He became aware of dogs. They seemed to materialize from everywhere at once, at the sides of houses, on porches, or walking—fake casual—across the damp, shiny street. One in particular: a golden Lab bitch—ghostly or living, he could not tell—looking up at him with puzzlement and interest from the sidewalk in front of Jessie’s house. She seemed about to speak.
Very well, he thought, he would expand his view: partisan of the whole world’s mammalian life. Take up Peter Singer’s line: animal liberation. But mammalian life was it, his limit. Well, maybe birds. He sent his thought to the Lab: We understand, don’t we! Happy the snake, eggs indifferently buried in the earth and forsaken!
The night seemed to be building toward a winter thunderstorm.
Time to leave, he thought. The darkness at his back stepped closer. The same instant, he saw Jessie’s face at a window, looking out, luminous as a moon. She seemed not to see the Jeep. Her face was like a heart, a flower. Her eyes bespoke something else. Terrible watchfulness. With a shock, he remembered making love to her.
The dogs sat observing, not barking yet, wondering what this hushed red beast might be up to. He became aware that Lincoln Street was also full of cats, some of them visible at windows or on porches, others not visible, psychically warm places in houses up and down the block. He felt the freezing chill that meant the old woman was right behind him. “Help me,” he whispered, but there was no one to help, and his mind had quit, utterly resourceless.
Then on Jessie’s front porch he saw that someone was standing looking out at him, smoking a cigarette. Where he’d come from so suddenly, Mickelsson couldn’t guess, but he knew the man’s appearance was a gift, a sign. The shape of the man was familiar, though Mickelsson couldn’t place it. He wore no coat. Perhaps he’d stepped out for a minute to escape the noise—yet that seemed not right. He was looking at the Jeep as if he’d seen it from inside and, pleased that Mickelsson had come, had stepped out to offer him greetings.
Again Mickelsson thought in dismay of the great confidence with which he’d dressed in his best and driven here to Jessie’s, imagining a man could simply step into life again as if nothing ever changed. The light of the man’s cigarette brightened, then dimmed. He seemed not to notice the cold at all. He stood very still in the soft, spring-scented breeze. Something touched Mickelsson’s shoulder, making him cry out.
Abruptly, before he knew he meant to do it, Mickelsson got out of the Jeep, snatched up his cane and the box containing Jessie’s gloves, and went briskly up the walk.
“Well, well!” he said, “it seems I’ve come on the right night.” He could smell the man’s cigarette.
“Yes you have,” the man said. There was nothing in his eyes, and the movement of his mouth did not seem to mesh with his words. “I was afraid you’d decided you shouldn’t come in.” He smiled. He had surprisingly crooked teeth. His voice, like a dream voice, made Mickelsson’s bowels go weak.
For four heartbeats Mickelsson said nothing. Then at last he said, “You’re Buzzy, I take it?”
Again the man smiled. His face, Mickelsson realized only now, was decayed, horrible. The flesh had fallen away from the bone of his nose. “I am. Yes.” He bowed.
“Jessie has spoken of you often,” Mickelsson said. “She misses you terribly, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
The dead man nodded, his look noting and forgiving the fatuousness. “Shall we go in?”
“I don’t suppose,” Mickelsson said, flexing the fingers of his gloves, “there’s any reason for us to try and … talk?”
“Talk?” the dead man asked hollowly, and put his hand on Mickelsson’s elbow—ice ran up Mickelsson’s arm—“why should we stand around and talk?”
Mickelsson nodded. “Will she be angry at my barging in like this?”
The dead man studied him gravely, what remained of his mouth drawn to the left; then he asked—mouth unmoving—“How should I know?” With a gentle pressure on his elbow, he floated Mickelsson toward the light.
Jessie, when she opened the door, head lifted, stared at him in amazement, her smile frozen. She was unnaturally awake, like a deer, a hind. She seemed five years older, thinner, grayer, the flesh beginning to loosen from the bone. She looked from his foolish, fixed smile to the wooden box he’d immediately thrust into her hands, then to his red coat, then back at his face. A wince fixed itself around her eyes. At last, by an act of will, she forced back her smile. “Mickelsson!” she said. Clearly she couldn’t see the corpse of her husband at Mickelsson’s side, gazing indifferently around the blurry, aqueous room. She read the words on the box, Jessie’s Gloves, wonderfully ornate, and she laughed, then blushed. She put the box on the table by the door. Mickelsson leaned his cane beside it. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s very—nice.”
He caught her right hand in both of his. “Listen, Jessie. I know this is rude. I sat outside awhile—” He laughed and nervously looked past her, giving a nod to her assembled guests, then looked back into her face. He wished he’d taken his leather gloves off. With great self-control, he said, “I came to make certain protestations. If you’d like, I could go down on one knee.”
“Don’t you dare!” she said, widening her eyes. He saw that she was trying to make out whether or not she would need help.
Tillson drifted near, the fingertips of one hand pressed to his heart.
“I’m not crazy,” Mickelsson said. “I’m just faking because I’m scared. I’m not drunk either. Smell my breath.” Before she could pull away, he leaned close to her and breathed. Tillson stopped five feet off.
“For the love of Christ,” Jessie whispered, then searched his face, stretching her mouth as if to laugh, then went expressionless. She too pressed her fingertips to her heart. “Were you planning to come in?” she asked, clearly undecided about whether or not she would let him. She stole a glance past her shoulder into the room. He saw young Levinson in the distance, eyeing them.
“I was. To make a long story short,” he said, “I love you.”
She put both hands to her face, fingertips at the temples. The corners of her lips began to tremble. “All right come in,” she said. “But watch yourself!”
“I want to marry you,” he said.
Now she did laugh, trying not to, and covered her mouth with one hand. She looked at him. “You got a real sense of timing, Mickelsson.”
Edie Bryant burst from nowhere. “Peter!” she exclaimed. “See! The conquering hero comes! It’s Peter Mickelsson!” Then she too froze, smiling and staring.
Then Blickstein was beside Edie Bryant, pushing past her and even past Jessie, stretching out both hands to embrace him, maybe wrestle him. “My God!” he cried, grinning. “Pete, you son of a gun!” His hands closed firmly on Mickelsson’s elbows, biting in hard, and his face came forward, teeth bared like a chimp’s.
“Hi!” Mickelsson said with a grin. (With a smile? With a manly grin?) “Work, work, work!” He winked. He locked his knees, preparing to break Blickstein’s hold.
The decayed, waxen face of Buzzy Stark leaned close and said, “I’ll get you a drink. Lemon twist?”
“That would be lovely,” Mickelsson said.
Jessie, at the dean’s shoulder, jerked her eyes up to Mickelsson’s face, then looked at where Buzzy had been just an instant before.
Mickelsson remembered his hat and gently struggled to free his right elbow from the dean’s grasp. The dean would not let go. Mickelsson snapped free, gave Blickstein a little jaw-tap, open-handed, and—while the dean stared, astonished—managed to remove the hat, then the gloves, and dropped them on the table beside his cane. Blickstein caught his arm, squeezing hard, grinning again, eyes wide. Mickelsson thought of breaking free and flattening him, but smiled. Jessie came close, pushing in beside the dean, on her face an angry, determined look, a bright glow, almost flame.
As if she were herself a ghost, Mabel Garret appeared from nowhere, smiling at him like a cat, a forest-green light coming out of her, and a smell of burnt
wood, then moved her eyes toward where Buzzy Stark, was floating through the crowd toward the liquor cabinet. For an instant it seemed to Mickelsson that the room was empty except for Mabel Garret, Jessie, and the dead man.
“Hello, Mabel,” he said.
She slid her eyes toward Jessie.
Jessie said suddenly, “I know it must really have pissed you off that I didn’t invite you, Peter.” She glanced at Blickstein. “Shel, leave him alone.”
“No no! Good heavens, no!” Mickelsson said. “Believe me, I don’t blame you!” He looked around. “What a wonderful party!” Then, leaning toward her, making his face tragic, “I really must talk to you alone for a minute. Is it possible? Don’t tell me no. Dearest lady, I pray you!”
Levinson drifted nearer, hands in coatpockets, eyebrows forming a solid wedge.
Jessie threw a look around, checking her troops. The dean and Tillson watched intently. Tillson had put down his glass, on his face a tortured, pitiful expression. His left hand consoled his right. Now Mickelsson saw Blickstein’s young friend on the couch, Professor Warren’s wife, beside old Mrs. Meyerson. Both of them stared at him. The young woman’s face was electric. There were dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise she seemed well, even radiant. It crossed his mind that she might be an ally. She would have heard by now about Lawler’s arrest. Mrs. Meyerson was licking frosting off a napkin, looking up furtively, hoping she wasn’t being watched.
“I take it this is the get-up you put on for your episodes?” Jessie said in his ear. “Do you really feel you need it?”
“Please let me talk to you,” he said. “I stand before you a humble suppliant.”
“Jesus Christ,” she said. She pushed her hair back angrily. “Mickelsson, you ass.”
“Please, Jessie, little bird, gentle thrush—”
“Either you’re crazy and I should call the police, or you’re the most shameless, devious—”
“Please,” he said, and, surprising himself, burst into tears.
“This way,” Jessie said suddenly, and seized his hand firmly, as a boy would.
“Jess—” the dean said warningly. His hand closed more tightly on Mickelsson’s elbow. Jessie gave him a look, and after an instant the dean’s hand opened and he bent his head, like a barber finished with a job. Tillson came up and spoke into Jessie’s ear. She shook her head, gazing as if from a great distance at Mickelsson, reaching back, holding Mickelsson’s hand. She said to Tillson, “No.” She slammed her smile at him and after an instant he backed off like a servingman.
The dead man handed Mickelsson his drink. Then Mickelsson continued down the hallway with Jessie, walking in a foggy dream, swaying a little, courtly. Behind them, Edie Bryant held her arm out, preventing anyone from following. In the bedroom, he closed the door behind them and released Jessie’s hand to click the lock. Jessie met his eyes, her face like polished steel, then decided to look away. The room, after the livingroom, was unnervingly quiet. Jessie’s stillness alarmed him.
The bed was piled high with coats, remains of a zoo’s worth of animals—sheep, mink, otter, seal. … (Bryant would not like that.) She stood beside the bed, furtively brushing at the sides of her eyes with two fingers, looking around for a place to sit. At last she sat on top of the coats and covered her mouth and nose with her hands, breathing deeply. A shudder ran through her shoulders; her eyes settled on Mickelsson. Then she was still again.
“Jesus, if you could see yourself,” she said.
“I feel fine!”
“You feel fine.” She glanced at the locked door. Now she lowered her hands from her mouth and looked hard at the floor. Her shoulders drew inward.
He remembered the martini in his hand. “You want a sip?”
She looked up at him, then reached up and took the glass. He used the occasion to pull off his scarf and coat. After she’d sipped, she swallowed hard, as if the gin had burned her throat. She looked at his hands, then handed the glass back.
He smiled, then asked, “Did I tell you I saw the picture of you in the paper?”
She jerked her head away, then quickly wiped her cheek and shook her head. “What do you want?” she asked.
He said, “Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove—”
“Stop it!” she cried.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, quieting herself. “Thank you for your … affection. I have a party to attend to.” Now her two hands were pressed to her knees. Her eyes were clamped shut.
He crouched down in front of her, tears blinding him, and put his right hand on her two hands. “Jessie,” he said, “it’s true that the get-up is a fraud. But the craziness is real. You have to help me. If I had my way, I’d come to you as the perfect lover, flawless golden lion. …”
“Go home,” she said. “Peter—” She drew in breath, then said softly, shaking her head a little, “Go fuck yourself.”
“I can’t,” he said.
Her hands closed tightly around his. “It was you, wasn’t it,” she said, “the one who looked in at us, in Geoffrey’s office.”
“It was an accident. Anyway, I’ve done something much worse.”
“I’m sure,” she said.
“I murdered someone, Jessie,” he said.
She stared at him.
He said, “Would you like another drink?”
Seconds passed. Then she reached for his glass.
Slowly, deliberately, Mickelsson began to lift the coats off the bed and lay them on the carpet, neat as a launderer.
She said, “What do you mean? What are you telling me?” She did not think to hand him the glass back, placing it instead on the bedside table.
He sat down beside her. “If you don’t hold me in your arms, Jessie …”
She hesitated, then put her arms around him. As if on second thought, she closed them around him tightly. He closed his arms just as tightly around her. Without his quite knowing how it happened, they were lying side by side, the coats she’d been sitting on pushed off onto the floor. He held her still more tightly, pressing his lips to her throat. She was saying, “What are you telling me? Are you crazy? Who did you murder?”
“Whom,” he corrected.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. Her embrace loosened, then tightened so that he could hardly breathe. He kissed her throat, then the notch of her collarbone, then nuzzled toward her breasts.
“Peter, what are you doing?” she whispered. “Peter! Stop that!”
When he opened his eyes he saw that she was staring at the ceiling. Light came from her skin.
Outside the room there was not a sound.
“Listen,” he said, unbuttoning her blouse, “I’m glad you reminded me. My mother may have to live with us.”
“I said stop it!” Jessie whispered, stopping his hands. Her eyes were wide, as if with terror. Panic stirred in him. For an instant he was aware of his heart thudding, booming like a drum; then it came to him that it was her heart. She changed her mind and let his hands continue with the buttons.
“My mother’s old, you see,” he said. “Lonely—” His panic increased. “Also, my son’s come home.”
She rocked her head from side to side, her arms still holding him tight. “Jesus,” she said.
His hands stopped. “You don’t love me?”
“Are you crazy?”
His shaking grew violent.
She raised her head, eyes still wide open, wary, staring as if in amazement, then kissed his cheek—quickly, twice.
She allowed him to raise her torso and remove her blouse, then her brassière. He mouthed her left nipple.
“Do you realize, you crazy bastard,” she asked, “that there are people out there? Do you think they don’t know what we’re doing?”
“Listen,” he said, unsnapping her skirt. We’re, she had said. The room was full of ghosts, none of them very solid yet, some with their hands to their jaws, looking thoughtful, some grinning obscen
ely, some timidly looking away. The sky outside the windows glowed, then darkened.
“The thing is,” she whispered, “… don’t, Mickelsson! Wait! Do we love each other? And whom did you murder? What’s happening?”
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” he said.