G. H. had silvered hair, tortoiseshell glasses, a gold watch. He had presence. He sat higher in his seat. “Clay. Amanda.” This was something he’d learned at business school (in Cambridge): when to deploy first names. “I could absolutely refund you your money.”
“You want us to leave? In the middle of the night? My children are sleeping. And you just come in here and start talking about refunding our money? I should call the company, can you even do that?” Amanda walked to the living room to get her computer. “Maybe there’s a phone number on the website—”
“I’m not saying you should leave!” G. H. laughed. “We can refund you say, fifty percent of what you paid? You know, there’s an in-law suite. We’ll stay downstairs.”
“Fifty percent?” Clay liked the promise of a less expensive vacation.
“I really think we ought to look at the terms and conditions—” Amanda opened the laptop. “Of course it’s not working now. Maybe the WiFi needs to be reset?”
“Let me try.” Clay reached toward his wife’s computer.
“I don’t need your help, Clay.” She did not like the implication of her inability. They both had a proximity to youth—college kids for him, for Amanda an assistant and junior staff. They’d both been subject to that humiliating inversion: watching, gleaning, imitating, like toddlers playing at dressing up. Once you were past a certain age, this was how you learned—you had to master technology or be mastered by it. “It’s not connected.”
“We heard the emergency broadcast system.” Ruth thought this explained a great deal. “I thought to turn on the radio. ‘This is the emergency broadcast system.’” Her tone was not mocking but faithful, sounding the right stresses and intonation. “Not ‘a test.’ Do you understand? Not ‘This is only a test.’ That’s the only way I’ve ever heard it, so I didn’t even notice at first, then I kept listening and I heard it again, again, again, ‘This is the emergency broadcast system.’”
“Emergency?” Amanda was trying to be logical. “But of course, a blackout is a kind of emergency.”
“Surely. That’s one of the reasons we thought it best to just come home. It could be unsafe out there.” G. H. rested his case.
“Well, we have a lease agreement.” Amanda invoked the law. Fine, at the moment that document was filed away in cyberspace, a shelf they could not reach. Also the whole business felt off in some way she could not explain.
“May I?” G. H. pushed his stool back and walked to the desk. He took the car keys from his blazer pocket and unlocked a drawer. He produced an envelope, the sort provided by a bank, and flipped through the currency inside it. “We could give you a thousand dollars now, for the night? That would cover almost half of what you’re paying for the week, I think?”
Clay tried not to, but he always felt moved in a very particular way by the sight of lots of money. He wanted to count it. Had that envelope just been in a drawer in the kitchen all this time? He wanted a cigarette. “A thousand dollars?”
“There is an emergency outside.” Ruth wanted to remind them of this. It seemed amoral to have to pay them, but she hadn’t expected anything else.
“It’s up to you.” G. H. knew how to persuade someone. “Of course. We would be very grateful. We could show you how grateful we are. Then, tomorrow, we’ll know a little more. We’ll figure it out.” He did not commit to leaving, which was important.
Clay continued to prod his wife’s work-issued computer. “This doesn’t seem to be responding.” His intention had been pure. He wanted to be the one to show them that the world was chugging along, that people were still photographing their Aperol spritzes and tweeting invective about the mismanaged public transport system. In the minutes since that news alert had been issued, some intrepid reporter had likely figured the whole thing out. He could still hear the wind that he blamed. It was always some innocent thing. “Anyway. I think one night—”
“Perhaps we could discuss this privately.” Amanda did not want to leave these people unattended.
“Right. Of course.” G. H. nodded like this was the most sensible thing. He put the fat little envelope down on the counter.
“Yeah.” Clay was flustered. He didn’t know what there was to discuss besides that bundle of money. “Maybe we’ll just go into the other room?”
“Say, you wouldn’t mind if we have a drink?”
Clay shook his head.
G. H. used the keys once more, unlocking a tall cabinet by the sink. He rummaged around inside.
“We’ll be right back. Make yourself—” Amanda didn’t finish the sentence because it seemed silly to.
10
IT WAS COLDER IN THE MASTER BEDROOM, OR THE CHILL was something they carried with them.
“Why would you tell them they could stay?” She was angry.
Clay thought it was perfectly obvious. “There’s been a blackout. They got scared. They’re old.” He whispered this, felt that it was disrespectful to point out.
“They’re strangers.” She said it like he was an idiot. Had no one ever warned Clay about strangers?
“Well, they introduced themselves.”
“They just knocked on the door in the middle of the night.” Amanda couldn’t believe they were discussing this.
“Well, it’s better than if they’d just burst in the door—” Wasn’t that their right?
“They scared the shit out of me.” Now that fear had passed, Amanda could admit to it. It was an insult. The temerity of these people—to scare her!
“They scared me too.” Clay was downplaying it. It was in the past. “But they’re just a little frightened themselves, I think. They didn’t know what else to do.”
Their onetime therapist had long ago urged Amanda not to be angry when Clay failed to act as she might have. People could not be blamed for being who they were! Still, she faulted him for it. Clay was too easily taken, too reluctant to stand up for himself. “Here’s an idea. Go to a hotel.”
“It is their house.” These beautiful rooms seemed like theirs but weren’t. You had to respect that, Clay thought.
“We rented it.” Amanda was whispering still. “What are the kids going to say?”
Clay couldn’t imagine what the children would say or whether they would say anything. The kids cared only for what directly affected them, and they let very little affect them. The presence of strangers might mean better behavior, but even that couldn’t be counted upon. The children might bicker, swear, burp, sing, no matter who might overhear.
“What if they murder us?” Amanda felt her husband was not paying attention.
“Why would they murder us?”
This was harder to answer. “Why does anyone murder anyone? I don’t know. Satanic ritual? Some weird fetish? Revenge? I don’t know!”
Clay laughed. “They’re not here to murder us.”
“Don’t you read the news?”
“This was in the news? Elderly black murderers are roaming Long Island, preying on unsuspecting vacationers?”