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Authors: Steven Brust

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When I returned, Jim said, “What’s in the bag?”

“I’m going to sacrifice a child,” I snapped. “Gotta problem with that?”

He looked troubled until he realized that I was jesting, which hurt my feelings a little.

For all that it has taken me, maybe ten minutes to write this down, getting it done was very lengthy and irritating. But at least I’m done, and as ready as I’m likely to be.

The moon will be new in five days.

Winter is holding on with great determination this year, which annoys me even though I know what is causing it. In New York, spring is meaningless as far as I’m concerned, and in many places I have been it never actually seems to happen, but Ohio, I’m told, usually has one, and this year we are being cheated out of it. It snowed again today, then the snow turned to rain which froze on the sidewalks after making a halfhearted effort at melting some of the snow it had just deposited on us. It had stopped raining by the time I arrived at Susan’s door. The smells of spring, which are how I identify the condition, have not yet occurred, and for all I can tell will not at all this year.

We walked to the Tunnel and strolled along the Ave; one of a number of couples fighting the weather, hand in hand or arms about each other. Susan had her black-gloved hands on my arm; I had eschewed my ugly coat entirely, but wore a thick gray sweater. There is something about this particular pose—her hands on my arm—that makes me feel tall, proud, masculine, and extraordinarily tender.

I felt oddly akin to the other couples on the street, as if we were all part of an elite—the young and in love, to coin a hackneyed phrase. Most of us, I think, knew that somewhere along the line most of us would join the young and miserable, followed by the young and resigned,
followed by the middle-aged and bored; but ought that to diminish the pleasure of the moment?
Au contraire,
if I may.

I said, “How is Jill?”

“She seems to be doing very well. She was up all day today, and didn’t seem nearly so pale. In fact, she went out a couple of hours ago.”

“Good. I will speak to her.”

“You might want to wait a day or two.”

“Perhaps. How did things go with Jennifer?”

“What a bitch.”

I chuckled. “Is that all there is to say about it?”

“Pretty much.”

I shrugged. “If you were to suddenly leave me for someone else, I’d be a bitch too.” What is it that makes us want to defend our late rival? I suppose the fear that we may be in need of such defense sooner than we would like.

Susan, however, brushed off my comment and said, “Would you start listing all the things you’d done for me, as if I’m supposed to stay with you out of gratitude?”

I shook my head. “No, I’d simply find the other person and dismember him, or her.”

She laughed, thinking I was joking. Or maybe not.

A couple of birds were complaining about the weather. The rats played in the sewers, the cars played on the streets. I turned my head away when patrol cars went by, which they rarely did on the Ave.

She squeezed my arm and remarked, “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“About dismemberment?”

She laughed. “About maybe coming along when and if you leave.”

“Oh.” One of the amazing things about Susan is her ability to talk about the most serious things without losing the laughter in her voice. I said, “What about it?”

She was quiet for a moment, then she said, “I know so little about you.”

“You know that I love you; that’s a start.”

“Now,” she said, “you’re being trite.”

I sighed. “I suppose I am. What do you want to know?”

“Well, what do you do for a living?”

“Many things. I play cards, for one.”

“Gamble?”

Déjà vu.
“No gamble,” I said, and smiled.

She laughed. “What else do you do?”

“Pretty young girls.”

She laughed again. I love her laugh. It somehow manages to be simultaneously contrived and natural. She said, “All right, then where do you live?”

“With a friend, a few miles from here.”

“What’s it like?”

“Do you wish to see it?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

She shrugged. “There’s no hurry.”

“All right. Tomorrow, then.”

“That would be splendid.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Everything about you. Where were you born?”

“Far away across the sundering sea. I was educated in London, though, and that probably has more of an effect on me than my birthplace.”

“You seem to have lost most of the accent, although I like what’s left.”

“Thank you. What else do you want to know?”

“My, we
are
in an expansive mood today, aren’t we?”

“Anything your heart desires, my love; today it shall be yours.”

“Well, in that case.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go back to my house.”

And we did.

F.D.S.N.

The deed is done, the bird has flown.

Or something like that.

And I had never suspected what sort of bird it was; I’m not certain I know now, only—

But let me tell it as it happened.

I awoke, and decided that it was time to finish things with Jill. I admit I thought seriously of killing her, but it was too likely to cause complications, and it was really only a matter of convenience and saving myself some annoyance, which made it a poor risk.

I brought her to mind, and was startled at once; I recognized where she was and what she was doing.

Well, one place was as good as another. It took me half an hour to walk there, and that was because I strolled; keeping an eye out for the police, but also because of the weather, which had become colder, and kept the sidewalks treacherous. The stars were out, blazing, and the moon had not yet risen, nor would it until nearly dawn.

I’m certain that Jill did not hear me approach her, yet when I got there she was sitting on a tall stool, waiting for me. She wore a dark blue smock over whatever else she had on. The blue was, in fact, only theoretical; the smock was covered with paint splatters and would probably have been stylish, somewhere. There was another stool, a few feet from hers, so I sat on it, and looked at the easel.

It glistened with fresh acrylic. At first I thought it was a still life. There were a bunch of white roses against a pale red background, and something about these roses made me understand why some cultures consider white
to be a sign of mourning, because, although the roses were in full bloom, very beautiful and lifelike, there was a quality of death about them; perhaps in the way they lay in the clear vase; a haphazard arrangement as if someone had picked them and then thrown them into the vase, not caring how they looked. Rather than admiring their beauty, it made me speculate on picking roses at all; on what one did when one took a blooming flower and cut it from the bush.

And then I noticed that behind the vase, almost invisible, in some sort of impossible red on red, was a face, staring out at the viewer, as if to watch him watch the roses, and while I couldn’t really see the features of that face, I knew it was a girl, and I knew that there was a single tear running down her face.

For quite a while I couldn’t speak, only stare, and wonder at the choking in my throat. I finally said, “What do you call it?”

“‘Self-portrait With Roses,’” she said.

“A good name.”

“Yes.”

I looked some more, letting the catharsis wash over me, and when it had, I realized that it was as much a portrait of me as it was of her, and that it was not flattering.

I said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Jill, this is magnificent.”

“Thank you,” she said; her voice was neither loud nor soft, but, rather, inanimate, maybe even numb.

“I had no idea you could paint like that.”

“I couldn’t, before,” she said. “I suppose I ought to thank you.”

I looked at her looking at me, and I shook my head, unable to speak. I turned back to the painting, and in this mirror I was reflected; for me to see, and all the world. I
don’t understand all that I felt then, but there was grief, and there was shame.

I said, “Come to me.”

She got up and stood before me, letting her smock fall to the ground. She wore a dark plaid workshirt, and as she reached for the top button I said, “No.”

She looked faintly puzzled, but stopped.

I took her hands in mine. “Look at me,” I said.

She did.

I squeezed her hands, willing myself into her mind, her heart, her soul. Her eyes grew larger, and in them, too, I could see my own reflection, for there is no silver there, nor, for that matter, is there any gold; perhaps there is only the gentle, soft fibers of a rose.

I said, “Jill Quarrier, you are free of me. Your life is your own.”

I felt her tremble through her hands, which seemed as cold as my own.

“Never again will I come to you, never again must you come to me. Your destiny is in your own hands, to make, or to destroy. You are part of me no longer, nor am I part of you. Go your way in peace.”

I let go of her hands and she fell to her knees, sobbing. I bent down and kissed the top of her head, and left her that way.

I don’t know.

Had she not painted that picture, I would have freed her anyway, for I had promised two people that I would, and I had already decided to keep this promise; but I wonder: If I had not, would I have released her anyway, after seeing what she could do, who she was?

In truth, I fear that I would not have, for my needs are strong and my patterns are ingrained very deeply.

But I am glad that it happened as it did, for I think it is indecent for anyone to go through his entire life and never know shame.

FIFTEEN

res

pite
n
. 1. A temporary cessation or postponement, usually of something disagreeable; an interval of rest or relief. 2.
Law
. The temporary suspension of a death sentence; a reprieve.

AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY

After setting down what had happened between Jill and me, I took myself up to the attic and pawed through the leftover books. It struck me, as it hadn’t before, to wonder why they had been left behind. I can believe someone like Carpenter might, leaving in a hurry, have abandoned an old typewriting machine, and a few pieces of thirdrate furniture, but these books are probably valuable; I can only assume he didn’t know they were up here.

It made me wonder what else was in the attic, so I spent some time looking around. The attic is quite spacious, and mostly empty, but I found an old coffee maker; a set of silver that was probably worth something; a set of knives, stuck carelessly into a cardboard box, that included a very nice chefs knife with part of the handle stripped away; a box full of canceled checks; and a peculiar sign, which consisted of a red “R” with a circle and an arrow growing from it, and the words “Pickup Wednesdays” inscribed in red letters.

Attached to it was a pointed stick, presumably for putting it into the ground. I held it for a moment, and I thought of Laura Kellem. But come, let’s be serious; wood like that would splinter and, in any case, the wood is strictly symbolic; if her heart is destroyed, that will be that. I set the sign down again.

On the other hand, it forced me to think seriously about killing her, which brought to mind the ritual I will be attempting at the dark of the moon, in two days’ time. Do I really think I can kill her? Will I if I get the chance?

Laura Kellem is a vindictive soul; it may be that she feels she has not punished me enough. And if she does, indeed, feel that way, than not only am I in danger, but so is Susan.

I tested the edge of the chefs knife, found a butcher’s steel in the box and honed the knife. It had been a long, long time since I’d done that, but I managed not to cut myself.

I brought the knife down from the attic with me, and it is sitting beside me now, looking out of place on top of the pile of paper that records my visit to Lakota. When I have finished typing this, I shall take the knife with me as I go to rest, and I will place it with the rest of the items I have assembled for the ritual.

Two days.

Two days out of a lifetime of, well, of many thousands of days, and yet it seems impossibly far off.

Little to talk about tonight, but I must feed my addiction to this machine. I sneaked out of the house, past the watching policemen, and came to Susan’s, where I found an envelope with my name on it taped to her door. The note inside said, “Jonathan, sorry, forgot I have a dance ensemble tonight. See you tomorrow? Take me to your house? Maybe we can spend the night. Love, Susan.”
Her name was signed with a big scrawl coming from the
n
and underlining her name. I mentally shrugged.

I walked around the campus area for a while, then spent an hour or so in Little Philly, not doing anything, just watching the people go by. There are so many of them: Decrepit old bums to well-to-do young white couples, the pimps, the whores, the crack dealers, and gangs of black kids filled with the delicious pleasure of knowing that you are intimidating anyone who walks past, just by existing.

I walked all the way back to the Tunnel, which took a couple of hours, and I visited some of the places that Susan and I had been to. With any luck, I’ll be leaving this city in two days, so this was a sort of farewell. Some snow had melted, although the wind still had its bite. Winter doesn’t want to give up, but it is a losing battle.

The contrast between the Tunnel and Little Philly, which are really the only areas of Lakota I’ve come to know at all, is so sharp that it is hard to believe that they are part of the same city; but I like them both, and the presence of each makes the other that much richer. It’s funny, but I’ve never been downtown, or to the Longfellow Park district, or by the Lakeshore; entire areas, like cities within the city, and I don’t know what they are like. For that matter, there are parts of London I know nothing about, and I spent many years there. Maybe it is time to go back and do some serious exploring.

Another odd thing is that now I think I understand Laura better than I did when we had that talk, so many months ago. I think she was telling the truth when we first spoke: This would be a nice place to live, to settle down.

There is little that I have ever done that I actually regret, but, do you know, I’m sorry about that dog, Pepper. And I’m glad I didn’t give in to my instincts when I wanted to kill Bill’s wife. I hope all of this doesn’t
sour them on the neighborhood; it will be a good place again, once I have broken free of Kellem and left.

The night grows old, the day approaches, and, as always, I run.

It has been an entire day since I have seen Susan.

My lover is sleeping on the bloodstained gray chair downstairs.

The house was cold and dry as I made my way up to the bathroom earlier this evening, from which I concluded that the dogs of winter still held the weather and would shake it with at least a few more days of cold before dropping it and retreating once more to await November.

When I came back down, feeling strangely at peace after a dreamless sleep, Jim was still standing by the window. “Still there,” he said.

It took me a moment to realize that he meant the police, then I said, “It doesn’t matter.”

For maybe the second or third time since I’ve known him he looked right at me. “What happened?” he said.

I shrugged. “A bit of a surprise, is all. People sometimes turn out to be, I don’t know, not what I’d thought they’d be.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good, but also upsetting. I begin to think I make too many hasty judgments.”

He nodded and went back to looking out the window while I got my coat on. He said nothing else as I left the house. I went carefully, making certain I wasn’t spotted. Outside, the last traces of purple-red sunset were absorbed by the soft glow of the lights of Mark Twain College, a couple of miles to the west. The wind was light but steady; I kept my hands in the pocket of my parka. There were a few slippery spots where snow had melted and then frozen again, but they weren’t too bad.

I knocked at the door and Susan answered. I was glad it wasn’t Jill because I really didn’t know what I’d find to say to her, what with one thing and another. I hung up my coat, took off my Wellingtons, kissed Susan, and said, “So, what do you want to do?”

She grinned, spun once, then gyrated her pelvis lewdly.

“I meant after that,” I said.

“After that? Hmmm. Perhaps you could take me to Baghdad. I’ve always wanted to see Baghdad.”

“During a war?”

“The war’s over. But you’re right. Maybe somewhere else.”

“We’ll talk about it,” I said, and held out my arm. She curtsied, dimpled, laid her hand on top of mine, and we ascended into heaven, as it were.

I was very careful with her, and gentle, trying to give as much as I could while taking as little as possible. I must have been successful, because she seemed quite pleased, and did not fall asleep.

We spoke of school, and her hopes for the future, and her love of dancing, and the exhilaration of being before an audience; a pleasure I’ve never felt, but can almost understand. She asked about me and I avoided answering. I asked about her and she told me some things. She talked about grabbing what she could from life; I talked about waiting while life delivered whatever I wanted.

“I don’t have the patience for that,” she said.

“You want it now.”

“Instant gratification,” she agreed. “I hate waiting.”

“I will remember that.”

“I told you about the bus.”

“That’s true; I’d forgotten. When that happens, it’s time to get a car.”

“I hate cars,” she said.

“If truth be known, so do I. But I hate buses, too.”

“What do you like?” she said.

“Walking.”

“How do you feel about flying.”

“Flying is okay; depends on how one does it.”

“Ships?”

“Only when necessary,” I said.

She shook her head. “I like to travel.”

“I like to be other places; I don’t like getting there.”

“We can work it out,” she said.

“I would imagine we can.”

Then she said, “So, would you like to show me your house?”

“Now?”

“Why not? Is it cold?”

“Not horribly.”

“Well then?”

“All right; let’s go.”

She put on a dark blue skirt and a Twain sweatshirt, brushed her hair, stuck a blue band in it, kissed me, and pronounced herself ready.

As I type this, the problem with bringing her to my home is staring at me so hard that I can’t believe I didn’t notice it at the time; I guess my head was so filled with Susan that there was no room for anything else. We walked through the Tunnel, arm in arm, talking about alternate energy sources, oil wars, and yellow journalism, and as we turned onto Twenty-eighth it suddenly hit me, and I stopped dead; I believe I felt perspiration on my forehead in spite of the cold, but my imagination may have supplied that later.

“What is it?” she said.

I stood there, unable to answer. It is one thing to know that I can circumvent the police, quite another to expect Susan to do so; particularly when she didn’t even know they were there.

So, what to do?

I stood there for what seemed like forever, trying to think of a way out of this, while Susan said, “Jonathan? What is it? Are you all right?” I could change my mind about showing her the house. I played that conversation over in my mind and decided against it. I could tell her we had to sneak in, and then explain that … no.

I shook my head and said, “It’s nothing, love. A thought just came to me, but it doesn’t matter.”

When there are no easy ways, you take the hard way, right? Right.

I pulled up the hood of my parka and approached the rust brown ’89 Plymouth from behind, and after telling Susan I had to ask these gentlemen something, I put my head next to the passenger door and rapped on the glass. Two men were in it, both seemed to be in their early thirties. Maybe taxi drivers turn into policemen in their middle years. They looked at me. One was dark and had a fleshy face with a high nose, the other had short, light-colored hair, blue eyes, a fair complexion, and a pointed chin.

He rolled down the window, started to ask what I wanted, then turned his head quickly to glance at the sketch on the clipboard on the seat between them.

That was as far as he got before he fell asleep. His partner actually reached into his coat before slumping forward against the steering wheel, and my knees were shaking.

When I turned around, Susan was standing right behind me, staring at them. “What happened? Should we call an ambulance?”

I looked her in the eye. “Nothing happened.”

“But—”

“Nothing happened. We just walked by this car, not even stopping, and we never looked through the window. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened,” she repeated dully.

We took two steps toward the house and I said, “Snap out of it, Susan.”

“Huh, what?”

“You were daydreaming.”

“Oh. Hmmm. Maybe I’m short on sleep.”

“Could be. You can sleep at the house, if you want to.”

“How much farther is it?”

“We’re here.”