I don’t think, though, that it is really the need to set down what happens, as much as it is the act of writing, or typing, itself. There is something soothing in hearing the type bars smack the paper with that hollow, crunching sound, and seeing the black marks appear. They are nice and black, because I found a new ribbon in one of the desk drawers that sits next to this hard wooden chair, and after considerable trouble I managed to get it threaded the right way. Then I had to go wash the ink off my hands, because it seems wrong to soil the keys of this venerable machine.
Yesterday I rushed home after meeting with Kellem and, before anything else, I set it all down as well as I could. The act of doing so was very soothing, more so, it turned out, than telling it all to Jim the ghost, which I did as soon as I was done typing. Yet there were things, important things, that I didn’t remember as I typed them. Some of these came back, however, as I told Jim about the conversation. Why is it that some memories cast themselves naturally into written words, while others must be spoken?
As Jim and I conversed, he played with an old nickel, hole punched in the center, with a thin chain running through the hole. When I had finished, he put it around his neck, under his shirt, and looked at me. He said, “Did she give you any details about what she’d done that you’re supposed to suffer for?”
“There have been some bodies, apparently.”
“Just bodies?”
“What more do you want, zombies?”
“Never seen a zombie.”
“Never hope to see one. But I can tell you, Abercrombie—”
“Not sure I believe in zombies,” said Jim.
“Nor am I. But no, just bodies.”
“What about witnesses?”
“She’s no fool.”
“Then why does she need someone to go down for the killings?”
“She wants the investigations settled before the authorities dig something up, as it were.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose because I’ll confess to them, and that will end it.”
He stared past my shoulder, his eyes wide as the moon and looming like a stereotype. “Why will you do that?”
“Because she told me to.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“No. Orders, as they say, are orders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what they say about Hell hath no fury and all that.”
“You scorned her?”
“No, actually, she scorned me, if you want to look at it that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you love someone who doesn’t love you, you’re in her power, and power is what this is all about. With Kellem, power is always what it is about.”
“And you still love her?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’s complicated, Jim.”
He shook his head, still confused. There was no good way to explain it, so I didn’t. He said, “When will it happen?”
“I don’t know. I imagine she hasn’t worked out all the details. It could be tricky for her. I am, as you might guess, overwhelmed with sympathy for her.”
The wind whistled merrily through the wooden slats over the windows on the north side of the house, facing the border of honeysuckle bushes, which are as tall as a man; they died in last year’s drought, but have not yet fallen. Soon they will fall apart, I think, and the wind will whistle merrier still. A cheery place, this old house where Jim the ghost has given me temporary residence.
After a while, Jim said, “I can’t believe there’s nothing you can do.”
“Let’s talk about it outside.”
“You know I can’t—oh.”
I stretched out into the chair and looked at the yellowed ceiling, where shadows from the candle flickered and danced. Jim stood there. I wish he’d sit down sometimes, but I don’t imagine his legs get tired.
“Thing is,” he said a little later, “you sound like you don’t care.”
“Don’t care? No, it’s not that. I don’t want to die, I suppose, but—”
“You suppose?”
“What’s the point of worrying about it? There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I imagine, given a choice, I’d like to go on living, but—”
“You imagine?”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Jim watched me, or at least my chest, without saying anything.
“Should I start a fire?” I said.
“That would be pleasant,” said Jim. “I’m not certain the flue works, however.”
“I’ll check into it,” I said.
“What if someone sees the smoke?”
“There shouldn’t be much if the wood is dry, and there are only a couple of houses across the street. Besides, this area isn’t lighted as well as some.”
The flue was not seriously clogged. I brought some old, rotting firewood in from the old, rotting carriage house, found some newspapers in a neighbor’s trash can, and lit the fire from one of the candles.
“Won’t burn long with those old logs,” said Jim.
“It’s getting late anyway,” I said, stifling a yawn and watching the thickly curling smoke that old bark produces.
“A fire like this wants hot spiced brandy, or cider, or even tea.”
“If you make it,” I said, “I’ll drink it.”
“Don’t have any,” said Jim.
“Me neither.”
A few sparks shot up the chimney and out to defy the winter.
It has been several days now since I felt like coming up here, I guess because there isn’t much satisfaction in talking about how I shower, eat, read the newspapers, and sleep. It’s only when I meet someone and we affect each other that I feel I have anything to write down.
I went back to visit Jill earlier tonight, this time at her house. It would have been harder to find if she hadn’t mentioned the blue light in the attic, but there it was, and there I was. The place had just been painted, sometime within the last couple of months; the smell had survived the weather and it overpowered any other smells. I’ve never been fond of paint smell, but there are worse. I heard sounds of a stereo faintly through the door and recognized 3 Mustaphas 3; it’s always interesting when you discover someone who knows the same obscure music you know. There’s very little contemporary music of any kind that I listen to, and when I discover a musician I like it is usually by accident. In this case, I dated a woman in New York who worked for a record company, and several times found myself waiting for her in her offices, and they were played there. I know the songs they play, and they have more respect for the music than most.
I shouldn’t let myself get started on this, should I?
But I did, in fact, like the music, and I wondered if I’d misjudged Jill. Probably not. I stood on a very wide, very long unenclosed porch, with a few pieces of cheap furniture. The door was thick and wooden, with no screen. I looked for a buzzer and didn’t find one. Knock knock went the nice man at the door.
The music dropped in volume to the point where I could hear the slap of bare feet against a wood floor. The door opened with a melodramatic creak, and two very wide blue eyes appeared vertically in the partially opened doorway. No, it wasn’t Jill. I couldn’t see the smile below the eyes, but the lines around the cheekbones indicated it was there.
“Yes?” she said. “And who might you be?”
I bowed, because it seemed the appropriate response. “I might be Jill’s friend,” I said. “Or I might be an Israeli terrorist looking for PLO supporters. Or possibly a burglar trying to steal your jewels to support my laudanum habit. Or even a neighbor complaining about the volume. That is “Heart of Uncle,” isn’t it? It really ought to be louder.”
She considered this, worked her lips like Nero Wolfe, then threw the door open all the way, placed her hand against the doorjamb while leaning against the casing trim. She had one leg bent, her foot resting against the doorway, and her arms were folded in front of h
er as she blocked the doorway and considered me. She was as tall as I and thinner; most of her height in her legs. She wore a navy blue skirt, buttoned on the side, and a white tank top. She was small-breasted, with a graceful neck and a delightfully animated face, full of blue eyes and theatrical expressions. Her hair was dark blond, straight, and reached only to the top of her neck, with a navy blue band keeping it back out of her face. Her lips were full and had just a hint of a cupid’s bow. Her nose was small, and she probably wrinkled it fairly often, for effect. I decided she couldn’t possibly be a drama student because stereotypes are never that perfect.
“I like your coat,” she announced, as if her approval of my dress were the supreme prize in a good-taste contest.
“Does that mean I get to see Jill?”
She considered this. “Perhaps it does,” she said. “Just what are your intentions concerning my roommate?”
“I’m going to kidnap her and hold her for ransom.”
“Really?” she said, appearing delighted. “How splendid.”
“Or else I’ll put her in a cage and show her for money, but I think you’d be more suitable for that role.”
She nodded. “Yes. The kidnapping is a much better idea.” She stood straight and walked with exaggerated grace into the living room. There was a very nice wooden stairway, curving back on itself with a stained-glass window at the landing. She called, “Jill! Your kidnapper is here,” and gave me a big smile.
“Aren’t you going to come in?” she said.
“Only if you want me to. We kidnappers are very polite.”
“Oh do, by all means.”
“My name is Jack Agyar.”
“I am Susan,” she said, giving me an elaborate curtsy. “Susan Pfahl.” I left my Wellingtons in the entryway and passed inside. There was a very nice ceiling fixture, with old, presumably dead, gas jets mixed into the more modern decorative lamps. They cast downward-pointing sharp shadows against the printed white wallpaper. The pattern was of roses, but nicely subdued. The furnishings didn’t all match each other, but all went with the polished maple floor, the high, smooth white ceiling, and the dark wood of the stairway and around the fireplace.
“Dance or music?” I said.
“Both,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to hear me sing?”
“Yes.”
She sang, “Laaaaaaaa,” at a high pitch, filling up the room, her arms spread as if she were finishing a solo at the Met.
I said, “Hire the kid.”
Jill called from the stairs, “My god, Susan, don’t break the glasses.”
“I shan’t,” she said.
Jill wore faded jeans, a plaid work shirt, and pale yellow deck shoes. I looked quickly back and forth and wondered if it was too late to change my mind. I smiled at Jill and said, “How are you on this fine evening?”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“Not unpleasantly I hope.”
She made a vague gesture and said, “What’s up?”
“I thought I might take you out.”
“Hmmm. I sort of have to study.”
“Let’s talk about it. Upstairs.” I didn’t quite leer.
She glanced at Susan, blushed, started to say something, decided to get angry, changed her mind, and said, “All right,” in a very low voice. She went upstairs and I followed.
Her room was done in light blue, with a twin bed against the wall, head near the window, a green stuffed turtle on the flower-patterned comforter and a single white pillow. There were a couple of prints of abstract art on the wall, one of red lines and watery pastels, the other seemed to be a meaningless pattern of black needles against a green background. I’m sure they were both meaningful. In one corner were a few small canvases, and from the two I could see they were clearly her work, judging by the lack of style. Her desk sat in a corner and held a Webster’s Collegiate dictionary, an ashtray with a few marijuana buds, a round copper incense holder, a picture of her that I guessed to have been taken by a bored family photographer when she was about sixteen, a coffee mug full of pens and pencils, an electric typing machine, and a pad of drawing paper.
She said, “Don’t embarrass me in front of Susan.”
“Why were you embarrassed?”
“Just don’t, all right?”
I smiled into her eyes. “Give us a kiss, then,” I said.
She sighed and came into my arms. I caressed her back for a moment, and held her cheek against mine. Her skin was warm and soft. I kissed my way past her ear.
“Jack,” she said in a whisper.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t—”
“I do, however, and that’s what matters.”
She came around to my way of thinking in pretty short order. When I went back down the stairs Susan was still up, stretched out like a cat on the sofa, her ankles crossed. Something I didn’t recognize was on the stereo. She seemed to be listening intently, although she must have heard me come down, because she opened one eye and said, “That was quick.”
“Jill was mad at me,” I said. “It seems I embarrassed her.”
“Jill,” said Susan, “embarrasses easily.”
“You don’t though,” I said.
“That is correct.”
“Then I won’t try to embarrass you. Grab a coat.”
“Where are we going?”
“Coffee.”
She smiled a very nice smile and said, “I’d like that.”
I had draped my coat over a chair. I retrieved it, and she was ready by the time I had my Wellies on. Her coat was green wool, double-breasted, belted, and knee length, with a large collar. She wore no hat. “I shall not bring my purse,” she said, “since this is your treat.”
“Exactly.”
She didn’t lock the door on the way out. She took my arm at once and said, “I don’t believe I shall call you Jack.”
“No? What will you call me?”
“I don’t know. John isn’t right, either.”
“Perhaps Jonathan.”
“Hmmm. Jonathan. Yes, that might do. Come here, Jonathan. Yes.” She repeated it a couple of times, and I guess decided it would do. She looked at me and smiled. Her mouth was large, her jaw line prominent.
I said, “I hope Jill won’t be angry with you.”
“Gillian,” she said, “must learn to look out for her territory.”
“You mean that in general?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“When we moved in together, I told her that I would be claiming as much of the house as I could until she stopped me, so she had better be prepared to defend her turf or I’d simply take over.”
“And she hasn’t done so?”
“You saw the house; did it look like her or me?”
“What makes you think I can tell the difference?”
“You can tell.”
I laughed. “You,” I said.
“Correct.”
“The attitude,” I said, “seems ever so slightly harsh.”
“Do you think so?” she inquired sweetly. “Maybe it is, but I don’t have the patience to put up with having to ask every time I want to move a piece of furniture or put a new vase on the mantelpiece.”
“So you just do it?”
“She can tell me if she doesn’t like it.”
“And she’s never said anything?”
“No.”
“Then it’s her problem.”
“Exactly.”
“And do I fall into the same category?”
She smiled brightly. “Yes.”
“Nice to know where I fit in.”
“Where do you fit in?” she said.
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way.”
“I’m more or less just passing through, so I guess I really don’t fit in.”
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way. Did Jill say
anything about me?”
Susan looked at me through slitted eyes, as if deciding how much to tell. At last she said, “Jill seemed quite taken with you at first, especially when you sent her flowers.”
“At first?”
“Well, it’s been, what, a week? And you haven’t called.”
“Has it been a week already? How time flies. Well, has she waited for me, breathlessly, anxiously, sitting by the phone and staring out the window?”
Susan laughed. “Hardly.”
I pretended dismay. “Don’t tell me she has another man already?”
“I’m not certain.” She smiled wickedly. “Well, there is this gentleman who’s called on her a couple of times in the last week.”
“Ah!” I said. “A rival! Who is he?”
“His name is Don something.”
“Swaggart? The sociologist? She’s been seeing him?”
“As I said, just once or twice. Does that bother you?”
“I am beside myself with jealousy.”
She laughed again. “I can tell.”
“How well do you know the dear boy?”
She made a noncommittal gesture. “Well enough to know that there’s not a lot of substance to him.”
“But,” I said, “he’s very dedicated to his work.”
“Is he?”
We walked a little more. We occasionally passed people. She said, “That’s what you get for not striking while the iron is hot.”
“That’s what she gets for being impatient. Let it be a lesson to you.”
“Oh, she’s not nearly as impatient as I am. Once I got so annoyed waiting for my bus, that I got on the next one that came by, just to be going somewhere.”
I laughed.
She said, “Are you going to do anything about Don?”
“What do you propose I do?”
“I was just wondering.”
“To be perfectly frank, I don’t much care one way or the other,” I said.
We arrived at an all-night coffee place called the Wholly Ground. There didn’t seem to be anyone in it. I stood in the doorway and asked if they were open, but Susan breezed in. A poster outside advertised the appearance of something called the Beat Farmers, but the place didn’t seem to have a stage. I had just noticed that the poster was for somewhere else when Susan motioned me in. “They’re open all night,” she said, at the same time as the short-haired nose-ringed girl behind the counter nodded. It was a small place that smelled harshly of coffee and rank tobacco smoke. All the tables were round and most had room for four coffee cups and an ashtray; you had to hold your morning paper.