Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

The movers came out and went back in with another item while Mother remained inside. The process was repeated several times before she came out again. It was while she was outside pointing to the piece of furniture she next wanted taken inside that Claud came out the front door onto the porch. When Mother turned and saw him, she sort of gasped. Evidently he’d been inside the house the whole time that they’d been taking in furniture. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was in my room and didn’t hear you folks arrive or I woulda been out earlier to help you.”

Before she could say anything, one of the movers said, “We can always use some free help.”

Claud went right to it, helping move the lighter pieces, and Mother said nothing. Of course, what could she say? She didn’t know what he was doing there, but she wasn’t really sure that he had no business being there because sometimes Father arranged for things without telling her. She tried to ignore the circumstances and treat him like he was just another one of the movers. After the lighter stuff had been taken inside, he disappeared. I doubt that she forgot about him exactly, but I suspect, knowing her, that she refused to admit to herself that the whole situation wasn’t resolved by his temporary disappearance.

When Father reappeared, she mentioned nothing about it to him. Of course she was still busy, getting the last pieces of furniture placed just right and getting dinner fixed at the same time. Part of the problem with country living is the lack of pizza delivery systems.

Dinner was served in the small dining room. The living room was to one side, and a door that led into the big kitchen and pantry was to the other. The room was more long than wide, with cream-colored walls and a couple of windows with a splendid view of the countryside. The table was a long, heavy, elaborately carved black walnut piece Mother had found in a store that specialized in antique furniture. It dated from the mid-nineteenth century. She took great delight in anticipating the first setting of it. It didn’t matter that eight chairs came with the table but there were only five of us.

Or rather, as it turned out, six of us.

Just as she finished setting the table, Claud reappeared. He walked into the kitchen where she and my older sister were, sniffed the air, and asked, “What’re we having?”

“Uh... roast beef with candied yams and sweet peas.”

“That oughta be good. I ain’t had a good female-cooked meal since this place went on the market four months ago. Mrs. Carstairs could sure cook up a fine dinner. Made good waffles for breakfast, too. Do you make waffles for breakfast, Mrs. Hinton?”

“Uh... yes... sometimes.”

“Good. I sure like waffles for breakfast. Of course, anything you fix is fine with me. I ain’t particular. How long before dinner’s ready?”

“Ready? Oh, about another five minutes.”

“Just enough time to wash my hands.” He left, and Mother went looking for Father. Unfortunately Father had found something urgent that needed doing outdoors, and she couldn’t find him. She didn’t have a full five minutes to look because she needed to set another place at the table.

By the time Father finished his odd job we were all seated at the table: Mother, myself, Alicia, Janet, and Claud. Father sort of flinched when he saw Claud there, but he didn’t ask any questions or say a word about it. Claud looked up at him, smiled, and nodded, and Father stalled and nodded back at him and then took his seat at the table. Father looked at Mother and then at Claud and then back at Mother, but he said nothing. While eating, though, he kept sneaking glances at Claud.

Nobody said much during dinner other than to ask people to pass this or pass that. But it wasn’t because of Claud. Mother and Father believed it impolite to talk during meals, and so it wasn’t done. Claud must have been of the same opinion because he didn’t say anything either.

After dinner Mother began clearing away the dishes, and Father went into the living room. He pretended as though he were intent on surveying his new property from the big living room windows, but actually the tight clasping and unclasping of his hands behind his back signaled that he was bursting with questions that his politeness wouldn’t allow him to ask. Claud stopped in the living room after he left the table.

“Do you play cards, Mr. Hinton?” he asked.

“Cards? No. No, I don’t. Why? Do you?”

“Mostly patience. Sometimes, when there’s someone around who’s game, a little poker.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I... I don’t play cards.”

“Too bad. Mr. Carstairs could play a mean hand of draw poker. So could Mr. Tillman.”

“Tillman? I don’t recognize that name.”

“He used to own this place.”

“You mean before Mr. Carstairs?”

“Yes. Not just before him. There were two owners between them... Well, I’ll just head for my room. I’m in the middle of a good western novel. Do you read westerns, Mr. Hinton?”

“No. Nonfiction, a few mysteries, that’s about it.”

“I see. Well, I’ll just head for my room.”