by Stuart Woods
“No problem,” the driver said. “Where can we tow you?”
Howell pointed to the cove in the distance. “Over there.”
A few minutes later Howell had safely secured the boat to the little dock in front of the cabin and had his pants on. “I sure appreciate your help. I’m John Howell.”
“I’m Jack Roberts,” the driver said. “This is Helen Smith, here, and in the back are Harry and Joyce Martin. We’re staying at a friend’s place the other side of the lake.”
“Hi,” Howell said, taking them all in.
“Is your boat like ours?” the young woman in the backseat, Joyce, asked. She was blind. Howell reflected that he had met more blind people and dogs in the last week than he had in the last year.
“Pretty much, I guess. Can I offer you folks a drink?” he asked. “Seems the least I can do for being returned to my trousers.”
“We’re just on our way to pick up some things in the town,” Jack explained. “And we’re going home in the morning. Maybe next year.”
“Well, thanks, anyway,” Howell said.
“Don’t mention it,” Jack called back, shoving his boat away from the dock. He gunned the engine. The others waved as they pulled away. Howell saw them off, then emptied the five-gallon gasoline can into one of the out-board’s tanks and made a mental note to fill the other one on his next trip to town.
Scotty arrived at the cabin at seven, freshly scrubbed and squeezed into designer jeans topped with a silk blouse. “I was right,” she said. “You don’t look half bad with a shave and your hair combed over the bald spot.”
“We’re taking the boat down to Taylor’s tonight,” Howell replied, “and if you keep that up, you can swim back.”
She threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, truce. That’s a great shirt, too; you look twenty… well, ten years younger.”
Soon they were skimming down the lake, drinks in hand, through the early evening light. The air was fresh and cool as it whipped past them, and the water had turned a deep blue with the end of day. At Taylor’s they tied up next to the boat that had rescued Howell that afternoon. He told Scotty about the experience.
“Listen, John, you should always wear your pants when you go out. Your mother should have explained that to you. God, I wish I could have seen that – the Pulitzer Prizewinner, bare-assed.”
The two couples were waiting on the front porch for a table, and Howell introduced Scotty. “Jesus,” he said, “I forgot this place was dry. Why don’t you people come back to the cabin for a nightcap after dinner?”
They ate fried chicken and catfish at a long, oilcloth-covered table, and finished up with peach cobbler, washing everything down with iced tea. The room was crowded with couples and families from miles around, all eating with both hands. Howell and Scotty sat across from Joyce, the blind woman, who alternated bursts of talk and laughter with periods of what seemed to be puzzled silence whenever Scotty spoke more than a few words. Her husband, Harry, seemed to notice it, too. “Have we met the two of you before?” he asked Howell and Scotty.
“I don’t think so,” Howell replied. Scotty shook her head.
“I think Joyce finds you… familiar,” Harry said.
“It happens sometimes,” the blind woman chimed in. “Sometimes I think it’s something to do with not being able to see. Maybe there are more similar voices than similar faces, who knows? Tell me, is either of you psychic?”
“Nope,” Scotty said.
Howell did not reply immediately. “Why do you ask?” he asked, finally.
“I think one or both of you probably is,” the woman replied. “I am, and I sometimes get that feeling about other people. If you are, you shouldn’t be afraid of it. It’s a perfectly natural thing.”
“Oh, I’ve had little flashes at times, I think,” Howell said, warily. “It may have been just a fluke.”
“I doubt it,” Joyce said.
After dinner they raced down the windless lake, the two boats abreast, over flat, glassy water, under a rising moon. It had grown chillier with the coming of dark, and Scotty huddled close to Howell for warmth. He put his arm around her and felt the chill bumps through the silk blouse. It had been so warm when they left that neither of them had brought a sweater.
They tied up at the dock in front of the cabin and waited while the other two couples disembarked. Only the crickets broke the silent stillness of the evening. Inside, Howell got a fire together while Scotty made some coffee. “There’s a bottle of brandy in there,” he called to her. “It would improve the coffee.”
Scotty came out of the kitchen with tray of cups and stopped. Howell, busy at the hearth, looked at her and followed her gaze. The blind woman was standing in the middle of the living room, her chin lifted and her head cocked to one side, turning slowly in a circle. “Is something wrong, Joyce?” Scotty asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied, stopping her turning, “I was just getting a feel for the place.” Her husband came and led her to the sofa before the fire.
Scotty set the cups on the coffee table. “You said you were psychic.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman replied.
“She’s sometimes quite remarkable,” her husband chimed in. “Do you feel something, Honey?”
“I’d like some coffee, if it’s ready,” she replied, ignoring his question.
Scotty left and returned with the coffee pot and the brandy and busied herself with serving everyone.
Howell put a roll on the player piano, then switched it on. Errol Garner began to play. Howell got a cup, poured an extra measure of brandy into it, and sank into a chair. “Where are you all from?” he asked.
“Helen and I are from Chattanooga,” Jack replied. “Harry is, too. Joyce is English, though you’d never know it from her accent.”
“Joyce seems to have a good ear,” her husband said. “When we visit London, her accent changes the moment we get of the plane at Heathrow.”
Joyce spoke up. “Would you all like to have a seance?” Everybody turned and looked at her.
Scotty giggled. “A seance? Really talking to the spirits and everything?”
“Perhaps,” Joyce said. “You never know for sure, of course, but I think there might be something here.”
“Joyce has a feeling for all sorts of communication; not just accents,” Harry said.
“I’m game,” Scotty said.
Jack looked at Helen, who nodded. “Sure, why not?” he said.
Only Howell said nothing. He had the odd feeling that things were about to get out of hand.
“John?” Joyce asked. “There’s no point unless we have the cooperation of everyone.”
Howell felt on the spot. He didn’t want to do this, but he would be a poor host if he didn’t go along. “Sure,” he said, unenthusiastically. “How do we go about it?”
“We need a table,” Joyce said, “preferably a round one.”
“We’ve got that,” Howell replied.
“Will you place it at as near the center of the room as you can? And will someone please switch off the piano?”
“Sure.” Howell stopped the piano, and the three men went to the table. “This isn’t going to be all that easy,” Howell said as they gathered around it. “The base of this thing is a section of a tree trunk that’s almost petrified. I don’t know how they managed to saw through it.”
“Oof,” Harry said as he tugged at the table-top. “Maybe we just ought to tilt the thing and roll it on its base. We might pull the top loose trying to lift it.”
The three men, not without difficulty, got the table tilted and, using the tree-trunk base like a wheel, rolled it toward the center of the room. “I think that’s close enough,” Harry said. He seemed to have done this before.
They dragged over the chairs and Joyce indicated where they should each sit, alternating them by sex. “Would someone turn all the lights in the house off, please?” she asked.
“That’s everything,” Scotty said, coming back from the kitchen. It
seemed pitch dark for a moment, then their eyes began to become accustomed to it, and they discovered that the moonlight and the fire lit the cabin quite well. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the noisy chatter of the crickets outside. They all sat down and pulled their chairs up to the table.
Joyce placed her hands on the tabletop, her fingers spread, her thumbs touching. “Will everyone please spread your hands like this? Be sure that your own thumbs are touching and that the tips of your little fingers touch the person’s next to you. What we want is an unbroken chain around the table.” They did as instructed. “Please, whatever happens, do not break this chain. It joins our spirits as well as our bodies, and we need the collective help of everyone. We may be at this for some time, so I must ask you to be patient, and if anyone needs to go to the bathroom, please go now.”
No one moved. “I want all of you to relax and be as comfortable as possible. Close your eyes, if you wish. It’s important that you each empty your mind of everything but what is happening here. It will be much easier to establish contact if you can do that.” Joyce settled herself and was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “We are all joined here in God to receive the spirits of those departed. If there is any spirit here, please make your presence known.” She was silent for a moment then began to speak again, rhythmically, swaying slightly as she spoke, her blind eyes wandering aimlessly. “Come to us, spirits, speak to us, communicate with us, hear our call, touch us.”
Howell felt oddly relaxed. He was unconcerned with his work or his wife or the sheriff of the county or his growing attraction to Scotty. He floated on the moment and listened to Joyce. As she continued, he thought that it seemed to grow quieter, but he reflected that there had not been much noise in the first place. Then he realized that the crickets had stopped. The only sound now was the crackling of the fire.
Joyce continued. “Hear us, oh spirits, join with us…” She stopped in mid-sentence.
The room was as before; he wondered why Joyce had stopped. Then the table moved.
“I feel a presence,” Joyce said. There was a slight stirring among the group.
The table moved again, more distinctly this time. Howell tried to figure out what was happening. There was something peculiar in the movement of the table; it seemed to slowly undulate beneath his spread hands; it seemed nearly to breathe.
“Will you identify yourself?” Joyce asked. The table moved again, even more distinctly, seemingly in response to her question.
“Can you speak?” Joyce asked. No one spoke, but the table moved again. “Please move the table once for yes and twice for no. Can you speak?”
The table moved twice, distinctly. There was no mistaking it, Howell thought. The hair on his head nearly stood on end. He could feel his scalp crawl.
“We would like to know your name,” Joyce said. “I will go through the alphabet. Please move the table once when I reach a letter in your name. A,” she said. “B… C… D…” she continued, with no response. Then, on R, the table moved. Joyce continued and reached Z with no further response. She began again. On A the table moved, then again on B. Joyce finished the alphabet again with no further response, then started over. “B… ” The table moved, then was still as she chanted the letters. “I… ” Movement. “T.” “Rabbit,” Joyce said, excitedly, “Your name is Rabbit.” The table moved once, for yes.
“Do you wish to contact someone at this table?” Joyce asked.
Yes, the table said.
“Who…? I’m sorry, is it me?”
The table moved twice; no.
Joyce continued around the table. “Is it Jack?”
No.
“Is it Helen?”
No.
“Is it John?”
Howell tensed, resisting the urge to take his hands from the table. The table moved. No. He slumped in relief. Then he felt angry with himself. This was some sort of parlor trick, and he was getting sucked into it like a tourist.
“Is it Scotty?”
The table moved once, then stopped. There was a little gasp from Scotty. Then there was a gasp from everyone. The table had left the floor and was moving slightly up and down at about chest level.
Howell felt near to panic. He was hallucinating, he was sure of it. He felt the same way he had on the appearance of the young girl in the cabin the night of the storm. Think reality, he kept saying to himself. It wasn’t working.
“Don’t move, anybody,” Joyce said firmly, “It’s all right; just relax. It’s all right, Scotty.”
Howell looked at Scotty. She was sitting rigid, wide-eyed, staring straight ahead. Then he saw something else. He was sitting facing the lake, and across the room, standing, looking out the window, her back nearly to him, stood the girl of the thunderstorm.
“Why do you wish to contact Scotty?” Joyce asked, then quickly corrected herself. “I’m sorry… ah, are you happy or unhappy? Once for happy, twice for unhappy.”
Howell looked down at the table, a few inches below his nose; he wanted to hear this. It moved twice. Then everything stopped. Howell thought it was like when there was a refrigerator running in the next room, and it went off. You weren’t aware of it until it stopped. The table was back on the floor. A moment later, the crickets resumed. He looked back toward where the girl had stood. She was no longer there.
“It’s over,” Joyce said. “I don’t think we’ll get it back.”
Later, when everyone had gone, Howell and Scotty sat in front of the fire. “You know anybody named Rabbit?” he asked her. He had to try to figure this out.
“Nope, I didn’t even know there was anybody named Rabbit.”
“Maybe it’s a nickname, or something. You know anybody around here? Have you spent any time in the area? I mean, before you came to work for Bo.”
“Nope. I grew up in Atlanta – in Decatur, really. My dad’s a surgeon at Emory Hospital.
I’d never even seen the lake until a month ago.“
“Were you frightened when it picked you out?” he asked.
“No, oddly enough. I suppose I should have been, but I just wasn’t. Funny.”
“I was scared shitless there for a minute,” he said, “when the table came off the floor, but I’m not scared now. I mean, I don’t want to flee the cabin or anything.” He didn’t want to mention the girl at the window. Apparently, nobody else had seen her. “I don’t feel uncomfortable here, do you?”
“Not in the least,” she said, and kissed him.
“Good, stick around,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said back, then kissed him again. Howell forgot about seances and hallucinations and gave himself to the moment.
9
The sun was well up, and Scotty was gone. They had made love repeatedly for what had seemed half the night and probably, he knew from his past performances, had been more like half an hour. Maybe what they had done had carried over into the dream, but still… The seance seemed very far in the past. As convinced as he had been of what had happened the night before, he now regarded the incident with some skepticism. Maybe he had been drunker than he had thought. He had seen the girl twice, and he hadn’t been entirely sober either time.
Howell rolled over and put his feet on the floor. As he stood, a needle-like pain shot through his back. He grabbed the bedstead and straightened carefully. He was clearly out of shape for sex, he thought. His back muscles were as sore as a boil. He stood under the shower for a while, directing the hot water onto his spine, trying to let the muscles relax, and they seemed to. Then, as he was shaving, he bent slightly to dip the razor into the water, and it was as if a tiny hand grenade had gone off in his lower back. The pain became worse when he tried to straighten, and he forgot his half-finished shave and struggled to the bed. When he had lain stretched out for a few minutes, panting, the pain subsided, but when he tried to get to his feet, it overwhelmed him again.
He struggled painfully into some clothes, trying to stand as little as possib
le. It wasn’t so bad as long as he sat or lay down, but to stand up was torture. He managed to get some coffee made, and sat down on the piano stool to drink it. He looked around the room. The cups and glasses from the night before were still scattered about. Thank God they had moved the table back to its usual position. He shuddered at the thought of what it would be like to try and move it in his condition. As the pain subsided again, he doodled a few bars on the piano, then flipped on the player. The old machine turned and wheezed and began to play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen”.
That was too sentimental for this early in the morning. He removed the roll and inserted another, the Gershwin one. Immediately, the piano began again to play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen”. Howell stopped the mechanism and looked on the roll. “Gershwin Plays Gershwin” was clearly printed on the paper. Surely, George Gershwin had not written the old Irish-American tune? Puzzled, he tried another roll – Earl Hines. Same tune. Howell shut off the piano. The goddamn thing must have some sort of mechanical memory that got stuck; now it was repeating itself, like a windup music box. He suddenly needed a drink. Forgetting his back, he started for the kitchen and the bottle, then fell to the floor, shrieking, as the pain swept through him again.
When he could move again, he got gingerly to his feet and, using a peculiar, Quasimodo-like gait, he made it to the station wagon and pointed the car toward Sutherland. He had passed a doctor’s office half a dozen times, and now he needed a doctor. After half an hour with old Readers Digests and Guideposts, he was ushered into the doctor’s examination room, where he related what had happened to him.
“What the hell is the matter with me, Doctor?”
“Incipient middle age,” the doctor replied, filling a syringe.
That was not what Howell had wanted to hear. “So what can you do about it?”
“Not much, to tell you the truth. I’m going to inject a muscle relaxant into the area, and I’ll prescribe a pain killer. After that, hot baths a couple of times a day and plenty of bed rest.”
“For how long? When is this going to clear up?”