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Authors: Steven Brust

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She said, “Don’t embarrass me in front of Susan.”
“Why were you embarrassed?”
“Just don’t, all right?”
I smiled into her eyes. “Give us a kiss, then,” I said.
She sighed and came into my arms. I caressed her back for a moment, and held her cheek against mine. Her skin was warm and soft. I kissed my way past her ear.
“Jack,” she said in a whisper.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t—”
“I do, however, and that’s what matters.”
She came around to my way of thinking in pretty short order. When I went back down the stairs Susan was still up, stretched out like a cat on the sofa, her ankles crossed. Something I didn’t recognize was on the stereo. She seemed to be listening intently, although she must have heard me come down, because she opened one eye and said, “That was quick.”
“Jill was mad at me,” I said. “It seems I embarrassed her.”
“Jill,” said Susan, “embarrasses easily.”
“You don’t though,” I said.
“That is correct.”
“Then I won’t try to embarrass you. Grab a coat.”
“Where are we going?”
“Coffee.”
She smiled a very nice smile and said, “I’d like that.”
I had draped my coat over a chair. I retrieved it, and she was ready by the time I had my Wellies on. Her coat was green wool, double-breasted, belted, and knee length, with a large collar. She wore no hat. “I shall not bring my purse,” she said, “since this is your treat.”
“Exactly.”
She didn’t lock the door on the way out. She took my arm at once and said, “I don’t believe I shall call you Jack.”
“No? What will you call me?”
“I don’t know. John isn’t right, either.”
“Perhaps Jonathan.”
“Hmmm. Jonathan. Yes, that might do. Come here, Jonathan. Yes.” She repeated it a couple of times, and I guess decided it would do. She looked at me and smiled. Her mouth was large, her jaw line prominent.
I said, “I hope Jill won’t be angry with you.”
“Gillian,” she said, “must learn to look out for her territory.”
“You mean that in general?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“When we moved in together, I told her that I would be claiming as much of the house as I could until she stopped me, so she had better be prepared to defend her turf or I’d simply take over.”
“And she hasn’t done so?”
“You saw the house; did it look like her or me?”
“What makes you think I can tell the difference?”
“You can tell.”
I laughed. “You,” I said.
“Correct.”
“The attitude,” I said, “seems ever so slightly harsh.”
“Do you think so?” she inquired sweetly. “Maybe it is, but I don’t have the patience to put up with having to ask every time I want to move a piece of furniture or put a new vase on the mantelpiece.”
“So you just do it?”
“She can tell me if she doesn’t like it.”
“And she’s never said anything?”
“No.”
“Then it’s her problem.”
“Exactly.”
“And do I fall into the same category?”
She smiled brightly. “Yes.”
“Nice to know where I fit in.”
“Where do you fit in?” she said.
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way.”
“I’m more or less just passing through, so I guess I really don’t fit in.”
“Do you mean that philosophically or practically?”
“Either way. Did Jill say anything about me?”
Susan looked at me through slitted eyes, as if deciding how much to tell. At last she said, “Jill seemed quite taken with you at first, especially when you sent her flowers.”
“At first?”
“Well, it’s been, what, a week? And you haven’t called.”
“Has it been a week already? How time flies. Well, has she waited for me, breathlessly, anxiously, sitting by the phone and staring out the window?”
Susan laughed. “Hardly.”
I pretended dismay. “Don’t tell me she has another man already?”
“I’m not certain.” She smiled wickedly. “Well, there is this gentleman who’s called on her a couple of times in the last week.”
“Ah!” I said. “A rival! Who is he?”
“His name is Don something.”
“Swaggart? The sociologist? She’s been seeing him?”
“As I said, just once or twice. Does that bother you?”
“I am beside myself with jealousy.”
She laughed again. “I can tell.”
“How well do you know the dear boy?”
She made a noncommittal gesture. “Well enough to know that there’s not a lot of substance to him.”
“But,” I said, “he’s very dedicated to his work.”
“Is he?”
We walked a little more. We occasionally passed people. She said, “That’s what you get for not striking while the iron is hot.”
“That’s what she gets for being impatient. Let it be a lesson to you.”
“Oh, she’s not nearly as impatient as I am. Once I got so annoyed waiting for my bus, that I got on the next one that came by, just to be going somewhere.”
I laughed.
She said, “Are you going to do anything about Don?”
“What do you propose I do?”
“I was just wondering.”
“To be perfectly frank, I don’t much care one way or the other,” I said.
We arrived at an all-night coffee place called the Wholly Ground. There didn’t seem to be anyone in it. I stood in the doorway and asked if they were open, but Susan breezed in. A poster outside advertised the appearance of something called the Beat Farmers, but the place didn’t seem to have a stage. I had just noticed that the poster was for somewhere else when Susan motioned me in. “They’re open all night,” she said, at the same time as the short-haired nose-ringed girl behind the counter nodded. It was a small place that smelled harshly of coffee and rank tobacco smoke. All the tables were round and most had room for four coffee cups and an ashtray; you had to hold your morning paper.
I bought us a pot of coffee for three dollars while Susan fetched cups. “Do you use cream?” she said.
“Black like my heart.”
She smiled all over her face and said, “How wonderful. I believe we shall get along splendidly.”
We sat near a window where we could watch passersby. I filled her cup, left mine half empty. Or half full,
if you want to join the Peace Corps. She looked a question. “Keeps me awake,” I said.
“They serve unleaded.”
“Never touch the stuff.”
I brought the cup to my lips. “It also cools faster this way.”
“You don’t like it hot?”
“Lukewarm like my heart,” I said.
She laughed. Her laugh was merry and seemed contrived like her speech and other mannerisms; yet, like her speech and mannerisms, not unpleasantly so.
“Tell me about the city,” I said.
“It is a city like other cities,” she said at once. “Only not so big.”
“How big is it?”
“Less than half a million people, and not very spread out.”
“What do people do here?”
“Live. Die. Breed.”
“Sing? Dance?”
“Music is life, and life is dance, as Vivian used to say.”
“Who’s Vivian?”
“A friend.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York, New York,” she sang.
“I just came from there.”
“Where?”
“I was living on Staten Island for a while.”
“And before that?”
“Ah, my dear, London, Paris, Istanbul, Tokyo.”
“Tokyo? Really?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t speak Japanese.”
“Oh. Yes, that would be a problem. What languages do you speak?”
“The language of love. And you?”
“The language of dance, of song. Tra-la, tra-la.”
“But are you understood?”
“Sometimes I am. Are you?”
“Oh, my, yes. Always.”
“I believe that, Jonathan.”
I poured her some more coffee, warmed mine up a bit. I stared out the window. “Is winter fog usual around here?”
“It happens,” she said. “But there isn’t any fog tonight.”
“No, but there will be.”
“Do you think so? I like the fog.”
“And thunderstorms.”
“Yes. Especially thunderstorms. They’re my favorite part of living in the Midwest; that and the clouds. How do you know there will be fog tonight?”
“It has that feel.”
“Jonathan, do you ever get the feeling you know what’s going to happen?”
“Sometimes. You?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me, what do you think is going to happen?”
She grinned and cocked her head to the side. “Why, I think we’re going to have a winter fog.”
We did, too, but that was several hours later, after I had escorted her home, and left her at the door after kissing her hand in my most courtly fashion. Most amateurs at hand-kissing make it a bow, with eyes down. Properly, you should be looking at your intended the entire time, with an expression at once tender and slightly amused. The kiss ought to be a single touch of the lips, neither too short nor too long; the actual caress is carried out by your hand squeezing hers—and oh, so delicately,
so she isn’t quite certain if you have caressed her or not.
I left her at her door, enjoying the tension between our conversation, clearly aimed at the bedroom, and our physical contact, which had been limited to her hand on my arm, and one kiss of her hand. I had intended to poke my head in and look in on Jill, who hadn’t been feeling entirely well when I left her, but I could hardly spoil a gesture like that, so I just turned around and left.
By that time there was, indeed, a fog rolling in, which became thicker as I made my way back to Professor Carpenter’s house. There was no moon whatsoever, both because it was new and because it had already set. It was about two-thirty in the morning and Lakota was, if not buried, at least pretty dead. I had no trouble finding the place, even in the fog, and since I was certain no one could see me, I took the opportunity to enter, if not break in.
Two people, a small dog, and a cat were breathing quietly in the house. I had not noticed the cat the first time I was there. Perhaps she was shy.
I had no reason to disturb any of them, so I moved quietly and tested my hypothesis that a professor who owned a large house would not put his desk in the same room he slept in. It didn’t seem like a particularly daring guess, and it turned out to be right. My second hypothesis was that his address book would be in plain sight on said desk. This was more daring and turned out not to be the case. Neither was it in any of the desk drawers, but rather, for some reason, it turned out to be on a bookshelf. I scanned through it quickly, found what I wanted, memorized it, then took myself out the way I came. The dog never even woke up.
On the other hand, there was still the question: Now that I had the address, what, if anything, was I going to do with it? I thought about Laura Kellem, and consequences, and tried to decide if I cared. I wasn’t certain.
But then I considered the significance of what Susan had told me, and I wasn’t certain I cared about that, either.
There were no lights on when I got home, but I hadn’t expected any.
suf·fer
v
.—
intr.
1. To feel pain or distress; sustain loss, injury, harm, or punishment. 2. To tolerate or endure evil, injury, pain, or death. 3. To appear at a disadvantage.
—tr … .
2. To experience … 4. To permit; allow … .
AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY
It’s funny; when I finished my last session of typing I realized I was disappointed that there was no more to relate, and I went on down to find Jim, with the idea clearly in mind of getting him talking so I could come back to this machine and set it all down. I’ve been challenging myself to see how much of a conversation I could actually remember, and I suppose at heart I’m a liar, because ever since I started I’ve been willing to fabricate conversations that I could have summarized easily and accurately. I don’t know why it is more satisfying to see those inverted commas that Joyce hated so passionately, even if I can only remember the essence of what was said.
On the other hand, it feels as if I’m getting better at remembering exact quotations. This may be imagination at work.
But I did go downstairs, and Jim was standing, his arms clasped behind him, staring at the dead fireplace. I said, “Jim, what do you
do
around here?”
He turned his head so he was almost looking at me over his shoulder. “You mean, to earn my keep?”
“No, I mean to kill time. Being a ghost seems like the most wearying thing I can think of.”
“Have you ever studied Latin?”
“Okay, the second most wearying.”
He shook his head. “I don’t do anything, but I’m not bored.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s never boring to be what you are. It’s not usually exciting either. You just exist.”
“That’s what most people do most of the time. That’s what I mean by wearying.”
“And what do you do?”
“At least I have some contact with other people.”
“And I don’t?”
“Do you?”
“If I didn’t, this house wouldn’t be deserted.”
“Well, but since then?”
“I watch people go by, I listen to the wind. I’ve followed two generations of owls who live on top of the carriage house. And I reminisce.”
“On your life?”
He nodded, staring past my shoulder. His eyes weren’t focused.
I said, “How did you get educated? There weren’t black colleges then, were there?”
“No, I had to go to white folks’ school. They thought it was funny to see me there, but it wasn’t unheard of, the way it was later.”
“But how did it happen?”
“I had a friend who had money. I think he thought it would be funny if his friend the nigger had a college education.” He didn’t sound bitter when he said it; he didn’t sound much of anything.
“I’ll bet you spoke differently then.”
“Yes.”
“Want to give me a demonstration? I’m curious.”
“No.”
“It
was
after the Civil War, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I was already free before the war.”
“Given your freedom, or did you escape?”
“Both. It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
“I don’t have the inclination.” Suddenly, then, he looked directly at me for the first time. He said, “I
did
run away, though. No one can hold you if you don’t want to be held.”
“Heh.”
He looked away again. “You better believe it. I lived through things that—I lived through things. And I went to a university. And I learned that you can’t hold a man who doesn’t want to be held.”
“How did you die, anyway?”
He twitched a little, like something had bitten him. Then he smiled. “Touché,” he said, which was the only answer I got out of him.
Bah.
Enough of this.
 
My latest discovery is that too much sitting in one place and recording what has gone on is frustrating; it makes me wish to go out and do something. I am, by nature, unaccustomed to inaction; I think I must be a sort of counterpoint to Jim, the way t’ai chi is the counterpoint to meditation. This may be a poor example, all I know of either one is what I learned from a young lady with whom I spent some time in Tokyo, and her English wasn’t very strong. But now that I think of it, this very document testifies to our differences; Jim spends his time musing, but even when I muse I translate those thoughts into activity: I write them down.
I went down to the Conneaut Creek to a point just below the Sherburne Bridge, and watched for a while. The creek is still flowing, but no one is fishing. You can see the lights of Lottsville, Pennsylvania, on the other side; a town that, they tell me, has increased in size tenfold in a score of years. Something about taxes, I understand. Death and taxes, they say, are the only things one can depend on, but I’ve never paid any taxes.
I walked back—strolled, really—taking my time. I was a little short of money, so I gave some consideration to the problem, but didn’t do anything about it. Money is not difficult to come by. I made my way to the Ave, west of the Tunnel, and found an establishment called Cullpepper’s. I didn’t go in, but I spent a few minutes watching the girls ply their trade. It must be cold, I thought. And they looked so young.
After a while, I picked one out and got acquainted with her for a few minutes. Her name was Rosalie, and she can’t have been more than eighteen. She had fair hair, a fair complexion, and was the least bit plump. She was heavily roughed to cover over some minor acne that I think would have made her face more interesting if she’d let it show.
I escorted her home, then returned home myself, cold and not entirely satisfied, but feeling better for having been out, at least. Jim is nowhere in sight, presumably he’s wandering around the house, which he does fairly often; it goes with the job, I guess. It’s getting late and I’m tired. I’ll see Jill tomorrow.
 
A slight thaw, not uncommon in late December, I’m told, had melted some of the snow from the boulevards and lawns, but it was freezing again as I reached the big white house with the blue lights in the attic. I politely knocked at the door, and, after a minute or so, Jill opened it. Her face went through a quick flurry of contending emotions
when she saw me, ending with a small smile. “Hello, Jack,” she said.
I walked in past her and threw my coat onto a chair. Susan wasn’t in. “Hello yourself. What’s this I hear about you seeing Young Don?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Is it true?”
She frowned. “Jack,” she said, “it isn’t like we have a relationship.”
That stopped me cold. “We haven’t?”
“No.” She started to pick up strength. “I like you, but that—”
“It seems I’ve spent an evening in your bed.”
She pressed her lips together and tossed her head back. “So?”
“Isn’t that a relationship?”
“You mean, sleeping with someone once or twice means you’re having a relationship with them?”
I tried to make sense of that. I said, “What do you mean by ‘relationship’?”
“I mean, you know, when you’re seeing someone regularly, and the two of you always do things together, and—”
“Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t understand. No, as you define it, I don’t think we’re having a relationship.”
“Well then?”
“But I forbid you to see Don again.”
You’d think I’d just announced that I intended to burn down her house. Her mouth fell open and she stared at me, then she said
“What?”
in a voice that sounded like highland pipes.
I repeated myself.
She said, “Who do you think you are—”
“You will do what you’re told,” I said.
“I will not—”
“Let’s talk about it upstairs.”
If anything, that made it worse. “If you think I’m going upstairs with you—”
I shrugged. “Right here will be fine, but won’t you be embarrassed if your roommate comes in?”
“If you think I’m going to—”
I laughed, and took her in my arms. She tried to fight her way out, with profound lack of effect. She stopped fighting and said, “Jack, Jack, please stop. This isn’t—”
“Keep still,” I said, and threw her onto the couch, and myself onto her. She gasped as the air was driven from her lungs. By the time she could speak again she had nothing to say.
Sometime later I looked at her face, tear-streaked and pale. She reached up to caress me clumsily then let her hand fall back down to her side. “Jack?” she said in a whisper.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t—I don’t think I can make it up the stairs.”
“What’s wrong with sleeping on the couch?”
“Please, Jack. I don’t want Susan to see me this way.”
“You should have thought of that when I first suggested we go upstairs.”
She tried to sob but seemed not to have the strength. “Please, Jack.”
I sighed. “Very well.” I picked her up, carried her upstairs, and put her to bed.
 
I’ve had to get up and walk around a little. I’ve spent some time wandering and seeing what’s here. As I was pacing through the house I met Jim in the parlor, his usual haunt, so to speak.
“You’ve been type-typing away, haven’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“May I read it?”
“No. Wait, yes. Go ahead. Only don’t talk to me about it.”
(He’s going to be reading this. Will knowing that I have a reader change what I write? I hope not. If I think it does, I’ll ask Jim not to read it any more. Hi, Jim, how’s the ghost business?)
“I won’t,” he said. (You said? How can anyone write for an audience? To Hell with it.)
So he went up and read it, and after about an hour came back down. He said, “I don’t understand what this Laura Kellem is waiting for. If she’s going to stick it to you, why doesn’t she just do it?”
I had to think, because I hadn’t wondered about it one way or the other. I finally said, “I should imagine that she has quite a bit to work out.”
“You said something like that before, but what do you mean?”
“Implicating someone for a murder he didn’t commit isn’t easy, modern forensics being what it is. If the authorities should discover my name, and succeed in tracing my movements, they might learn that I hadn’t arrived in this part of the country until after the crimes had been committed.”
He frowned his particular frown, squinching his face as if to touch his eyebrows to his upper lip. “But that means she has to kill you.”
“Well, yes, but that isn’t difficult, for her. The hard part is bringing in the authorities at just the right time so they think they have their man, and then what they end up with is a body shot full of holes, or burned enough to be unrecognizable. Things don’t look good for your abode, Jim.”
“So she’s out there setting it up right now?”
“Probably.”
He frowned very hard, the same frown, as if he were trying to think and it was an effort. In fact, thinking
comes pretty naturally to Jim. At last he said, “It seems like something that tricky, you could screw up for her pretty easy.”
“In one sense, yes. There are many ways to disrupt it, the simplest being to leave.”
“But then—”
“But I can’t. She is who she is, and I am who I am, and orders are orders.”
He squinted at me. “You don’t need to provide examples of the law of identity. I don’t understand why you can’t—”
“Because I can’t. Drop it.”
“All right, but couldn’t a friend of yours do it?”
“What friend?”
“Well, this Jill person you’ve been seeing?”
“That’d be no different than me doing it.”
“What about if I were to do something?”
“Like what? What can you do? Shit, Jim, you can’t even pick up a piece of paper.”
He winced at the obscenity and said, “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
“So, what, you’re just going to wait for the ax?”
Once more I had to stop and consider the question. I said, “I’m being very careful where I put my feet.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean that I have to watch where I go, where I’m seen in public, and who I’m seen with. If I were, for example, to kill someone, I’d better make sure there’s no one who can trace me to the killing. That kind of thing; trying not to make the job easier for her.”
He shook his head. “Can you talk to her about it? She must have cared for you once.”

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