At the word money Gloria relaxed. “Well, at least you have your priorities right,” she said approvingly. “After all, if the daft man wants to pay a fortune to watch someone else ponce around in his body, who are we to get between him and his fantasies?” She jabbed her cigarette at Anne. “You just make sure you have a way to pull the plug, my girl. Otherwise your client may end up haunting you.”
INTERVIEWER: The war isn’t the only subject you delve into with this new show, is it?
PALMER: You know it’s not, or you wouldn’t ask the question.
INTERVIEWER: I have to say, we weren’t sure if we could ask the question at all, legally. You were quite the topic of conversation upstairs.
PALMER: Oh, I’ve heard that before. [laughter]
INTERVIEWER: Have you been afraid at all, talking so openly? That you might lose your audience, be fined, perhaps even arrested?
PALMER: Talk about what, John? [laughter] But do you see what I mean? I’m sitting here right before you and you’re avoiding saying what I am. We’ve got a bill sitting in Parliament, we have people demanding change, and yet we still can’t—or won’t—talk about what I am. Now you asked me about the war as part of my show. What kind of man would I be, that I could natter on about death and devastation, but fear saying what I am? What kind of society are we creating, where it’s acceptable to joke about genocide, but not to acknowledge the affection between two consenting adults? [applause]
INTERVIEWER: A very strong opinion, well-put. Perhaps some of our politicians should take a few years off.
PALMER: You’d be surprised, the things you learn about yourself.
The little pub was tucked away in a cul-de-sac, just past the train station: the end of the line, and as such it was hardly ever crowded, and those who drank there kept their eyes on their pints. Anne had come across it when running a small circle nearby. It seemed a good place to meet, and better for the day proving rainy. When Mr. Palmer entered, placing his umbrella in the rack and brushing water off his trenchcoat, not a single one of the half-dozen people looked up.
He ordered a pint and made his way to Anne’s table, a wary expression on his face. She was already nursing her own pint, still trying to figure out how best to ask her questions. That he took the time to take off his coat and fold it neatly, to sit down and adjust his chair just so, made her wonder if he was also weighing out his words.
“Miss Wood,” he began. “If it cannot be done, you could have just said so on the telephone. We knew it was unlikely—”
She held up a hand, quieting him. He took a sip of his beer as she began speaking in turn, taking equal care with her words. “It is not impossible, Mr. Palmer. But it is a very risky undertaking. There is every chance that one or both of you could be lost in the process. You would both be dead, truly dead.”
“We’ve discussed that possibility,” Mr. Palmer said firmly.
“There is also the chance that one of you could be lost, and the body as well, leaving the other spirit alone but still anchored to this plane,” she pressed.
“And we have discussed that as well. We were going to ask that, if it comes to pass, you would do what you can to help the remaining spirit move on.” He continued when she started to speak, “we have weighed all the risks, Miss Wood. I appreciate your concern, but we have been debating this for over two years now—”
“It is a chancey thing to have a spirit bound to an object,” Anne cut in. “If that photograph was somehow destroyed, you would lose Harry—yet it’s not clear to me where exactly he would end up. He might move on, or he might simply drift through the world, unable to materialize.”
Mr. Palmer was staring at her, his pint forgotten. “Again,” he said, a note of irritation in his voice, “we have considered all this. Why do you think I leave his things at home? I could have brought them with me on tour, but the risk was always too great. And even so, my heart is always in my throat: what if there’s a fire, or a break-in?” Before she could reply he continued, “ever since he came back I have done everything I could to protect him. This Timothy Palmer is a very precise construction, Miss Wood. Too fastidious for large dinner parties, too fussy to permit people handling his photographs or nosing in his cupboards, too uptight to go abroad or on extended tours; all that, and yet not too much, lest I be thought too queer, so queer I might be touched in the head.” His eyes were flashing. “Do you have any idea, can you begin to imagine, how exhausting the last two decades have been?”
“No,” she said quietly. “No, I can’t, Mr. Palmer. And therefore I have to ask: would Harry go to similar lengths for you?”
He stared at her for a moment, openmouthed in astonishment; and then his cheeks reddened, but from anger, not embarrassment. “You think Harry’s trying to trick me. You think he’s trying to steal my body.”
“Mr. Palmer, I have to be certain—”
“It was my idea.” He enunciated the words. “If anyone is exerting pressure in this, it is myself—”
A shadow fell over their table. They both looked up to see a ruddy-faced, elderly man beaming down at them, beatific with drink.
“It is!” he exclaimed delightedly. “You’re Timothy Palmer!”
A murmur went up from the others in the pub; Mr. Palmer’s face reddened further. “I am, thank you. Unfortunately I’m in the middle of a conversation—”
“Do the bit from ‘Once Upon a Wedding,’” the man said. “My missus loved that movie.”
“It’s really not a good time,” Mr. Palmer said. “Though I’m happy to autograph something.”
“Oh, come on! It will only take a moment.”
“It’s really not a good time,” Anne echoed. She could sense Mr. Palmer’s rising agitation, see him trying to blink back tears. Over the man’s shoulder she looked meaningfully at the landlord.
“What, are you too good for us?” The man’s good humor was evaporating. “You do it on those talk shows quick enough. Or are we supposed to pay for it?”
“That’s enough, Eddie,” the landlord said, coming over. “They’ve paid for their drinks, not to have you bothering them.”
“Who’s bothering them? I’m a fan, that’s all!” Eddie let himself be led away, but he gave them a dirty look over his shoulder. “It’s his job to entertain, right? So what’s wrong with asking someone to do his job?”
Mr. Palmer took out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. “I need some air,” he muttered.
“Of course.” She swallowed another mouthful of her beer and quickly donned her coat; he was already grabbing his umbrella. Outside the rain was a grey drizzle that made them both turn up their collars; Mr. Palmer opened his umbrella and held it over them both.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“Why? It wasn’t your fault.” She glanced at him. “I’m just sorry you have to put up with that sort of thing.”
“I’m no good at it.” His tone was somber. “I was better when I was younger. I could laugh it off, perform on command. But even then it was never easy for me. Harry was always on, he would have done five different routines back there and had the whole place laughing. With me I have to make myself become that Timothy Palmer, and the older I get the harder it is.”
They were walking down the street; now they cut across to a small park with a gazebo. “I was in a sanatorium a few years back, did you know that?”
Alarmed, Anne looked up at him. “No. No, I didn’t know.”
“I was pressured into doing a full tour of the British isles. I always kept my tours short, resting between, but this time my manager got the better of me. It was utterly grueling, just endless … and one day I simply couldn’t face it. I could barely get myself out of bed. Everyone had a fit, but I checked myself in voluntarily and brought Harry’s things in my suitcase. I was just so tired.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he continued as they reached the gazebo. He closed the umbrella and they shook water off their coat
s before sitting on the bench inside. “We were going to be The O’Brien and Palmer Show. Harry was going to be the front man, the personality. I was going to be the straight man, quietly undercutting him. It was so easy with him,” he added wistfully. “As natural as breathing.”
“But you recovered,” she prompted. “You went on, you’ve done shows since then.”
He nodded. “Harry talked me round. I had contracts to fulfill, after all. We wrote new material in the sanatorium, shorter, easier routines. But I didn’t want to leave. It was so wonderfully quiet. I worked in the garden, I watched television with the others three nights a week and the rest of the time it was just Harry and I. And that’s when I started thinking, it should be Harry onstage and I in the house. He loved performing in ways I never will. Oh, we’d still write together; I would watch television and listen to the radio, I’d stay up to date on the latest acts. But I could also be quiet.” He smiled wanly at her. “I’ll make an excellent ghost, Miss Wood.”
“You could be quiet now,” Anne pointed out. “You could retire, move to the countryside. You could even move abroad.”
He shuddered dramatically. “Abroad! What would I do abroad? I don’t even like pepper on my food.”
Anne laughed at that and he grinned, then sobered. “I wasn’t going to tell you about the sanatorium, especially not after you figured out we were lovers. I knew that if you believed me unstable you would never help us. But Harry says it’s not worth doing unless we’re completely honest with you; that if you helped us and then found out later you might regret your decision. And there’s enough regret in life already.”
“Mr. Palmer, when did Harry first appear to you?”
“Hmm?” His expression had become faraway; and then he shook himself. “Not when I first got his things… I had been called up, you see, and I thought perhaps to get a memento of him, something I could carry with me. But his mother had cleaned out his room and found our letters; I came upon her just as she was throwing all his things into the rubbish.” He smiled bitterly. “We were lucky that I got there in time. The names she called me, right in the middle of the street, everyone watching… I haven’t been back to the neighborhood since. Harry says the one good thing about being dead is he finally hurt her as much as she hurt him.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I put his things in a chest and went off to do my service. When I was discharged I came home and got a bedsit in London, hoping to find work… I moved in, opened the chest to air it out, went for some groceries, and when I came home he was sitting on the bed, wanting to know where I’d been all this time and why my room looked so strange.” He gave a little shrug. “We’ve been together ever since.”
“One and done,” Anne said.
“One and done,” Mr. Palmer agreed.
His voice broke a little over the last; and then they just sat there, watching the rain fall steadily, casting a grey haze over the richly green trees and grass, bending the flowers with the water’s weight. Impulsively Anne laid a hand over his; he didn’t say anything, didn’t look at her, but clasped her fingers. Chilled, but alive underneath. And if she did this thing for him, and lost him in the process—? She looked at his profile, at the hollowness of his gaze. Two decades together in their strange union, a whole career built between them. The O’Brien and Palmer Show; they had managed it, even in death, even if it looked nothing like what they had envisioned.
“What would you do, if the switch succeeded?” she asked.
“Oh, Timothy Palmer will retire, at least for a few years. Give Harry some time to adjust, to figure out what he wants. Then, if he chose to, he could make a triumphant return. A few years away would account for any difference in his presentation.”
“While you stay home, enjoying the quiet.”
Mr. Palmer smiled then, warmly. “He’s promised to prune my roses for me.”
But Anne only half-heard him. An idea had suddenly come to her, a possibly terrible idea; but it would ensure that, if she did pull it off, Harry couldn’t simply discard him.
“All right,” she said, as much to herself as to him.
He looked at her warily. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll do it.” She took a breath. “Though I warn you, it’s going to be long, and difficult, and I’ll probably damage your flooring—”
But she was smothered by his embrace as he hugged her. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.”
They chose a Sunday morning, when the neighborhood would be at church or visiting and there was little risk of disturbance. Still they drew the curtains, and parked Mr. Palmer’s bicycle in the garage next to a brand new Triumph dusty from disuse. “I had to spend some money a year ago,” he said with an apologetic expression. “Something about taxes, too much savings.”
Back in the house she set about with her preparations. She had brought all her things in a nondescript hatbox, worn her coat over her best-looking pajamas, and splurged on a taxi; she needed to be as comfortable and energetic as possible. In the front room he had done as she asked, pushing all the furniture to the walls and rolling up the carpet. She grimaced at the lovely parquet flooring, but there was nothing for it; she opened up the hatbox and drew out her jar of paint. In the past they used salt, or earth, to draw the circle, but those materials were easily mussed, and Anne hated muss in the same way that Mr. Palmer clearly disliked disruption. So she had concocted her paint, a muddy paste laced with salt and several herbs that stayed put if layered on thick enough.
Mr. Palmer winced at the first dark smear. “How about if I make tea,” he said in a strangled voice.
“That would be lovely,” Anne said, scooping out two fingerfuls and continuing around the curve.
Harry drew close, curling over her shoulder, and she waved at him impatiently. “You’re dimming the light,” she complained.
Oh! Pardon me. He drifted to the far side of the circle. It looks complicated.
“The better to contain you both while I work,” she explained. When her circle finally closed she felt the click inside herself; the shadow jerked backwards.
Well. Not a charlatan, I see.
Anne grinned as she started drawing the pentacle inside.
Tim told me about your conversation.
“Oh?” She kept her head down lest he see her wary expression. From her hatbox she drew forth her notes and began drawing in the symbols, listening intently.
I have no intention of losing him, Miss Wood. We decided on something more substantial. To anchor him, as you would say. It’s on the sideboard.
She followed the line of grey air to a small jewelry-box. It was his father’s wedding ring. It fits his ring finger. He can come with me and it will keep the ladies at bay. Two birds, one stone.
“Are you worried about the ladies, Mr. O’Brien?” she asked.
They’re always crawling over Tim, and I’ve been told I can’t be rude to them. She distinctly heard a new tone in his voice: amusement, but tinged with jealousy. Really, a man of his age.
“It seems a little small,” she said.
That’s what she said! Whatever have you and Tim—
She exhaled in mock exasperation. “The ring, I mean.”
Should we find something larger? All the amusement was gone, replaced by seriousness.
She hesitated. “No… no, I like the idea of it.” Mr. Palmer entered, carrying the tea tray to the sideboard; she sat back on her heels and surveyed her work. “Getting there now. We’ll be up and running within the hour.”
“It feels warm,” Mr. Palmer said, lying on the floor in the center of the pentacle. “Is it supposed to be warm?”
“Warm is good.” Anne flexed her washed hands, and then took another pot and began painting her face. Surreptitiously she slipped the penknife into her pajama pocket. A way to pull the plug. She felt all but certain she would not need it, but the first sign of any malice from Harry and, well. With enough blood in the c
ircle she could exorcise them both.
“Do you know I’ve never lain on this floor before? There is a disastrous cobweb by the window.”
She glanced down at him. “We don’t have to do this—”
“No! Only it’s terribly annoying. How on earth did I miss it?” He looked to the sideboard. “Promise me the first thing you’ll do is go up there with a feather duster.”
Timothy Palmer, Harry said calmly, I love you more than life itself, but if this works I am not spending my first living moments dusting your molding.
“Oo-er missus,” Mr. Palmer replied with a smile.
Anne felt a pang. “It’s time,” she said gently.
“What do I do?” Mr. Palmer asked, while Harry said tell me where you want me, but he had already drifted close, bathing Mr. Palmer in shadow, almost protectively.
“You are both perfect,” Anne said, “just where you are.”
It was the longest spiritual anything Anne had ever done. She had practiced and timed it all, she knew exactly how long it would take and yet it felt so much longer, it felt like a week in the circle. Her whole world narrowed down to the two quicksilver essences with her, sliding back and forth as she guided and bounded them in turn. For one brilliant moment they twined, and she nearly started crying then at the beauty of it, like stars merging in darkness—
And then the man on the floor before her opened his eyes, and it was at once Timothy Palmer and someone else, someone who opened his mouth wider to gasp and then breathe deep and hard, flexing his hands and trembling all over. “Tim?” he cried. “Tim, where are you? Say something...”
Anne touched Harry’s hand, causing him to buck with surprise and fear. “Harry, it’s all right,” she said. Her voice was raw but she tried to sound soothing. “He’s as new to this as you are. It may take him time to figure things out.”
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