She imagined describing her symptoms. Her case was classic. I have terrifying dreams, she would explain, a man is coming after me. I wake up wanting sex. Of course, that part is not bad.

“No, not at all,” she said, regaining calm. “My husband and I just moved to town. Dr. Halburton and I are old friends.” She promised to call the following Monday and hung up. By the time she returned to the table, Elsa appeared lost in a daydream.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Nothing at all.” The woman glanced down at the yellow tablet. “You’re planning a yard sale?”

“Not this Saturday, the one after. The people left some things.” Meredith paused. “And we moved a lot we don’t need.”

“Mind if I look early?”

The woman had no shame. She would love nothing better than to poke through a neighbor’s closet.

“No previews,” Meredith said with a laugh. “Oh, I just remembered another thing. I have to put our name out front.”

Paint mailbox, she printed carefully on the list, then crossed it out. “Matter of fact, I’ll do it now. Want to come along and talk?”

“Not that I wouldn’t want to”—Elsa stood and watched Meredith carry their mugs to the sink—”but I have my own work to do.” She paused. “Those other people, you know the ones that lived here before? They had the mailbox painted for a while. Then they painted it out. The name, I mean.”

Meredith did not reply. She gathered up her paintbrush, stencil set, and a can of green paint before following Mrs. Johnson through the house toward the front door. Moments later, as she knelt on the grass at the end of the walk, she watched Elsa’s plump figure move away.

Along both sides of the street, comfortable houses stood beside carports and two-car garages. Two of the garage doors hung open, but most were closed, like sleeping eyes. Curtains covered the windows. No children played on the green lawns, and none had, even during the month before school opened. No women walked to the grocery. Men did. It was almost as if the women were afraid to be seen outside, as if something invisible but ugly stalked the neighborhood.

For an instant, Meredith felt angry. There should be normal sounds of small children at play. There should be muted sounds of radios as women worked in their houses. People should be leaning against fences, talking to each other, laughing. Instead, the neighborhood lay so silent that she could hear the distant hum of traffic from a highway a mile off. She was confused by this new neighborhood, and the kaffeeklatsch with Elsa had stolen an hour out of her day. It was a waste of time. She wished there were someone else around to talk to.

She picked up the stencil set and separated the letters for Morgan. The box above the wooden post was white now, but it had needed two coats of paint to cover the black.

Most of the wives probably had jobs. That would explain why no one was home during the day. With the cost of everything going up these days, more wives had to work. The women probably spent the weekends catching up on their families, so there was no time to visit the new couple in the neighborhood. Still, it was strange that the women did not even go into their yards to tend flower gardens. It seemed sad, somehow, that they should spend even their evenings indoors. Of course, if they worked, maybe they could afford gardeners.

Meredith remembered her own consulting practice. Now that the house was nearly finished, she could rent a small office. She did not doubt that Halburton would refer clients. In the past she had stayed away from the more serious emotional conflicts, specializing in helping those who had minor adjustment problems. It would take years of experience before she felt ready to deal with really deep disturbances. Halburton would understand that. It required a lot of experience to take wrecked lives and help them rise above wreckage.

She wanted badly to return to work. Aside from the income, the work was useful. It would be worthwhile and enjoyable to talk with people again.

She pried the lid from the can of green paint she had saved for this job and gave the contents a stir. Suddenly, the back of her neck prickled almost as if it had been touched—or as if she were being watched.

Meredith turned and surveyed the street. It was empty except for the figure of a large man who was just disappearing around a corner. Meredith shuddered and did not know why. The rows of houses stood impassive, unaware that she was curious about them. She wondered what kind of people lived here, what their homes were like on the inside. That other woman, that young wife whom Elsa talked so much about, must have been lonely, too. Meredith picked up the brush and dipped into the green paint to begin filling in the letter M.