“We didn’t ask for any proof. I didn’t even hear their car, did you?”
“I didn’t. But it’s windy. We were watching television. Maybe we just didn’t hear it?”
“And maybe they snuck up the road. To—I don’t know. To cut our throats.”
“I think we should just calm down—”
“It’s a con.”
“You think they sent a fraudulent news alert to your cell phone? They’re more sophisticated criminals than I’d have guessed.”
“It just feels a little improvised, is all. And suspicious. They want to stay here, with us? I don’t like it. Rose is just down the hall. A strange man. What if he sneaks in there and— I don’t want to think about it.”
“You don’t think he’d molest Archie, though. Amanda, listen to yourself.”
“She’s a girl, okay? I’m a mother, I’m supposed to be protective. And I just don’t like the way the whole thing sounds. I don’t even think this is their house.”
“He had the keys.”
“He did.” She lowered her voice still more. “What if he’s the handyman? What if she’s the maid? What if this is just a scam, and the blackout or whatever is just a coincidence?” She was at least appropriately ashamed by her conjecture. But those people didn’t look like the sort to own such a beautiful house. They might, though, clean it.
“He took that envelope out of that drawer.”
“Sleight of hand. How do you know that drawer was locked? Maybe he just fiddled with his keys.”
“I can’t understand what they get out of giving us a thousand dollars.”
Amanda picked up her phone to google the man. Washington groupfund.com seemed too opaque; probably fraudulent. The phone had nothing to offer her. Her daughter was asleep down the hall! “Also, he looks familiar to me. Like, really.”
“Well, I’ve never seen him before.”
“You’re terrible with faces.” Clay never recognized the children’s teachers and often accidentally passed long-standing neighbors on the street without acknowledging them. She knew he liked to think this implied that he was lost in thought, when really he was merely inattentive. “I don’t believe this bullshit about the emergency broadcast system. We were just watching TV!”
“That’s easy enough.” Clay walked down the short hall. He pointed the remote control at the screen mounted on the wall. He’d half hoped (more than half) to broadcast some pornography there. It added a certain twist to things, but the technology was hard for him to parse—you had to get the television and the computer to cooperate. The television lit up. The screen was that blank digital blue. “That’s weird.”
“Is it on the right channel?”
“I was watching this morning. I think it’s out.”
“But it’s not the emergency broadcast system. The satellite is probably out. It’s probably the wind.” Amanda was not going to be persuaded, because she could sense those people trying to persuade them. There was dishonesty in it.
“Fine, it’s a glitch. But they said they heard that on the radio. The one doesn’t mean the other isn’t true.”
“Why are you working so hard to believe everyone but your own wife?”
“I’m only trying to calm you down. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but . . .” He hesitated. He didn’t believe her.
“There’s something happening.” Wasn’t this the plot of Six Degrees of Separation? They let those people in because they were black. It was a way of acknowledging that they didn’t believe all black people were criminals. A canny black criminal could take advantage of that!
“Or they’re scared old people who need a place to stay tonight. We’ll send them away in the morning.”
“I’ll never be able to sleep with strangers in the house!”
“Come on.” Clay did wonder. Maybe the thousand dollars was a ruse, or there was something worth more than that in the house. He couldn’t think straight.
“I think I’ve seen him before, I’m telling you.” Amanda felt that frustration of being unable to recall a specific word. What if this was a revenge killing? He was some man she’d slighted years ago.
Clay knew that he was not good with faces. And he knew that maybe, on some level, he was especially not good with black faces. He wasn’t going to say “They all look the same to me,” but there was some evidence, actual biological, scientific evidence, that people were more adept at recognizing people of the same race. Like, it wasn’t racist, was it, to admit that one billion Chinese probably looked more like one another to him than they did to one another. “I don’t think we know him, and I don’t think he’s going to murder us.” There was now some sliver, needle-sharp, of doubt. “I think we need to let them stay. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I want to see the proof.” There was no way that she could make such a demand. “I mean, we have keys too! Maybe they rented it before us.”
“This is their vacation house. It won’t be on their license. I’ll talk to them. If I get a bad feeling, we’ll say, no, sorry, we’re not comfortable with this arrangement. But if I don’t, I think we let them stay. They’re old.”
“I wish I had your faith in other people.” Amanda did not in fact envy Clay this trait.
“It’s the right thing to do.” Clay knew this would work; his wife felt it important, not to do the moral thing, necessarily, but to be the kind of person who would. Morality was vanity, in the end.
Amanda crossed her arms against her chest. She was right, in that she didn’t know the whole story, nor did Clay, nor did the people in the kitchen, nor did the junior editor who, seeing the news cross the wire, issued the alert to the millions of people who had the New York Times app installed on their phones. The wind was so fierce, but even if it hadn’t been, they likely would have been just too far from the flight path to hear the first planes dispatched to the coast, per protocol in that situation.
“We’re going to be Good Samaritans.” Clay turned the television off and stood, choosing in that moment not to mention the thousand dollars.
11
THAT DAY’S MORNING SEEMED DISTANT, LIKE A STORY ABOUT someone else Clay had once been told. He could almost see the beach towels, drying on the railing outside, and they were like the pinch you’re supposed to administer when you think you’re dreaming. Amanda followed just behind him, and they came into the kitchen and found these strangers there, moving around like they owned the place, which, perhaps, they did.
“I made drinks. Felt like it was in order.” G. H. gestured at the glass in his hand. “Our private reserve. I’m happy to get you one.”
The man had left a cabinet ajar, and Clay could see inside of it bottles of Oban, wine, that expensive tequila in the porcelain vessel. He had done an inventory of the kitchen. Had he missed this, or had it been locked? “You know, I might have a drink.”
G. H. poured one. “Ice? No ice?”
Clay shook his head and took the glass being offered. He sat at the island. “That’s lovely, thank you.”