The Houseguest by Thomas Berger

background of someone you invite here.”
    â€œBut I didn’t invite him.”
    His father looked away contemptuously. “I think you ought to take a stand somewhere, Bobby. It’s high time you developed some integrity. Okay, so you never expected this. Nobody’s saying the sole responsibility is yours. But to try to weasel out of the matter altogether is another thing.”
    â€œDad,” Bobby said levelly, “I know it will require the most strenuous effort you have ever made, but try to listen to what I am saying. Chuck is not my guest. That is to say, I never invited him to come here. I couldn’t have. I saw him for the first time in this house, what was it?, a week ago. That’s Point One. Point Two is I haven’t any explanation for what you tell me. All I can say is I’ve never known any houseguest who has worked out as well as Chuck. Not only is he always in a good mood, but he’s made himself useful in countless ways, including now what I would call the ultimate, saving Lyd’s life.”
    â€œBobby,” said his father, after having glanced back at the house, “I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you that the only testimony as to this alleged lifesaving has been Chuck’s own and, I gather, Lydia’s.”
    Bobby felt the oncoming of an emotion he could not immediately identify. “That’s right,” said he. “Who else’s do we need?”
    â€œWhy,” said his father, “where’s the corroboration?”
    Bobby now believed the emotion was suppressed rage. “This is not some abstract legal thing,” said he. “It’s life and death, for God’s sake.”
    His father wore what might have been a thin smile; if so, there was no true amusement in it. “I’m thinking of something a little less lofty, if you’ll permit me.” He showed two fingers in tight parallel. “I wonder if Lydia and Chuck don’t seem unusually close. I don’t like to say this, Bobby, but I wonder if he might be putting it to her.”
    â€œOh, shit!” Bobby cried, now giving vent to his rage. “That’s really nasty of you. There was no call for that remark, none at all. Go back to your whores, you bastard. Let us alone!”
    Nothing like this had ever happened before. He had never been close enough to his father to quarrel with him. Thus not even during Bobby’s teenhood had they been antagonists—not that Bobby had been an unruly adolescent: a little drinking, a few pills, was all.
    His father was silent for a moment now, then said, “I ask you , anyway, to give me respect when under this roof.”
    It appeared to be more of an appeal than a request, but Bobby stayed indignant. Since first learning of his father’s infidelities, many years before, he had felt his own manhood was impugned. That the same person now called him cuckold was unbearable. He went to look for Chuck, who remained someone to look up to.

It was Audrey’s practice each summer to bring to the island—or rather, have sent by road and then ferry, while she traveled by air—cartons of outmoded clothing to give to the locals. The distribution of these garments was handled by the housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, and no doubt went mostly to her own female relatives, for though the Finches managed such business as there was on the island, they gave no indication in their visible way of life that they earned large profits. They drove shabby vehicles, lived over or behind their places of business, such as the grocery and the gas station, or in mobile homes with front yards full of firewood for sale and fishing shacks at waterside on the unfashionable stretch of the shore. So presumably various hearts were gladdened, for these frocks and suits and sweaters bore the best labels (whether or not the recipients could appreciate the names) and showed scarce sign of wear. But as Mrs. Finch accepted no gift with