I bought us a pot of coffee for three dollars while Susan fetched cups. “Do you use cream?” she said.
“Black like my heart.”
She smiled all over her face and said, “How wonderful. I believe we shall get along splendidly.”
We sat near a window where we could watch passersby. I filled her cup, left mine half empty. Or half full, if you want to join the Peace Corps. She looked a question. “Keeps me awake,” I said.
“They serve unleaded.”
“Never touch the stuff.”
I brought the cup to my lips. “It also cools faster this way.”
“You don’t like it hot?”
“Lukewarm like my heart,” I said.
She laughed. Her laugh was merry and seemed contrived like her speech and other mannerisms; yet, like her speech and mannerisms, not unpleasantly so.
“Tell me about the city,” I said.
“It is a city like other cities,” she said at once. “Only not so big.”
“How big is it?”
“Less than half a million people, and not very spread out.”
“What do people do here?”
“Live. Die. Breed.”
“Sing? Dance?”
“Music is life, and life is dance, as Vivian used to say.”
“Who’s Vivian?”
“A friend.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York, New York,” she sang.
“I just came from there.”
“Where?”
“I was living on Staten Island for a while.”
“And before that?”
“Ah, my dear, London, Paris, Istanbul, Tokyo.”
“Tokyo? Really?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Oh. Yes, that would be a problem. What languages do you speak?”
“The language of love. And you?”
“The language of dance, of song. Tra-la, tra-la.”
“But are you understood?”
“Sometimes I am. Are you?”
“Oh, my, yes. Always.”
“I believe that, Jonathan.”
I poured her some more coffee, warmed mine up a bit. I stared out the window. “Is winter fog usual around here?”
“It happens,” she said. “But there isn’t any fog tonight.”
“No, but there will be.”
“Do you think so? I like the fog.”
“And thunderstorms.”
“Yes. Especially thunderstorms. They’re my favorite part of living in the Midwest; that and the clouds. How do you know there will be fog tonight?”
“It has that feel.”
“Jonathan, do you ever get the feeling you know what’s going to happen?”
“Sometimes. You?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, what do you think is going to happen?”
She grinned and cocked her head to the side. “Why, I think we’re going to have a winter fog.”
We did, too, but that was several hours later, after I had escorted her home, and left her at the door after kissing her hand in my most courtly fashion. Most amateurs at hand-kissing make it a bow, with eyes down. Properly, you should be looking at your intended the entire time, with an expression at once tender and slightly amused. The kiss ought to be a single touch of the lips, neither too short nor too long; the actual caress is carried out by your hand squeezing hers—and oh, so delicately, so she isn’t quite certain if you have caressed her or not.
I left her at her door, enjoying the tension between our conversation, clearly aimed at the bedroom, and our physical contact, which had been limited to her hand on my arm, and one kiss of her hand. I had intended to poke my head in and look in on Jill, who hadn’t been feeling entirely well when I left her, but I could hardly spoil a gesture like that, so I just turned around and left.
By that time there was, indeed, a fog rolling in, which became thicker as I made my way back to Professor Carpenter’s house. There was no moon whatsoever, both because it was new and because it had already set. It was about two-thirty in the morning and Lakota was, if not buried, at least pretty dead. I had no trouble finding the place, even in the fog, and since I was certain no one could see me, I took the opportunity to enter, if not break in.
Two people, a small dog, and a cat were breathing quietly in the house. I had not noticed the cat the first time I was there. Perhaps she was shy.
I had no reason to disturb any of them, so I moved quietly and tested my hypothesis that a professor who owned a large house would not put his desk in the same room he slept in. It didn’t seem like a particularly daring guess, and it turned out to be right. My second hypothesis was that his address book would be in plain sight on said desk. This was more daring and turned out not to be the case. Neither was it in any of the desk drawers, but rather, for some reason, it turned out to be on a bookshelf. I scanned through it quickly, found what I wanted, memorized it, then took myself out the way I came. The dog never even woke up.
On the other hand, there was still the question: Now that I had the address, what, if anything, was I going to do with it? I thought about Laura Kellem, and consequences, and tried to decide if I cared. I wasn’t certain. But then I considered the significance of what Susan had told me, and I wasn’t certain I cared about that, either.
There were no lights on when I got home, but I hadn’t expected any.
THREE
suf·fer v.—intr. 1. To feel pain or distress; sustain loss, injury, harm, or punishment. 2. To tolerate or endure evil, injury, pain, or death. 3. To appear at a disadvantage. —tr … . 2. To experience … 4. To permit; allow … .
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
It’s funny; when I finished my last session of typing I realized I was disappointed that there was no more to relate, and I went on down to find Jim, with the idea clearly in mind of getting him talking so I could come back to this machine and set it all down. I’ve been challenging myself to see how much of a conversation I could actually remember, and I suppose at heart I’m a liar, because ever since I started I’ve been willing to fabricate conversations that I could have summarized easily and accurately. I don’t know why it is more satisfying to see those inverted commas that Joyce hated so passionately, even if I can only remember the essence of what was said.
On the other hand, it feels as if I’m getting better at remembering exact quotations. This may be imagination at work.
But I did go downstairs, and Jim was standing, his arms clasped behind him, staring at the dead fireplace. I said, “Jim, what do you do around here?”
He turned his head so he was almost looking at me over his shoulder. “You mean, to earn my keep?”
“No, I mean to kill time. Being a ghost seems like the most wearying thing I can think of.”
“Have you ever studied Latin?”
“Okay, the second most wearying.”
He shook his head. “I don’t do anything, but I’m not bored.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s never boring to be what you are. It’s not usually exciting either. You just exist.”
“That’s what most people do most of the time. That’s what I mean by wearying.”
“And what do you do?”
“At least I have some contact with other people.”
“And I don’t?”
“Do you?”
“If I didn’t, this house wouldn’t be deserted.”
“Well, but since then?”
“I watch people go by, I listen to the wind. I’ve followed two generations of owls who live on top of the carriage house. And I reminisce.”
“On your life?”
He nodded, staring past my shoulder. His eyes weren’t focused.
I said, “How did you get educated? There weren’t black colleges then, were there?”
“No, I had to go to white folks’ school. They thought
it was funny to see me there, but it wasn’t unheard of, the way it was later.”
“But how did it happen?”
“I had a friend who had money. I think he thought it would be funny if his friend the nigger had a college education.” He didn’t sound bitter when he said it; he didn’t sound much of anything.
“I’ll bet you spoke differently then.”
“Yes.”
“Want to give me a demonstration? I’m curious.”
“No.”
“It was after the Civil War, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I was already free before the war.”
“Given your freedom, or did you escape?”
“Both. It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“I don’t have the inclination.” Suddenly, then, he looked directly at me for the first time. He said, “I did run away, though. No one can hold you if you don’t want to be held.”
“Heh.”
He looked away again. “You better believe it. I lived through things that—I lived through things. And I went to a university. And I learned that you can’t hold a man who doesn’t want to be held.”
“How did you die, anyway?”
He twitched a little, like something had bitten him. Then he smiled. “Touché,” he said, which was the only answer I got out of him.
Bah.
Enough of this.
My latest discovery is that too much sitting in one place and recording what has gone on is frustrating; it makes me wish to go out and do something. I am, by nature, unaccustomed to inaction; I think I must be a sort of counterpoint to Jim, the way t’ai chi is the counterpoint to meditation. This may be a poor example, all I know of either one is what I learned from a young lady with whom I spent some time in Tokyo, and her English wasn’t very strong. But now that I think of it, this very document testifies to our differences; Jim spends his time musing, but even when I muse I translate those thoughts into activity: I write them down.
I went down to the Conneaut Creek to a point just below the Sherburne Bridge, and watched for a while. The creek is still flowing, but no one is fishing. You can see the lights of Lottsville, Pennsylvania, on the other side; a town that, they tell me, has increased in size tenfold in a score of years. Something about taxes, I understand. Death and taxes, they say, are the only things one can depend on, but I’ve never paid any taxes.
I walked back—strolled, really—taking my time. I was a little short of money, so I gave some consideration to the problem, but didn’t do anything about it. Money is not difficult to come by. I made my way to the Ave, west of the Tunnel, and found an establishment called Cullpepper’s. I didn’t go in, but I spent a few minutes watching the girls ply their trade. It must be cold, I thought. And they looked so young.
After a while, I picked one out and got acquainted with her for a few minutes. Her name was Rosalie, and she can’t have been more than eighteen. She had fair hair, a fair complexion, and was the least bit plump. She was heavily roughed to cover over some minor acne that I think would have made her face more interesting if she’d let it show.
I escorted her home, then returned home myself, cold and not entirely satisfied, but feeling better for having been out, at least. Jim is nowhere in sight, presumably he’s wandering around the house, which he does fairly often; it goes with the job, I guess. It’s getting late and I’m tired. I’ll see Jill tomorrow.
A slight thaw, not uncommon in late December, I’m told, had melted some of the snow from the boulevards and lawns, but it was freezing again as I reached the big white house with the blue lights in the attic. I politely knocked at the door, and, after a minute or so, Jill opened it. Her face went through a quick flurry of contending emotions when she saw me, ending with a small smile. “Hello, Jack,” she said.
I walked in past her and threw my coat onto a chair. Susan wasn’t in. “Hello yourself. What’s this I hear about you seeing Young Don?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Is it true?”
She frowned. “Jack,” she said, “it isn’t like we have a relationship.”
That stopped me cold. “We haven’t?”
“No.” She started to pick up strength. “I like you, but that—”
“It seems I’ve spent an evening in your bed.”
She pressed her lips together and tossed her head back. “So?”
“Isn’t that a relationship?”
“You mean, sleeping with someone once or twice means you’re having a relationship with them?”
I tried to make sense of that. I said, “What do you mean by ‘relationship’?”
“I mean, you know, when you’re seeing someone regularly, and the two of you always do things together, and—”
“Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t understand. No, as you define it, I don’t think we’re having a relationship.”
“Well then?”
“But I forbid you to see Don again.”
You’d think I’d just announced that I intended to burn down her house. Her mouth fell open and she stared at me, then she said “What?” in a voice that sounded like highland pipes.
I repeated myself.
She said, “Who do you think you are—”
“You will do what you’re told,” I said.
“I will not—”
“Let’s talk about it upstairs.”
If anything, that made it worse. “If you think I’m going upstairs with you—”
I shrugged. “Right here will be fine, but won’t you be embarrassed if your roommate comes in?”
“If you think I’m going to—”
I laughed, and took her in my arms. She tried to fight her way out, with profound lack of effect. She stopped fighting and said, “Jack, Jack, please stop. This isn’t—”
“Keep still,” I said, and threw her onto the couch, and myself onto her. She gasped as the air was driven from her lungs. By the time she could speak again she had nothing to say.
Sometime later I looked at her face, tear-streaked and pale. She reached up to caress me clumsily then let her hand fall back down to her side. “Jack?” she said in a whisper.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t—I don’t think I can make it up the stairs.”
“What’s wrong with sleeping on the couch?”
“Please, Jack. I don’t want Susan to see me this way.”
“You should have thought of that when I first suggested we go upstairs.”
She tried to sob but seemed not to have the strength. “Please, Jack.”
I sighed. “Very well.” I picked her up, carried her upstairs, and put her to bed.
I’ve had to get up and walk around a little. I’ve spent some time wandering and seeing what’s here. As I was pacing through the house I met Jim in the parlor, his usual haunt, so to speak.
“You’ve been type-typing away, haven’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“May I read it?”
“No. Wait, yes. Go ahead. Only don’t talk to me about it.”
(He’s going to be reading this. Will knowing that I have a reader change what I write? I hope not. If I think it does, I’ll ask Jim not to read it any more. Hi, Jim, how’s the ghost business?)
“I won’t,” he said. (You said? How can anyone write for an audience? To Hell with it.)
So he went up and read it, and after about an hour came back down. He said, “I don’t understand what this Laura Kellem is waiting for. If she’s going to stick it to you, why doesn’t she just do it?”
I had to think, because I hadn’t wondered about it one way or the other. I finally said, “I should imagine that she has quite a bit to work out.”
“You said something like that before, but what do you mean?”
“Implicating someone for a murder he didn’t commit isn’t easy, modern forensics being what it is. If the authorities should discover my name, and succeed in tracing my movements, they might learn that I hadn’t arrived in this part
of the country until after the crimes had been committed.”
He frowned his particular frown, squinching his face as if to touch his eyebrows to his upper lip. “But that means she has to kill you.”
“Well, yes, but that isn’t difficult, for her. The hard part is bringing in the authorities at just the right time so they think they have their man, and then what they end up with is a body shot full of holes, or burned enough to be unrecognizable. Things don’t look good for your abode, Jim.”
“So she’s out there setting it up right now?”
“Probably.”
He frowned very hard, the same frown, as if he were trying to think and it was an effort. In fact, thinking comes pretty naturally to Jim. At last he said, “It seems like something that tricky, you could screw up for her pretty easy.”
“In one sense, yes. There are many ways to disrupt it, the simplest being to leave.”
“But then—”
“But I can’t. She is who she is, and I am who I am, and orders are orders.”
He squinted at me. “You don’t need to provide examples of the law of identity. I don’t understand why you can’t—”
“Because I can’t. Drop it.”
“All right, but couldn’t a friend of yours do it?”
“What friend?”
“Well, this Jill person you’ve been seeing?”
“That’d be no different than me doing it.”
“What about if I were to do something?”
“Like what? What can you do? Shit, Jim, you can’t even pick up a piece of paper.”
He winced at the obscenity and said, “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
“So, what, you’re just going to wait for the ax?”