The House Guest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The House Guest

  A Novella

  by J. P. Kansas

  ISBN: 978-1-939916-93-8

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

  For information contact:

  Pink Flamingo Publications

  www.pinkflamingo.com

  P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083

  USA

  Email Comments: [email protected]

  Introduction

  It happened in another time, in the early seventies, when I was a young girl, just out of college.

  My mother and father lived in San Francisco, I had gone to college in Michigan, and I was applying to a music school in New York. My transcript and my performance tape were good enough that the school had invited me to come to New York to audition—at my own expense, of course. I had saved enough money from my various part-time jobs—doing baby-sitting, tutoring, giving local kids music lessons, playing in a trio for weddings and parties, and waitressing—for the bus trip there (and enough for the bus trip back, if I didn’t get in), but almost no money after that to live. I’m sure that my mother would have sent me a few dollars, had I asked, but the fact is that my mother was not at all well off, and she had used every spare penny to help me go to college, and I hated the thought of asking for more. Asking my father for money was completely out of the question: He never had any, and he never gave me any when he did. I told myself that I’d get myself to New York first and see how things worked out. I could always ask my mother for help later.

  When I think back on it, I find it incredible that I got off the bus with nothing more than I could carry and the optimism and invulnerability and naiveté of youth. I had dozens of friends in a dozen cities, but none in New York. For that city, I only had the names of a few relatives I barely knew and friends-once-removed.

  In some respects, I was impulsive and spontaneous. In other ways, I was organized and methodical. As I had prepared for my trip to New York, I had listed the names on a separate piece of paper, in alphabetical order, each with telephone number, address, and notes: who had given me their names, what their situations were, whether they might help me find a place to stay or a job. If none of the names on the list worked out, I had the phone number and address of the YWCA, where I could stay until I got settled.

  A few days before I actually left for New York, I sat down at the telephone with my list. The first names on the list were Barbara and Steve Andrews, and I called their number.

  The phone was answered on the sixth ring, just as I was getting ready to hang up. “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, sounding somewhat distracted.

  “Is this Barbara Andrews?” I asked. In the background I heard what sounded like a mewing cat.

  “Yes?” she replied, impatiently.

  “My name is Nona Williamson. I’m a friend of Bill Ganz.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her tone of voice changing completely. “He called us a week or two ago. He told us you might call. You have to—” The crying sound in the background got louder. “Just a minute.” She muffled the receiver, but I still heard her shout “Steve! Do you need any help with her? Why is she crying?” I heard the sound of a man shouting in reply, but the words were unintelligible. When she unmuffled the receiver, the crying seemed to be subsiding. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. If I caught you at a bad time—”

  “No. That’s okay. Bill said you need a place to stay for a little while?” She made it sound like a question.

  “Well, I have an audition for a music school in New York and I don’t really know anybody and I don’t have a place to stay and Bill thought you might be able to help.”

  “He didn’t speak to you after he called us? I told him we don’t have a separate room for you or anything. We have a small loft that isn’t air conditioned, and a three-month-old baby. But you’re welcome to sleep on the couch for a few days, until you find something more permanent.”

  “I don’t mean to put you out. I have a few more names, and I—”

  “If you don’t mind, we don’t mind.”

  “Well, I really appreciate it. I promise not to stay more than a couple of days.”

  “When are you getting in?”

  “Late Saturday afternoon. I’m taking the bus.”

  “We’ll be around then. Give us a call when your bus gets in and we’ll give you directions.”

  “Oh, great. I’ll do that. Thanks a lot.”

  Chapter One

  Saturday

  Now, after an endless bus trip, I was actually there. I was, of course, terrified—of the immensity of New York City; of the audition; of the prospect of being accepted by the school; of the prospect of not being accepted; of my complete aloneness; and, more than anything else, of the unknown of my entire life waiting to unfold before me. But my terror did not deter me. I had been terrified before and had persevered, and would persevere again this time.

  I had been warned about the Port Authority Bus Terminal, so as I looked for a telephone I kept tight hold on my suitcase, my purse, and my flute case.

  “Hey, sweetie! First time in New York?” asked a tall man with long blond hair under a Beatles cap and the usual combination of tie-dye, denim, and army surplus. I glanced at his face. He wasn’t bad-looking, with narrow gray eyes, and he needed a shave. He could have been anywhere from twenty to forty. He fell in step beside me; walking with that exaggerated bounce I called the hippie shuffle. “You know, New York can be a dangerous place for such a pretty girl.” I could tell that I was smiling and blushing despite myself. “Can I help you with that? You got a place to stay?”

  I pressed my lips together and shook my head, meaning to discourage him, but he misunderstood. “You got no place to go? Oh, sweetie! That’s terrible! You wanna crash at my place?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Hey, it’s no problem. You can trust me. I’m Tim. What’s your name?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you. I have somewhere I’m going.” I saw the bank of pay telephones across the vast lobby and headed toward them in what I hoped was a determined, purposeful manner.

  “Oh yeah? You need a ride? My wheels are just outside. My chick Janey’s waiting for me. You can ask her if it’s okay.”

  Although I had never been to New York, I had had some experience being hit on before. Without stopping, I turned my head to look at him directly for the first time. “My husband is meeting me.”

  He was certain I was lying, but when he glanced down to my left hand, he saw a band on my ring finger. It was not a wedding band, but a ring my mother had given me. I had turned the small stone toward my palm automatically, as soon as I was aware of him approaching me.

  “Where is he, then?”

  “I have to call him,” I said, nearing the telephone booths.

  “If you were my wife, I’d be here waitin’ for you.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Instead of letting her get hassled by guys at the bus station.”

  I stopped at an unoccupied telephone and put my suitcase on the floor between my legs. “That’s enough,” I said, no longer flattered and no longer amused. There was a man in a uniform about twenty yards away. I had no idea whether he was a New York Cit
y policeman or a private guard of some kind, but he had a gun belt. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll start screaming.”

  The hippie actually doffed his Beatles cap and bowed. “No need, sweetie. Welcome to the big city. I think you’ll do just fine.” Putting his hat back on his head, he turned and strolled back the way he had come, just as jauntily as if had just relieved me of my life savings, my hymen, and my self-respect. I lost sight of him in the crowd, and I turned toward the telephone, digging into my purse for my address book.

  I put some money into the telephone and dialed the Andrews’ number. At first, the call did not go through, but then I realized I had dialed the area code for Manhattan. When I dialed without the code, it rang.

  After nine rings, as I was debating with myself between waiting and trying again versus trying another name on my list, Barbara answered the phone.

  “Hello,” she said, sounding hurried and distracted.

  “This is Nona Williamson,” I said, afraid that she wouldn’t remember me, or would regret her offer. “I spoke to you a few days ago?”

  “Hi, Nona!” she said, her voice changing to one of great warmth, as if we were close friends. “How was your trip?”

  “Long and tedious,” I said with a laugh. “But at least now it’s over.”

  She gave me directions to their apartment. As it turned out, they lived in Chelsea. It was only about a mile away, and I treated myself to a taxicab.

  I felt nervous and shy and self-confident and brave at the same time. I didn’t consider myself reckless or a thrill-seeker, but I liked the challenge of new situations. The feeling of fear and excitement didn’t throw me.

  I was still largely untried; I had experienced the usual share of disappointments but no tragedies as yet. I had had crushes and passions and heartbreaks, but nothing that had not healed. I was continually eager to fall in love and always told myself that I hoped one would be the real thing, but at some level I had always held myself in reserve, knowing that I was not really ready for the real thing, knowing that I wanted to pursue my career as a musician more than I wanted to lose myself to love. In music, I had shown early talent, and I had worked hard. I had not been a prodigy and was no virtuoso—at least not yet—but I had been winning recognition, prizes, and scholarships at the local level since junior high school. With my invitation to audition in New York, I was letting my dreams and hopes and confidence rise.

  The Andrews’s, turned out, lived in a six-story white apartment building off the Avenue, with large brown metal windows. It looked as if it had been recently converted from a factory. On the ground floor of the building was a fancy housewares store. When I rang their button in the vestibule of the lobby, a buzzer unlocking the inner door went off without anyone speaking to me.

  They lived on the fifth floor. The elevator was modern but slow. I was impatient by the time it reached their floor and let me out.

  Almost exactly opposite the elevators, an attractive, petite woman of about twenty-five was standing barefoot in a doorway, holding the brown metal door open. She had curly, wheat-straw blonde hair and pale blue eyes and was wearing a colorful, loose-fitting peasant dress. She gave me a warm, welcoming smile. I liked her immediately “Hi. I’m Barbara,” she said. “Come on in.”

  I dragged my suitcase out of the elevator and crossed the wide-planked wood hallway. Transferring my flute case to under my left arm, I offered my right hand. “Hi. I’m Nona.”

  She accepted my hand and gave it a brief, firm squeeze. “Come on in,” she repeated, opening the door wider. “Honey!” she called back into the apartment.

  “Just a minute! I’ve almost finished changing her!” came a man’s voice from deeper inside.

  Barbara motioned for me to enter, and after I had stepped past her, she closed and locked the door behind us. I walked down a fairly short, narrow entranceway and into a large, bright open room, with regularly spaced pillars and huge, floor-to-ceiling windows along one thirty-foot wall. The wood-plank floors looked newly polyurethaned, and were covered here and there with Oriental rugs. The walls and the pillars were white. The windows were the same brown metal I had seen from the street. Furniture, some modern and some antique, was scattered rather sparsely through the large room; the walls were hung with a few colorful framed posters and what looked like original watercolors. The paintings looked almost Japanese, as if they had been done very quickly, but with great confidence, using only a few brushstrokes. Despite the economy of line, there was a great precision and realism to the paintings. One was a large portrait of Barbara, nude. In the painting, she was looking out toward me, but not at me. Her attitude was direct, sensual but not provocative. She saw me notice the painting. “Steve did that of me, as a wedding present,” Barbara explained, smiling. “So we can both remember what I looked like when I was young and beautiful.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said, continuing to look around.

  Several smaller watercolors were of a baby, I assumed the baby I had heard crying over the phone. There were a number of cabinets filled with books and records; on the tops of the cabinets were several interesting-looking objects I could not immediately identify. I turned around, in the direction of the front door, and saw a kitchen separated from the rest of the apartment by a half-height dividing wall, over which was a second level, apparently used as an office, accessible by narrow stairs. Opposite the kitchen, across the entrance hall, was a dressing area separated from the main room by a wall that went up to the second level.

  It was quite unlike my conception of a New York apartment, which I realized I had imagined would be small and dark and old and depressing, and I felt very comfortable.

  “What a beautiful place,” I said, putting my suitcase down

  “Thanks,” said Barbara with a dismissive smile. “We love it, but we don’t know what we’re going to do when the baby—”

  “Hi. I’m Steve,” said the owner of the man’s voice I had heard earlier, coming from the far corner of the room. He walked toward me from what I supposed was their changing table, holding a small infant against one shoulder, and offered his hand. Steve looked a little older than Barbara, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He was not quite as tall as me. He had short, straight, light brown hair, delicate, intelligent features, and a friendly, sincere smile. His wife came to stand next to him.

  “I’m Nona. I really appreciate—”

  “And this is Serena.” He turned the baby to face me.

  “Although she’s not usually very serene,” Barbara added with a small laugh. The baby looked at me without focusing very well. I could see both parents in her face.

  “She’s sweet.” I held out my finger to her and waggled it. She looked at it for a moment and then grasped it in her hand and smiled triumphantly, making a small sound. “Hello, Serena,” I crooned. “May I hold her?”

  “She doesn’t usually like strangers,” Barbara warned.

  Taking my finger back, I put my flute case down on my suitcase and slipped my purse off my shoulder. With the fearfulness of a new father, Steve gingerly handed me the child, and I took her against my chest and put my nose against the top of her head and took a deep smell.

  As far back as I could remember, I’d always loved babies, loved their bright, foolish, tiny faces, their fierce little bodies, the smoothness of their skin and the wonderful odor of their hair. As late as junior high school, I was still pestering my mother to have another child, but I had been the only one. I helped the neighbors with their babies whenever I could, and was always ready to baby-sit.

  Serena settled against my body and I rocked her gently. Barbara laughed. “That’s amazing,” she said. “You’re very good with her.”

  As if on cue, the baby began to fuss. We all laughed. “I’ll take her,” Barbara said, and I gave the baby to her mother.

  “Let’s sit down,” Steve said, gesturing to a grouping of couches at a low, round wooden table to our right.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” Barbara
asked. “You must be hot after your trip.”

  “I’d love something, but first I need to pee,” I admitted.

  Steve gestured back toward the entrance to the apartment. “It’s the door to the left of the front door.”

  When I returned from the bathroom, the Andrews’ were sitting on one of the couches, and there was a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the table. Barbara was crocheting a small garment, perhaps a baby sweater.

  “Do you want to call your folks or anyone?” Barbara asked. “Let people know where you are, that you’ve arrived safely?”

  “No. My mom trusts me to take care of myself,” I said, sitting down across from them. “I’ve really been on my own pretty much since high school. I’ll call her when I’ve got real news—maybe after the audition.”

  We talked and talked and talked. Or, rather, Barbara and I talked, and Steve mostly listened, smiling and nodding to indicate his interest and his understanding. We exchanged much of our life stories. I told them about my audition later that week, about my hope of being accepted by the music school and becoming a professional musician. I learned that Steve was an art director for a small magazine devoted to new music, and that Barbara was a freelance copy editor. We talked about our mutual friend, Bill Ganz, and how we knew him, and we ran through the names of others we might know in common, but found no one else.

  Barbara and Steve seemed like good, decent people; they seemed to be good together, and I liked them very much.

  At one point, the baby cried, and Barbara put aside her crocheting and lowered the top of her dress and gave her her breast. In the seventies, you may remember, it had become fashionable for young mothers to nurse their infants in front of others, even in public places, and many women had refined the maneuver to the point that it almost seemed like sleight-of-hand. They lifted the blouse and moved the baby’s head in place in one smooth, quick motion, so that their nipple was never uncovered, and their breast barely so. Not so Barbara. She handed the baby to her husband, pulled the top of her dress down off her shoulders and down her arms until her chest was bare. Her breasts were almost shockingly large and full, with blue veins seeming to run everywhere underneath the white skin, the nipples darker and larger than I had ever seen. With both hands, she hefted both breasts as if deciding which one to buy, squeezing one and then the other. Apparently making a decision, she reached for her baby and brought it to her right breast. As the baby began to suck, she closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and sighed deeply.