by Steven Brust
Although, now that I think of it, how did Don know what to do? Even if he’d watched a few movies and read a few novels, his knowledge seemed far too complete. There’s a mystery there. I might have been too hasty with him; although it is certainly too late to worry about that now. But perhaps I ought to try to find the source of his knowledge. At any rate, that will give me something to do.
I’ve just come back from spending a few hours visiting our neighbor, Bill. I met him and his infuriating dog again as I was leaving the house, and, once again, the dog nearly went berserk. Bill apologized, and we spoke, and he renewed his offer, and this time I accepted. Their house is about as different from Jim’s as you can imagine for two houses in the same neighborhood. It is from the 1950’s, a style I detest, with low ceilings and space conservation everywhere; although when the forced-air heating system started up I began to see the virtues. It is very simply decorated, mostly with books. I was pleased to see a good number of old, leather-bound editions of Dickens and Hawthorne and such.
The dog wouldn’t settle down, so they put it out in the fenced-in backyard, and showered me with apologies about which I was quite gracious.
His wife’s name is Dorothy (I didn’t ask her if she was from Kansas, although I was tempted), and she’s a bright, slightly dumpy middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair. They tried to feed me and I declined, eventually accepting half a cup of coffee.
We spoke about the college, and he mentioned that he had a new project.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s called the Swaggart Study.”
“From Jimmy Swaggart?”
“No, no, Don Swaggart.”
I kept my face impassive. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s the guy who started the project, over in Sociology.”
“Oh.”
“He died recently, and he was pretty much the main force behind it, so we decided to keep it going in his honor and name it after him.”
“That was thoughtful. An older fellow?”
“No, quite young. He was killed. Some sort of break-in at his house.”
“Really? A shame. Did you know him?”
Bill nodded. “Yes. Very well, in fact.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was a shock. It’s hard to get to be my age without having a close friend die unexpectedly like that, but I’ve managed.”
“I’ve never gotten used to it myself,” I said.
He nodded, then laughed a little. “I still don’t quite believe it. I mean, I’ve read Spider Robinson; people don’t really die. Not dead dead.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Dorothy offered me some Rondele on crackers which I declined, and then she asked if I had any children.
“No. Do you?” Which was the cue for them to get the pictures out. Lord! They even had a son in the army, stationed in Germany; it was the kind of photograph that makes you think the kid is an officer if you don’t know insignia. They also had a daughter who, judging from her graduation picture, was not unattractive. I started to ask about her, then changed my mind.
The conversation drifted after that. Bill brought up Young Don once or twice more, but I had nothing to say about him, and we eventually worked our way to a discussion of crime in general. I was able to keep a straight face while agreeing with most of what they said.
Then Dorothy said, “The police were over at the house across the street today.”
“Really?” said Bill and I at the same time.
She nodded. “I went out and asked one of the officers what was going on, and he ordered me back in the house.”
“It must have been serious, then,” I said.
Bill nodded. “That’s the real problem with empty houses; you never know who might move in, unofficially.”
“Indeed,” I said. “That is very true.”
A long day today. I went back to see Jill, hoping she might be able to tell me where Young Don got his great ideas. I opened up her door and went in, and found the place full of flowers, a tray next to the bed, a teapot and cup on the tray, and Jill lying sound asleep. Someone had evidently been taking care of her.
I tried to wake her up, but she only moaned a little and, if anything, fell deeper into unconsciousness. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to go, and found Susan in the doorway, looking at me with an expression that seemed puzzled and not entirely happy. I held my smile until I should know what she was about. She didn’t waste any time telling me.
“What have you been doing to Jill?” she said. She looked right at me, her voice and expression without fear or compromise, and I felt the way I suppose the lion feels when confronted by his trainer with whip and chair.
Yet, despite the horrible plunging sensation in my chest, and the odd tingling at the bottoms of my feet and in my palms, I determined not to give up anything more than necessary. I said, “What do you mean?”
“Jill,” she said, “has been lying here all day, hardly waking up for more than five or ten minutes, and she’s been calling your name and moaning.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “she misses me.”
“She’s been moaning ‘no, Jack, please don’t.’ Does that sound like she misses you?”
It came to me that I’d been hearing those very words, in her voice, while I was sleeping. In my dreams I had thought it slightly amusing; now I did not. I groped for a reply, and finally settled on asking “Could she mean, please don’t go?”
“I think not,” said Susan, biting out the words one at a time. She was still looking at me in a manner that was nearly accusing.
My temper began to rise, and I had an almost overpowering urge to take Susan right then, whatever her desires; almost overpowering, not quite. I don’t know what it was that held me back, but for a moment things hung in the balance, and in that time I think Susan saw a side of me I had not intended to show her. At any rate, she took a step backward and watched me the way one might watch a dog whose disposition has not been ascertained.
But this time, the dog only bristled a little. I regained composure, and Susan regained her puzzled look, and she seemed to shake herself as if she weren’t quite certain what it was that she almost saw.
I said, “I can hardly be responsible for her delirium. Have you consulted a doctor?”
She frowned. “No. Do you think I should?”
“Does she seem sick?”
“Look at her.”
“Well, then perhaps calling a doctor would be more productive than accusing me of I know not what crimes against your roommate.”
She took a couple of deep breaths, then nodded. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I’m worried about Jill.”
“Yes. As far as I can tell, you have reason to be.”
“Then should I—?”
“Yes. If she’s still like this tomorrow, I’d call a doctor.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You could do it now, if you’re worried, but I should give it another day.”
She nodded, and I think what had really been bothering her was that she hadn’t quite known what to do with a roommate as sick as Jill apparently was, nor had she had anyone to ask. “Wait another day, you think?” she said again, as if for more reassurance.
“That’s what I’d do, unless she seems to be getting worse.”
“Okay,” she said, relaxing as the decision was made. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Now I frowned. “You look a little pale yourself. Have you eaten today?”
She blinked, as if it were a question that would never have occurred to her. “You know, I don’t believe I have. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I can keep you company. Where shall we go?”
She smiled, and she was the Susan I knew again. “Out,” she said, swinging her arms.
“Shhhh. Don’t wake patient.”
She lowered her voice, but said, “I doubt that I could.”
I led the
way. As we locked the front door behind us, she said, “How do you keep getting in without my knowing it? Did Jill give you a key without mentioning it to me?”
“Trade secret,” I said.
“What trade is that? Cat burglar?”
“Yes, although I prefer the technical term.”
“What’s that?”
“Music promoter.”
She laughed. “You aren’t really a promoter, are you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. If I were, I’d give you a contract.”
“I don’t doubt that a bit,” she said.
The wind was fierce, so I sheltered her with my body. It’s funny, but there is a kind of intimacy that vanishes along with one’s clothes, and that can sometimes become stronger as more layers are added. Walking beneath the new moon, huddling against the wind and the occasional streetlights, I almost felt as if we were a single person, intertwining our emotions with our hair, her breath steaming around our heads.
She said, “There’s something fey about you, you know.”
“Fey?” I laughed. “I’ve never been called fey before.”
“You haven’t? I’m surprised.”
“I must say I prefer it to some of the things I have been called.”
She chuckled into the collar of my coat. “Don’t tell me,” she said, her voice muffled. The top of her head looked very charming that way.
“I shan’t.”
We found a restaurant called the Nawlins, which was a storefront with too many tables and not enough waiters for the space, and I bought her some shrimp Creole and a beer, which she seemed to thoroughly enjoy. After the beer she switched to coffee, and I joined her with my usual half-cup. She seemed to think that was funny.
She asked about my love life, which threw me for a bit, but I ended up telling her about Kellem, although in general terms and not by name. Susan thinks Kellem is very frightened, and wants a man to make her feel secure, but is afraid to trust anyone enough to make a difference. I almost laughed at this, and then I began wondering if there wasn’t some truth in it. I still wonder.
We drifted onto other subjects, and I cannot for the life of me remember what we talked about, but we suddenly noticed that everyone else had left and the busboy, a college-aged kid who’d gone to the Art Garfunkel school of hair fashion, was giving us significant looks. I left an extra tip for his trouble and helped Susan with her coat.
“Back home?” I said. “Or is there somewhere else worth going?”
“I wish it were summer so we could walk along the lakeshore.”
“We can anyway. Stand on the rocks and watch the waves crash while the wind—”
“Freezes our cute little behinds off. No thanks.”
“You have no trace of romance in you,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Wanna bet?”
“Right. Home then.”
We made it in spite of the powdered snow that the wind threw into our faces, though my hands were thoroughly chilled. When we got inside, I said, “You’re going to have to warm me up.”
“Let’s check on Jill, first,” she said.
“All right.”
So we did, and decided that she seemed to be breathing a little easier, though she still didn’t wake up. Then I took Susan’s hand and led her into the bedroom.
All right, yeah, she did have some romance in her, after all.
EIGHT
troub·le n. 1. A state of distress, affliction, danger, or need. Often used in the phrase in trouble. 2. Something that contributes to such a state; a difficulty or problem: One trouble after another delayed the job. 3. Exertion; effort; pains. 4. A condition of pain, disease, or malfunction: heart trouble. —v. troubled, -ling, -les.—tr. 1. To agitate; stir up. 2. To afflict with pain or discomfort. 3. To cause distress or confusion in.
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
I had finished typing up the tale of yesterday and was preparing for sleep when Jim came up and told me that Kellem had been over looking for me. I cursed under my breath and said, “Did she say what she wanted?”
“No,” said Jim. “She didn’t seem upset that you weren’t here.”
“Did you invite her in?”
He nodded. “She insisted.”
“What did she do?”
“Looked around a little, complimented me on the woodwork and the fixtures.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Jim didn’t seem happy about it, but, come to that, he has been very moody since the visit of the police; I don’t know if he is worried on my behalf, or upset about having his home invaded. Perhaps some of each. I would like to go down and make a fire, but I don’t dare; the smoke might be seen. Instead, I will spend some more time going over the newspaper articles, useless as I now think that will be.
I wish I could find a way to learn or deduce what Kellem has done that worries her so. If I could find a means of protecting her that would not cost my life, I could perhaps convince her to accept it, in spite of what happened the last time I tried to speak to her.
And why shouldn’t she be willing to grant me my life, if she can do so at no cost or danger to herself? It isn’t as if she has never cared for me. Years ago, we used to spend a great deal of time together—more than she would have had to. But I was utterly taken with her, and I think she enjoyed being worshiped as intensely as I worshiped her.
We would spend hour after hour just walking and talking, me eagerly asking questions about her life and the ways of her world, and she would take me to the theater and hold forth on philosophy or tell me stories of people she had known. Her decision to leave London, and, in fact, the British Isles, came a few weeks before the battle of Atbara, and she helped me through that first horrible winter crossing of the Channel.
On the Continent, however, I at once fell in love with the European railways, and in this way we traveled together for some months or years. I took her to my boyhood home, to which I had not returned in quite some time, and she showed me Paris. I remember very little of that city, except that I can recall thinking that it would be wonderful if there weren’t so many Frenchmen there. But mostly I was still involved with her, and I doted on her every word and action.
I remember her saying, “Things aren’t like they once were, and for that you ought to be grateful. For years, for decades, I would spend my time in the shadows of the great cities, only occasionally daring to venture out into the light of society, and then never for long. Now we can walk the streets, shop, visit the theater, and it is as if we exist within a shelter. The old terrors that hardened me and trained me are gone, and I wonder if you will ever appreciate the life you enjoy.”
I can remember looking at her as she spoke; she wore a dark tailored green dress, very tight at the waist, belted, with a long fur around her neck like a scarf. The hemline came above her ankles, but she wore very trim black boots with pointed toes and square heels. I wore a long coat with eight-inch fur cuffs, a large fur collar, a white silk cravat, and a top hat, I believe. She had picked the clothes out for me with care that felt loving to my befogged brain, and perhaps it was.
I remember these things, and what she said, and that it was late autumn, and that we were in Paris, yet I cannot remember what the streets looked like, or if we were sitting, standing, or walking. No, now that I think of it, I believe we were walking through a park and there was no one around, and no sounds except our speech, the faint clop and squeak of someone’s private coach a few hundred feet away, the songs of night birds, and, very faint, the titter of the rats of Paris, whose conversation never altered. The moon shone very bright on Laura’s face, giving it an odd yellowish tint and highlighting her arching eyebrows and deep-set, narrow eyes that were always so cold and blue.
I considered her words, and tried to imagine what it would have been like living in the times she spoke of, and at last I asked, “What changed?”
“Time,” she said. “The advent of this modern, scientific age.” There was more than
just a hint of derision in her voice as she spoke.
“Will it last?”
“I believe it is very nearly ending already, more’s the pity.”
“What makes you think so?”
“You haven’t been keeping up with contemporary literature.”
“I never do, Laura,” I said. “I like older work.”
“Then you’re a fool,” she snapped. “There is no better way to keep track of the thinking of men, and if you don’t know what men are thinking, you don’t know what precautions to take.”
“Is that why we left England?”
“It was time to leave the English-speaking world for a while. I don’t know for how long.”
“Fortunately, you like French novels, too.”
“Yes, but French drama is impossible.”
“Still—”
“Yes. I’ll have a pretty good guess when it’s time to leave. But will you?”
“I? Won’t you be—”
“Not forever, Agyar János. How well can you read French?”
“Well enough.”
“Good. That may save you.”
“I’m glad you care what happens to me.”
She laughed, which for some reason I took as reassurance, although I cannot now imagine why I did.
We create our own omens, I think, and then mystify ourselves trying to understand their significance. That is, it feels very like an omen that this conversation has just now returned to me, in Technicolor and Dolby stereo, but I cannot imagine what it portends.
Jim keeps trying to understand what Kellem is up to. For that matter, so do I. He said, “I can’t figure out what she was hoping to get from having all of those policemen look at the house, or the reason for her visit.”
“I can’t either,” I said. “If I knew what she was trying to do, I could …”
“You could what?” he said.
“I don’t know. I’d feel better.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense; no sir, it just doesn’t. If she wanted them to find you, she could have made you be more obvious, right?”