Stranger at the Door. Victor J. Banis
evidence of neglect.
“Yes. I’m fond of it, but I’m afraid it’s rather too much for one person to keep up.”
“You live here by yourself?” The visitor threw him a glance.
“Only for another month or so,” Roger confessed, opening the gate into the back yard. “I plan to go abroad for a while, and then I suppose I’ll have to think about selling the place. It’s been in the family for years, but there’s no one left now to keep it up. My sister lives in Paris and my mother’s just too old to get around in a house like this.”
“Sure seems a shame.” The young man stopped by the pool, long empty, and stared down at the layer of debris and dirt at the bottom. “Must have been quite a place in its day.”
They went to the garage. Roger opened the door, trying to conceal the effort necessary to lift the considerable weight, and flicked on the naked bulb that hung inside.
“It’s the Packard I’m selling, the town car. I’ll keep the Ford to use when I get back, although to tell you the truth, I don’t really use either of them much.”
The stranger walked slowly about the Packard, looking it over. It was an older model, dating back to a period of tall rooflines and sweeping fenders. At the moment it was plainly in need of cleaning and waxing, but otherwise it was sound.
“How does it run?”
“Oh, quite smoothly. The key is in the ignition, if you’d like to start it up.”
He waited as the young man slid inside the car and started up the engine. He let it run for a moment or two, listening with a cocked ear.
“Not bad,” he said, switching off the engine and climbing out again. Once more he circled the car to examine the exterior.
Roger stood in awkward silence. He hated the bother of selling things and hoped that the young man wouldn’t want to haggle. Perhaps if he did not want to buy the car, Roger would simply call a dealer and let him take it away.
The young man finished his inspection, but he still had not offered any decision. Roger cleared his throat nervously.
“Perhaps you’d like to come inside,” he suggested timidly. “We could discuss the matter over a glass of sherry.” It was probably not an orthodox way to settle these things, he was thinking, but somehow it seemed to him a far more refined way of doing business.
No, there was something more than that, he admitted. Suddenly he was lonely, and did not want to re-enter the silent, empty house alone. He did not really care if his visitor bought the car or not. He could always dispose of that somehow, but something about the young man had stirred long dormant feelings within him. He had been called back to the past, to the other young men with whom he had shared a few brief moments of fleshly pleasures. Of course, this interlude would not be the same as those others had been, but at least he could talk for a while, over some sherry, and perhaps he could enjoy vicariously a few moments of youth.
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” the young man said. “By the way, I’m Lenny.” He offered a hand and a grip that was almost painfully strong.
“Roger Caldwell. We can go through the back way.”
He led the way into the house, annoyed with himself for the tingle of excitement he had felt at Lenny’s handshake. After all, this young man was here on business, he reminded himself—and anyway, Roger could not allow, had never allowed himself to contemplate such indiscretions here in Cincinnati, where he was known and where the family name was still of some, albeit diminishing, importance.
They moved through the house slowly, pausing often as Lenny admired a room or a particular piece of furniture. Roger smiled and was pleased that the house should receive the flattering attention of this pleasant young man.
In the parlor, Roger reached for a decanter of sherry, and paused. This man was of a different sphere, he reminded himself, and probably different tastes. “Perhaps you’d prefer something else?” he suggested.
“Do you have any beer?”
Roger shook his head regretfully. “Scotch?”
“Fine.”
That settled, they seated themselves in the tall chairs that flanked the window, facing one another. Lenny had removed his jacket and Roger found it increasingly difficult not to let his eyes fix themselves on his bulging crotch, or wander up and down the length of the sculptured young body.
“You’re a native of Cincinnati?” Roger asked.
Lenny shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I come from the West Coast. I was on my way to New York, but somebody told me Cincinnati was the Queen City, so I decided to check it out.” He laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth. Roger laughed with him, a bit uncertain as to the reason for his mirth.
Lenny grew quickly serious again, his moods passing like light and shadow over his face. “To tell the truth, I was broke,” he said. “My money ran out, so I stopped here to pick up some work. That was seven months ago, and I’m still here.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“You name it. I was working on a construction job out of town a ways, but that ended last week. Right now I’m looking around for something else to do.”
It struck Roger as odd that a young man without a job and admittedly short on money would be shopping for a car, but that was hardly his concern, so long as he was paid for the car.
As though reading his thoughts, Lenny said, “I have a friend, a woman. I think she may loan me the money to buy a car.”
Roger said nothing, but he did not have to question how Lenny intended to repay such a load. He had known such men, gigolos who screwed anything for cash. They were more common in New York, where he had often visited in the past, but they were not unknown here in Cincinnati either.
“That’s about the situation,” Lenny said aloud, with a rueful grin.
Roger jumped, startled. “What’s that?”
“What you were thinking, about my woman friend.”
Roger wondered if the young man were indeed reading his mind. It was certainly unnerving, to have his thoughts put into words.
Lenny shifted his position in the chair. “I was broke when I arrived in town, totally broke. I met—this woman. She has money, so I let her spend some of it on me.” He spoke defensively, almost defying Roger to offer some objection.
“I hadn’t intended to pry,” Roger apologized, not quite sure why he should find it necessary to do so. “I’m sure you’re not normally the sort who enjoys being, well, dependent upon other people.”
Lenny relaxed slightly at that. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I was trying to pick a fight over it. Some people think it’s wrong of me.”
Roger’s discomfort was increasing. He disliked conversations of this intimacy, particularly with a virtual stranger. Yet there was something about his companion that was too direct for conventional barriers, something that created its own aura of intimacy.
“You must be lonely,” Lenny said unexpectedly. It was a direct statement, rather than a question, delivered with a bold stare.
“Lonely?”
“Living here all by yourself, in this big house.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Some sixth sense warned Roger that he should employ discretion, yet the conversation seemed to be drifting quite beyond his control. The sherry, and the bluntness of his guest, had weakened his usual caution. “I used to travel. Once a month or so, I’d go into New York City.”
“Used to?”
Roger hesitated, but his reserve was no longer sufficient to hold back his words. “I had some difficulty on one visit, a few years ago. I stopped going.”
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