by Gene Wolfe
To say that I became thoughtful would be an egregious understatement. I took the apparatus out of the closet and examined it more carefully than ever. The three rings were still aligned to fish, as I had left them, although the pointer had wandered away.
And here, George, I made a discovery, one I ought to have anticipated. You will laugh, but it shocked me at the time. When the rings were aligned to fish, several other things fell into line as well.
You may call it superstition, but I laid the apparatus flat and returned the pointer to the three fish.
Doris's little sedan purred into my driveway not long after that. I had feared that she would want to look at the house, but she blew the horn and I hurried to join her.
She shook my hand. "Good to see you again, Mr. Dunn! Thanks ever so much for helping me out."
I insisted that the pleasure was all mine.
"Do you like the house? I take it you're going to live there?"
I said that I liked it a great deal--only a slight exaggeration--and that I was certainly going to live there for a while.
"What about your wife?" Doris was backing out of my driveway. "What does she think?"
I explained that I was unmarried and asked where we were going.
"Anyplace you want." She smiled warmly. "Do you know the restaurants in this area?"
"Not at all," I said. "I haven't been here long, and I live very simply for the most part."
"What would you like? What about steak? Men always want steak."
I find it difficult to decide what I want for lunch when I have missed breakfast, George. Everything sounds good.
"Mexican? Chinese? There's no decent sushi to be had here, I'm sorry to say. We've a good German place, though, and I like the Lakeshore Inn . . ."
I fear I licked my lips. "Does it have good seafood?"
"Absolutely! Super-duper seafood." Doris pressed the accelerator. "It's out in the country and will give us a beautiful drive and a chance to talk. So the Lakeshore Inn it is. You'll love it!"
I did. The building is old and rambling, and must have been built as a summer resort; the restaurant simple, old-fashioned, and unpretentious.
"You'll think I'm mad," I told Doris, "but I had fish for supper last night, and now I find I crave fish again. Are you sure you like it?"
"I love it." She gave me a sly grin. "Besides, this is outside town and that gives us a wonderful excuse for a long lunch. I'll make up all sort of real-estatey things for us to have talked about. Would you like an appetizer?"
I had been looking at them, and I said so.
"There's a shrimp pizza. What about clams cardinal?"
"What would you like?" I asked.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I usually order the fish chowder. The chowder here is superb."
I signed a waitress and said, "We'd both like the fish chowder."
Doris added, "With a long spoon for me, please." The waitress eyed her strangely, George, as may be imagined.
"What was that about?" I asked when the waitress had gone. "I know, 'Who sups with the devil need have a long spoon.' But am I that bad?"
She smiled. "It's just a joke. Have you spent much time in the house, Mr. Dunn?"
"Quite a bit. I'm living there."
"Really?"
"Yes, certainly. Why should I pay rent at a hotel when I own a house? If you think I'm wealthy, I'm sorry for having deceived you. I'm not."
Doris looked around as if she feared someone might be listening. "When we talked in the office, I was sure you weren't. Today--well, I've been looking at your ring."
"I'm not. Your initial impression was quite correct. No church has mice poorer than I."
"I understand." She nodded. "That's a cat's-eye opal, isn't it? I've heard of them."
"If you say so." I held out my hand. "Do you mind if I don't remove it? It's hard to get off."
George, the truth is that I was terrified she would see it for what it actually is: an imitation stone in a brass mounting.
"Besides," she took my hand, "I've got to hold your hand this way."
"There is that."
"Have you seen many ghosts?"
"If I had known you wanted me to see them, I would have made every effort."
She released my hand. "The Black House is supposed to be the most haunted house in this part of the state. You know: Moans. Rattling chains. Unearthly noises. Ghostly lights flickering in the windows."
"Oh. Those."
"Yes. Your everynight supernatural manifestations. The kids call it the Devil's House. . . ."
"Ah! The long spoon."
"Exactly. Since you own it."
"I don't have a tail."
She giggled and covered her mouth. "Prove it!"
"Or horns." I pointed to my head.
"I'll acknowledge that you have no horns if you can tell me about one tiny little ghost you saw."
"Well, there was a boy. Do boys count?"
"They might. Go on."
"The house has three doors," I explained. "Front, back, and side. Someone had broken in through the side door, so I've nailed it shut."
"The pot thickens."
"That's 'plot.' "
"You say it your way and I'll say it my way."
Our chowder arrived; it was indeed thick, I suppose with roux.
"I only got a glimpse, you understand. But he seemed a perfectly ordinary boy." Honesty made me add, "Although he was oddly dressed."
"Ah, ha!"
"I assume he came in through that side door. There's a narrow flight of stairs leading to the second floor, and that was where I found him. I'd heard him walking around over my head."
"Ghostly noises! Tell me about his clothes."
I sipped chowder, which gave me a few seconds in which to recall them. "A white shirt with wide sleeves and tight cuffs. I remember that." I paused to stir my chowder. "It's rather odd, really. I remember the whiteness of it. As though it were new and he had just put it on. I had a flashlight, and when the beam hit him he ran to a window and jumped out."
"Really?"
"Yes. I was afraid he'd broken a leg, but when I raised the window and looked out he wasn't there."
"He jumped out of the window and closed it behind him?"
I shrugged. "That's how it seemed."
"I--when I asked about ghosts, I didn't mean you had to make something up, Mr. Dunn."
"I didn't make it up, and he wasn't a ghost. I know he wasn't because he dropped things. Real things. I still have them."
Doris hesitated, sipping chowder with what seemed her whole attention. At last she said, "Was one of them that ring you're wearing?"
I shook my head. "There was a candle in a candleholder and a sort of . . . old-fashioned children's game. I believe that's what it must be. With a spinner, you know."
"You're not married." I don't think she had heard me.
"Neither are you," I said. "I've noticed you don't have a ring."
"Actually, I do. I have three. To begin with, I have my wedding ring and my engagement ring. I just don't wear them anymore, Mr. Dunn. I'm a widow."
I said I was sorry to hear it.
"Not a grass widow. Ted died two years ago. He had--let's not go into the medical details. They get messy."
"I understand."
"And I've got Ted's ring." She sighed. "I have it, and I never wanted it. I wanted it buried with him. They don't let you watch them close the casket."
I nodded.
"After everything else was over, after he was buried and all that, the undertaker gave me Ted's ring. He'd taken it off his finger before they shut the lid. Would you do me a big, big favor, Mr. Dunn?"
I smiled, though I was very much afraid that she was going to cry. "If I can, yes."
"You can." She opened her purse. "I want you to take Ted's ring. I want you to wear it. You don't have to wear it all the time, just now and then when I can see it. Do I have to explain?"
"You don't," I told her, "but I think it would be
better if you did. It would give me some guidance."
"All right. As long as I have it, it's Ted's ring and it breaks my heart every time I see it. If you wear it, it will become Mr. Dunn's ring. For me. So, please?"
I nodded, and she got it out. It is a broad band of gold with a basket-weave design, a little worn.
"Third finger left hand is out." She handed it to me. "Anyplace else. Where will you wear it?"
"Wherever it will fit," I said, and put it on.
"That's fine. I'm really very grateful." She smiled, although her eyes were ready to weep. "What would you like for lunch?"
"I haven't decided. What are you having?"
"I haven't, either." She buried her face in the menu, I suppose to hide her tears.
Overhearing us, the waitress said, "Did you see the special, sir? On the chalkboard as you came in?"
I shook my head.
"We call it the Lakeshore Hat Trick. Three kinds of fish, all cooked different. There's pike blackened with Cajun spices, a blackfish cake--that's a Chinese delicacy, sir--with a sweet Oriental glaze, and white-fish in black butter. Three small portions, sir, but taken together they make a big meal, and it's only nine ninety-five. I've been serving a lot of them today, and everybody likes it."
"Fine," I said. "I'll have that."
From behind her menu, Doris murmured, "So many shades of black."
In the interests of veracity, George, I must interrupt to tell you that while the pike was indeed black, thanks to black pepper, the blackfish cake was not. I would assume that the living fish are black. The black butter was in sober fact brown. It had been mixed with what I took to be vinegar and poured over capers.
I asked Doris to tell me something about Mr. Black. Can you understand how utterly at sea I feel? A man I never heard of signed his house over to me and left the deed with a real-estate agency. I have sifted and resifted my memories in search of a man named Black. I have looked long and hard for someone who felt sufficiently indebted to me to give me a house.
Doris shook her head. "I don't know a thing about him, Mr. Dunn. Nothing. A&I managed the property. When they went out of business, Martha Murrey seems to have taken it over. I asked Jake about her after you left, and he said she used to work for A&I and took everything it had left when Mr. Isaacs retired."
"What was his first name?"
"Mr. Isaacs? I have no idea."
"Mr. Black."
"Oh, him. You have the deed, don't you? It should be on there."
"It isn't. The previous owner was a corporation, GEAS Inc. Since everybody talks about Mr. Black, I assume that he owned the company or controlled it."
Doris looked thoughtful. "You know I believe Jake mentioned Mr. Black's first name, and it was something perfectly horrible." Her fingers tapped the table. "Not Zeke. Zeke's funny, and this was just dreadful. I'll ask Jake when I get back to the office. You haven't seen him?"
"Seen Jake? I suppose I did when I went to your office, but I don't know which one he was."
"Seen Mr. Black. You could introduce yourself. You know, 'Hi there! I'm Baxter Dunn.' Then he couldn't very well say 'I'm Mr. Black.' He'd have to give his first name, wouldn't he?"
I said, "Don't you think he'd mumble? He's dead, after all."
That brought the sly smile again. "Some people say he's still in there, living in your house."
(Winkle is peeking at me through the window, George, which means she is still outside. I shall tell you about Winkle in a moment.)
Doris clearly retained a schoolgirl's delight in gruesome urban legends; I had to smile. "Perhaps he'll help with the dishes."
"You don't scare easily, do you?"
"On the contrary. I'm a rather timid man, and I know it, Mrs. Griffin. Much too careful, if anything."
She surprised me, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "You're wearing Ted's ring, Mr. Dunn. It doesn't seem right that we're still Mr. Dunn and Mrs. Griffin. I'd like you to call me Doris. Will you do that?"
I said, "Certainly, if you wish it, Doris. It will be a privilege."
"And I'll call you . . . Do you know, I think I've lost your first name?"
"It's Baxter, but nobody says that. Please call me Bax."
Our lunches arrived--the Lakeshore Hat Trick for me and coconut shrimp for Doris. Hunger is the best sauce, or so they say, and I had a large bottle of it. Doubtless anything would have tasted wonderful; but with that said, I really think my lunch was far above average.
Doris laid aside a shrimp tail. "It's good, isn't it, Bax? I didn't steer you wrong?"
"It's superb. I've been eating like a starved dog, I know. But this is even better than the fish I cooked at home last night, and I was very hungry."
She smiled. (I was always looking for that smile, George, always eager to earn it.) "You know there's nothing about you to remind me of Ted. He was taller and quite a bit heavier. Your hair's sort of yellow-brown, and his was almost black. Your faces are different, and so are your voices. But you do remind me of him. Why is that?"
"His ring, of course." I displayed it.
"No, that's yours, not Ted's. Besides, I wouldn't have given it to you if you hadn't reminded me of him already. There's a warmth, and--and I get the feeling there's courage to back it up."
Here I laughed aloud, George, although I had to cover my mouth. "I've been accused of a great many things, but never of being brave."
"You've been living in the Black House."
"Quite uneventfully. Peacefully, in fact."
"Have you explored the basement? Or the attic?"
That took me by surprise. "Do you know, I haven't. I never even thought of doing it. I've been thinking about the garage. It's locked--a large padlock that looks like trouble. I don't have a key, and I've been wondering how I can get inside. I never even thought about the cellar or the attic."
"Will you go in them now?"
"Yes, certainly." As soon as she had mentioned them, it had occurred to me that there might be old furniture stored in them. In the attic, particularly.
"At midnight?"
I shook my head. "Why wait? I'll look as soon as I get home."
Doris sighed. "I wish I could join you, but I'll have to go back to the office."
She would, I believe, have joined me had I given her the least encouragement. Not wishing her to see how I live here, I did not.
I had a stroke of luck on the way home. Only two houses from my own (granted, the houses are widely spaced here) a neighbor had set out a perfectly good recliner for the garbage collection. It was almost too heavy to lift, but I recalled that the old lady who had let me borrow her lawn mower had a wheelbarrow. I asked to borrow it.
"I really don't think I own such a thing. Do I? You may certainly borrow it if I have one."
The wheelbarrow was in her garage, where I had seen it when I returned her mower. I loaded my new recliner onto it, brought it home, and am sitting on it this minute while I write on a book in my lap. It has clearly seen some use, but it is by no means worn out.
Furthermore, I found fifty-five cents in the crack between the seat and the back. You will laugh, George, but fifty-five cents is a significant sum to me just now.
Well, my check should arrive in three days.
You will be eager to hear about the attic--or perhaps only eager to burn my letter. To be honest, I would like to know much more about it myself. There are a great many things up there, and after my first discovery I undertook no further exploration.
Before I get to that, I ought to explain that I had a great deal of trouble finding my way into it. There are six rooms upstairs, I believe, although the correct number might be seven. There is a short hall, and another hall beyond it, reached (I would judge) by the stairs from the side door I nailed shut. Some rooms open onto both halls, others onto one or the other--but not both. Another (or perhaps two) can be reached only from other rooms. Allow me to change hands.
The entrance to the attic was in a closet. Perhaps I ought to hav
e written that the only entrance I have found thus far was. The ceiling of this closet is a trapdoor. I used the pole on which clothing once hung to push it up. Rungs in the form of oak rods had been mounted on the wall of the closet.
That said, I must add, George, that I feel certain there must be another entrance. There are chests and massive articles of furniture up there. They can hardly have been brought up through the trapdoor I found.
I have never been athletic, as you know, but I mounted the oak rungs without great difficulty and managed (rather less easily) to clamber into the attic itself. At once I heard scrabbling and scratching sounds that made me think that squirrels had nested there.
Conceive of my astonishment when I discovered their source. There was a cage of steel wire, not large, on the floor not far from the trapdoor. In it was a large fox. There was no food in the cage and no water.
(Nor is its bottom soiled, something I observed only a moment ago.)
As you will easily understand, I could not and cannot imagine how it got there. Someone must have entered the house while I was having lunch with Doris and carried the cage and its occupant into my attic. But why in the world would anyone do such a thing?
Certainly Winkle cannot have been there long or she would have starved or died of thirst. (Do you recall Mother's pretty white cat, George? The one whose kittens you killed? Never having been an original thinker, I have borrowed her name.)
My first thought was to open the cage at once, but the fox (or vixen, which I believe is the technical term) might have hidden in a thousand places in that attic. I could not descend the ladder while holding the cage, which would have required both my hands. My solution--for I did solve it--I think rather clever. I removed my belt and put it around a bar at an upper corner, lay on my belly, lowered the cage as far as my arm and my belt would reach, and dropped it.
I would have fed the poor creature if I had any food, but I have none; after thinking things over, I found that my only recourse was to free her outside. There she could certainly drink from the river and feed herself, catching field mice, rabbits, and so forth. After climbing down, I carried her into the wood between my house and the river and opened the cage.