by Gene Wolfe
“Malory?”
“He was an English author, Sir Thomas Malory. He wrote Le Morte d’Arthur. The old doctor must have loved it, or maybe his wife did. Then the calliope in the stable started playing. Did I tell you about the calliope? It’s sort of like an organ.”
“Willie, you’re making all this up. You’re embroidering.”
“No, I’m not.” The shredded beef was delicious.
“You know you are. You were never in any real danger—not at all like me. I’ve been through living holy hell, and believe me there wasn’t a drop of fantasy involved. And the car—”
He looked up sharply. “What happened to it?”
“Well, Willie, I went up to talk to that nice old lady who runs the motel. I wanted to ask about the horse you almost ran into—the big man who rode across the road, remember that? It had seemed sort of uncanny—”
“No fantasy, you said.”
“But Willie, it isn’t. I thought it might be somebody in the neighborhood, somebody who might ride at night in the rain, and if there was, I thought the old lady would probably know all about it. And she did, but she had this recipe for pear jelly—I’ve got it in my purse, and Lisa’s cheesecake too—and so we got to talking, and that delayed me. I met her husband; he’s a nice old guy. Anyway, she told me—”
A soft voice at Shields’s elbow inquired, “What was it you said to Hwan? The poor man’s terrified.”
Shields looked around.
12
THE BUYER
THERE WAS a knock at the door, soft and almost furtive—Seth! This had to be Seth, Sally Howard thought, come home at last. She ran to the door and threw it open.
“Sally, darling, I just heard,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said; she was holding a casserole.
“Oh, I’m so sorry …” Sally paused, wondering what she was sorry for, then realized it was for the way her face had fallen when she saw it was old Mrs. Cosgriff, who must surely have seen it, and not Seth. “I thought you were my son.”
“Ah,” said old Mrs. Cosgriff. “That’s who’s got your car. I saw it was gone while I was making the cobbler. He’s probably down to the funeral parlor.”
There was a distinct implication that Sally herself should have been there. She said, “No, I don’t think so. But he took my car, and I’m waiting for him to bring it back. Please come in.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff crossed the Howard threshold with a tiny hop.
“It smells absolutely heavenly,” Sally said, accepting the casserole; then the obligatory, “Won’t you have some with me?”
“Why, I wouldn’t mind one bit—it does smell awfully good, doesn’t it? You just sit down, dear, and I’ll make us some tea and dish up some.”
Sally said, “Mrs. Cosgriff …”
“Yes, dear?”
“I don’t know how to explain this … .”
“Then don’t you try, darling. Just tell me what it is you want, and I’ll see right to it. No explaining necessary.”
“Mrs. Cosgriff, I don’t want to be left alone—not as long as someone else is in the house and I can have company. Would you mind very much if I went with you? I could fix the tea, and you could dish up, and we could talk a little.”
With the wholly unfair abruptness of sudden illness, Sally was crying. She had not cried, not really cried, since she had been told of Tom’s death; she had raged and wailed and screamed at her mother, but she had not wept. Now, thus abruptly, she was a small girl again, a child; and this crotchety, gossipy old woman was her grandmother, was beloved Grandmaw Chattes herself, though Grandmaw Chattes was so long dead that her very face, her poor face, was nearly forgotten.
“There, there.” Old Mrs. Cosgriff sighed. “There, there.” And took her casserole back, and set it on Sally’s coffee table on top of Good Housekeeping, and held her (though so bent by age that she was a head shorter than the child she held), and patted her back.
It came to Sally, at the crisis of her agony, that for the first time since Fourth Grade she was crying as she had when she was small, coughing and choking on her sobs, her nose running as much as her eyes. She was ashamed of it, horribly ashamed, but it did no good to be ashamed; she only cried the more for shame, though she managed to wipe her nose on the apron she habitually wore in the house before weeping again.
This, then, was why she had wept in childhood, although she had not known it. Then there had been only the unfocused sense of loss—the unplumbed knowledge that in the end the world would take away everything, even the worst things, so that at the end, when she had nothing left, she would miss even them; and surely it would take all the good things, all the best things, the good things first of all. That her most beautiful dresses would turn ugly, hideous and foolish, merely by hanging in the closet; and that all the people, all the most beautiful people, the ones she loved best, would fall to rags.
“I’m all right now,” she said. “I remember.”
To which old Mrs. Cosgriff said, “We both need a nice hot cup of tea, dear. Let’s go in the kitchen.”
Meekly Sally followed the old woman, still wiping her nose on her apron while old Mrs. Cosgriff bustled ahead, switched on the light, and refilled the teakettle at the sink.
“Why, your window’s broke,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said.
“Yes,” Sally admitted. “Somebody broke it tonight.”
“You better get that fixed.” Old Mrs. Cosgriff shook her head. “This weather isn’t going to last forever.”
“Tom always took care of those things. I suppose Mossby’s would send somebody?” (Mossby’s was the hardware store.)
“You tell them I said they better.” Old Mrs. Cosgriff got down three dessert plates, three cups, and three saucers.
Why, she knows exactly where everything is, Sally thought. Everybody keeps everything. in the same place, believing they’ve invented that place for themselves; but when you’re old enough, I suppose, you know that, know where the woman across the street keeps her tea, and her teapot, too. “Maybe we should put Seth’s in the oven,” she said. “I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff turned to look at her. “Seth? Why Seth can hot up some whenever he wants to. Don’t take but a minute. Does the gent care for tea? He might prefer coffee—I saw you had coffee cups out before.”
“Oh.” Sally remembered to breathe again. “He’s gone. It was a deputy sheriff. You probably saw his car.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff was silent for a moment, putting the cups onto the saucers. “I guess you didn’t want me to know, Sally. You might’ve thought I’d make more of it than’s there, what with Tom not in his grave.”
“Are you saying there’s a man in this house? Right now?”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff spoke to the broken window. “I saw him when you were crying. He looked in, and I looked up and there he was, but he put a finger up to his mouth, the way you do, and tippytoed off. I figured he had the right idea. There’s times, and then there’s other times. He’s in your parlor this minute, I imagine—that’s where he was going when he saw us, and he must know we’re out.”
Sally had left the kitchen before she knew she was leaving; it seemed almost that the hall had appeared in front of her and swept her up. She was neither frightened now nor angry, simply incredulous and in some fashion compelled.
It was the dark stranger, as she had known it would be. He was sitting in Tom’s chair smoking a long dark cigarette. Sally said, “I didn’t think you were still here.”
He rose as though he had not known she had come in until he heard her voice, though she knew that was not true. “You asked me to search for a prowler,” he reminded her mildly. “I looked in here and upstairs. In your basement and attic also, and in your little tower room. You have mice. A rat, too, I believe.” He chuckled. “But I found no prowler except myself.”
Sally began, “You can’t—you’re not—”
“A prowler? Oh, but I was. I am! All through your house I prowled in the dark. That was so as not to distur
b the other one, should there be another. When I entered one bedroom, I saw the intruder I had been seeking. How fiercely I sprang at him! You would have been proud—such courage, so much determination! Alas, he was merely my own reflection. I’ve broken a mirror, I fear, and that means seven years of bad luck.”
Mechanically Sally said, “Would you like coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please. My cigarette doesn’t offend you? If it does I can open a window.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she told him. “You’ll be going soon.”
She had expected to find him gone—hiding someplace in her house—when she and old Mrs. Cosgriff carried in the tea things and the cobbler. He was not. He rose from Tom’s chair like any ordinary visitor, and even helped with the plates, the teacups, napkins, and forks.
“I should have taken the tray back to the kitchen to carry those,” Sally apologized to old Mrs. Cosgriff.
And old Mrs. Cosgriff said, “It was no trouble, dear,” then looked from her to the dark stranger and back, plainly expecting an introduction.
Sally murmurred, “I don’t think we’ve really met, Mr … . ?”
“Fee.” He gave her a card. “You are Mrs. Howard, I know. And you, dear lady?”
“Almah Cosgriff,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said. She smiled and held out a wrinkled hand, which Fee kissed.
“Mrs. Howard does not wish me in her home,” Fee said. “It is something I understand perfectly. Yet I am necessary. Are you aware of the situation, Mrs. Cosgriff?”
“Why, no,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said, sitting down on Sally’s sofa. “No, I’m not, Mr. Fee.”
“Then permit me to explain. Mr. and Mrs. Howard planned to sell this house; they were to move, and felt that they could not afford two. No doubt you’ve seen the sign on the lawn.”
“Oh, yes,” old Mrs. Cosgriff said.
Sally sat down beside old Mrs. Cosgriff as Fee dropped back into Tom’s chair. “Then,” he continued, “only today, Mr. Howard unfortunately passed beyond mortal ken.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff nodded. “He went to a better world, I’m sure.”
Fee smiled approvingly, drew on his cigarette, and puffed pale smoke through his nostrils. “Behold Mrs. Howard’s un’appy situation now. She no longer need leave this pleasant village, where she grew to womanhood and where her much-loved parents yet reside—the removal had been dictated by her departed husband’s employment. But she believes she cannot retain her home without his income.”
Sally stared at him. He tapped ash from his cigarette and chuckled. “You think me possessed of supernatural insight, Mrs. Howard. Believe me, you are quite mistaken. The truth is that I am rather a stupid person, far less astute than your lamented husband. It is only that I have spoken to Mrs. Beggs, who told me all these things. She was to arrange a time at which I might tour this house, but we were passing and I noticed your lights. I hoped that you would not object to showing it to me, and now that I have seen it, I realize it is ideal for our purpose, just as I supposed when Mrs. Beggs described it. You may say, if you like, that I intruded upon your grief, and be entirely correct. But I have found that such intrusions are frequently welcome—a little distraction can be a very good thing at such times.”
Sally told him, “I’ve been distracted enough, thank you.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff said, “There was shooting, even, when the sheriff was over here. I was just about afraid to come. I was! Then he went away, and there didn’t any ambulances come, or the firetrucks or anything, so I thought it would be all right.”
“He told me he’d seen something out back.” Sally weighed her words. “An intruder or a prowler. He shot at it—at him—and he jumped the fence and ran into the field. He shot twice more, but said he thought he must’ve missed. He said he didn’t understand how he could have, especially with the first shot, but he looked around with his flashlight and couldn’t find any blood. He had to phone in and report everything. It was a big man with a dog—that’s what he said on the phone.”
Old Mrs. Cosgriff asked, “Would you like to come over and sleep with me, Sally? What if he comes back tonight? What if you’re here alone?”
Sally shook her head. “It would be better if there were somebody in the house. Seth will be back soon, so there’ll be two of us.”
“Seth’s her son,” old Mrs. Cosgriff explained to Fee.
He nodded without looking at her, frowning at his cigarette and adjusting its position in his fingers. It was an extraordinary cigarette, Sally thought, with something in it far stronger than ordinary tobacco; its smoke seemed pungent, and as heady as the smell of moonshine.
Old Mrs. Cosgriff tried again. “You’ve come to see about buying her house?”
“I have,” Fee affirmed. “In fact, I intend to make her an excellent offer as soon as we’re alone.”
“Oh,” said old Mrs. Cosgriff. “My goodness!”
Suddenly frightened, Sally begged, “Please don’t go.”
“No, I’d best be leaving—let you get on with your business talk. Thank you for the tea, Sally.”
Sally rose and helped old Mrs. Cosgriff up. In the doorway old Mrs. Cosgriff said, “You be careful—life for a widow woman isn’t the same as for a married lady. I know.”
“I will,” Sally promised. “Thank you again. Thank you for being so patient with me.”
When she shut the door, Fee was rummaging in his briefcase. His hand emerged with a checkbook. “Mrs. Beggs tells me you are asking sixty thousand dollars,” he said. “It seems a reasonable price for such a large house on three acres, even out here.”
“It’s old,” Sally said, “although it’s in good condition. Tom was always very careful about things like that—keeping up the house and the cars.”
“Then we need not fear that your son has had car trouble.”
“No,” Sally agreed. “I don’t think so.”
“Which is comforting indeed. Such a promising young man—and his mother’s support now. Per’aps I ought to add that Mrs. Beggs also told me she thought you’d accept fifty.”
“I’d have to think about that.”
In the kitchen, the telephone rang.
Fee said, “You didn’t tell that woman that your father was missing.”
The telephone rang again.
Slowly Sally replied, “I didn’t think you knew about that either, Mr. Fee.”
“Of course I do. I overheard you and that—”
The telephone rang a third time. Fee asked, “You do not wish to answer it?” Sally shook her head.
A fourth ring.
“You should, you know. It might be your son. It might be good news concerning your father.”
Another ring.
Sally said, “It can only be bad news, and I don’t trust you alone in my house.” But she stood as she spoke.
She had lost count of the rings by the time she lifted the handset from the hook. There had been ten, perhaps, or a dozen. “Hello?”
“My name’s Rothbell D. Patterson, Mrs. Howard—this is Mrs. Howard, isn’t it? I’m on the Chicago Sun-Times, and I’m calling you from Chicago. We’ve had a tip that you’ve sighted something out there, a yeti or a sasquatch, like the Big Muddy Monster—a big, smelly, ape-like thing covered with hair. Is that correct, Mrs. Howard? Will you confirm it?”
Sally moved the earpiece away from her ear and stared out the broken window.
Faintly, the reporter’s voice pleaded, “Mrs. Howard? Mrs. Howard?”
The draft coming through the broken window was icy; Sally shivered, thinking that it must be freezing or nearly freezing outside. “You have the wrong number,” she told the telephone, and hung up.
As she had expected, Fee was no longer in the living room, though the smoke of his cigarette still hung in the air. The cigarette itself smoldered in the ashtray on the table by Tom’s chair. One corner of a piece of brownish paper protruded from beneath the ashtray, and she pulled it out.
It was a check for sixty thousand dollars.
&n
bsp; 13
FORTUNE COOKIES
“WHAT DID you tell Hwan?” It was the hostess, willow-slender in a red silk dress.
Shields said, “I didn’t tell him anything. I asked him a question.” He rose. “Won’t you sit down, Miss … ?”
“Sun. Phyllis Sun. I’m not supposed to, but—” Her eyes swept the almost-empty restaurant. “This late I don’t think it can hurt.”
Ann asked, “Tangerines? Is that what you use in the orange duck?”
Miss Sun shook her head. “Really, I don’t know. I suppose it may be, or oranges and tangerines together; but our cooking’s done by men—my brother and my uncles—and they don’t like women in their kitchen. What was your question, Mr. Shields?”
“You remembered my name,” he said. “That’s flattering.”
“I thought it odd that a Mrs. Schindler would say she was Mr. Shields’s wife.”
“I have a right to my own name,” Ann told her.
“Certainly you do. What was the question, Mr. Shields? I don’t think you asked Hwan about tangerines.”
Shields shook his head. “I simply asked whether he’d ever seen the castle—the illusion or hallucination, or whatever you want to call it, that Castleview’s named for.”
“That’s odd. Why should that frighten him?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Miss Sun? Have you seen it?”
The hostess shook her head. “Never.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Since I was three. I grew up here. A lot of kids saw it when I was in school, and some of the teachers said they’d seen it, too—you study about it in Middle School. It’s a mirage, or at least it’s supposed to be, caused by a density inversion in the atmosphere.” She paused, but neither Shields nor Ann spoke.
“In high school we kids used to run around at night looking for it. You’re supposed to be able to see it better at night or in bad weather. I went a few times, but I never saw it.”
Shields asked, “Did you want to?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. It was something that you boasted about. Frankly, I think some of the people who claim to have seen it are lying. I was tempted to lie about it a time or two myself.”