i a72d981dc0406879 (15 page)

"Jeremy will be home soon," Frances whispered. She had been
quiet for so long I had almost forgotten she was there. "Please
finish, Fremont," she said without looking my way. She had propped
her chin on her hand and was staring out the window. "There is
more, I know it, I still have this lingering feeling of terrible
urgency and anticipation. I must know what it's about, and I expect
you would like to know too. Then you'll have to leave in a
hurry."

I read the last page, which began with another salutation to
Frances herself: " 'Fair lady, you could do us both a favor if you
would be so kind. See, this old reprobate and miscreant-meaning
myself-can't quite get back there or I'd do it alone-

" 'Hey!' " (This was apparently an aside within the narrative of
the automatic writing, set off from the rest by scrawling dashes.)
' 'Hey you, Bummer
¹
. Damn dog. Always nippin' at the
heels of people passin' by, can't understand they don't have heels
to nip no morel Still I was mighty glad to find him again Over
Here, I certainly was, and Lazarus too. Who'd have thought. Good
dogs, yes, that's right, you both lie down right there. . . . Now
lessee, where was I?

"Oh yes, I was about to ask for the favor. See, I had this
whatchamacallit, that's part of the trouble, I can't remember what
it was. It won't come clear, on account of all them years my mind
was in such a fog. Heh heh, mind in a fog, that's a good 'un for an
old fella like me who loved to roam the streets of San Francisco
more'n anything. Still and all, it's better when the fog stays on
the outside and doesn't get in your head, know what I'm sayin'?
This whatchamacallit, it was valuable. It meant a lot to me, only
when I was alive and in the flesh, what with the fog in my mind, I
forgot where I put it. Now I'm Gone Over to the Other Side, I know
where
it is but I can't remember
what
it is. Ain't
that just the damnedest-oops, not such a good idea to say that word
Over Here, never can tell who you might be givin' ideas to-just the
most downright frustratin' thing you ever heard tell? So if you'd
care to, you could help me, pretty lady-"

"Stop!" Frances shot up from her chair like an arrow. "I heard
Jeremy's auto outside. He's home."

I hadn't heard anything, but I obeyed. "Let me just scan this
quickly, I can't leave it just yet!" Even as I was saying the words
my eyes went flying across the rest of the page. I had barely
finished when Frances snatched it from me.

"Go out the way you came in. Thank you, Fremont, thank you so
much. I'll call you, or come by, or, or . . . I'll see you
somehow!" As she was saying all this she was also bustling me out
through the dressing room.

"Wait," I said, trying to turn around and feeling like a
recalcitrant sheep at the mercy of a particularly adhesive Border
collie, "I forgot my shawl."

"Oh, bother!" Frances herself ran back for it, tossed it to me,
and pushed me out the door, whispering, "Really, I'll be in touch
with you soon. Be careful, Fremont. I don't know what he'll do if
he finds you here." And with that, her door was closed in my
face.

I found myself in that oppressive corridor with only a sickly
hue of greenish light falling through a section of the stained
glass to keep me company. Yet the air now seemed somehow charged.
Maybe this was a house in tune with its master, maybe it only came
really alive when he crossed the threshold. . . .

"Really, Fremont, you are too fanciful," I muttered as I moved
quickly toward the back stairs.

But I did not quite make it. There were footsteps coming,
suddenly, from both directions. A servant approaching from one; the
master, one assumed, from the other. And there I was in the middle,
with no place to hide.

BEING TRAPPED between two undesirable alternatives, I chose to
confront the servant rather than the master-even though I had a
sneaking suspicion that the servants in this house told the master
everything. Thus I passed rapidly by Cora at the top of the back
stairs, holding my index finger up to my lips for silence, while at
the same time giving her as fierce a stare as 1 could manage. She
seemed surprised but said nothing, and I was down the stairs in a
trice, and gone.

The next morning I told Michael I needed to go shopping in
preparation for my father's visit. I expected that the ever
restless Wish Stephenson would be out on his own looking for
something to do, some trouble to resolve or to get into as the case
might be,and that Michael would therefore have to tend the office
or else leave it unattended. This didn't seem like such a bad idea,
as it could only contribute to his understanding of why we needed
to have a receptionist.

"When will you be back?" he asked, looking up from his task of
the moment, which was putting on his socks. His feet were
unbelievably white, tender as a babe's, and there was that one spot
inside the arch-

He interrupted my thoughts with more questions, when I had not
figured out the answer to the first one yet. "What will you buy? A
dress? Shall I come with you?"

Oh Lord! There was a wrinkle I hadn't thought of. This being
half a couple was enjoyable, but complicating when one had things
to do. Certainly I couldn't have him coming with me, yet he did
have excellent taste in clothes, and as a matter of fact I did
intend to buy a dress. In addition to the other thing I wanted to
do.

I said: "I'm just . . . shopping. What I really need to do is
sort out my thoughts about Father's visit, and I can do that better
by myself. I may buy a dress in the process, if I see something I
like." I turned around to face the mirror and began to arrange my
hair on top of my head, since I was going downtown. I had already
dressed, and over my own shoulder I could see, in reflection,
Michael sitting on the edge of the bed.

He put on the other sock. He said, rather gruffly, without
looking at me, ' Would you like me to leave for a few days? While
your father is here, I mean?"

I was so surprised by this offer that I let go the heavy twist
of my hair before I'd gotten the pin in, and it came tumbling right
down. I spun around. I could not think what to say, for although I
certainly didn't want him to leave, it would be the solution to a
very large problem. Yet tears pricked at my eyes, and so I went and
sat next to Michael and said softly, "It's so very unfair."

"What, my love?"

"Oh, I don't know! I was going to say the rules of society, but
maybe it's me, maybe I'm the one who's unfair-" and suddenly I was
crying, the tears were trailing down my cheeks and I couldn't stop
them, and Michael was kissing them away while shushing me, as if I
were a child.

In that moment I wanted him so much, so very, very much, that I
reached out and touched him, felt his hardness, and knew he wanted
me too.

"Oh, sweet!" he said, or something like that, I am never quite
sure at such times.

I cried all the while he was making love to me, not great sobs
but tears leaking from my eyes; even in the building of that
unbearable, delicious tension, and the release of it, I could not
let go this strange mixture of joy and anguish.

He stayed above me, stroked my cheeks, kissed them, and
whispered, "Tell me, Fremont. Whatever it is, for God's sake
please tell me."

I was too physically spent to do more than murmur, yet the words
did not come easily. "I love you so much, Michael, sometimes it
frightens me. I don't want to be without you, and it used to be ...
it used to be . . ."

This was something I had not yet told him, and hadn't thought I
ever would. My mother had taught me a couple of things before she
died, even though I was only fourteen, because she knew the day
would come when I'd need to know, and she would not be there to
tell me. One (for which I've blessed her oh, so often!) was that a
woman may desire a man as much as he desires her; there is nothing
wrong in it, and the sex act itself is not a duty but a great
pleasure. The other was that there are some few things a woman may
keep to herself, even from her husband, for it does him no good to
know, and indeed might harm them both. In other words there are
some burdens a woman must carry alone. The tricky part, which she
also told me-it had been beyond my comprehension then, and very
nearly was still-is that there are no hard and fast rules about
what to keep and what to tell, you simply have to do the best you
can. I based my decision now on the need I saw in Michael's
searching eyes.

"It used to be," I admitted, "that you would go away, as was
your habit, with very little warning, and I was always afraid-that
is, I never knew when you were coming back. You haven't been away
since we've been together as we are now, but I know the time will
come when you'll have to go, and I won't like it any better than I
used to, in fact I shall like it far, far worse, b-"

He stopped my mouth with a kiss, one of those sweet, prolonged,
languorous kisses that come only after, and then he rolled over,
taking me with him, still locked to him, lying in his arms. He
said, "The great 'but' that was hanging in the air between us just
now goes like this. Correct me if I'm wrong.
But
even though
most women would assume it to be far more likely that I, or any
man, would come back simply because they were married, this is not
sufficient reason for you to marry me."

"Yes," I said, somewhat miserably. How I could feel at once so
resplendent in body yet so miserable in mind was indeed a
wonder.

"Fremont, I will always come back to you. Always. Death is the
only thing that could prevent me. Whether or not we are married has
nothing to do with it. I will always come back for the same reasons
I've come back before: Because after a certain time passes, no
matter what else I may be doing, I want to see you. I want to hear
your voice, to know what you have been up to, what kinds of
mischief you have caused or cleared up. My darling Fremont, I've
heard you say more than once that your father is besotted with
What's-her-name-''

"Augusta," I supplied, beginning to feel much better.

"Augusta. Well, I am even more besotted with you."

I smiled at him, at that fine, bearded face so near to mine, and
I said, "You know, Michael, I do believe you are telling the
truth."

And that was how we decided that this time Michael would go
away, not for himself but for me, so that my father would not have
to be suspicious of our domestic arrangements. It was not an ideal
solution, but in the circumstances I felt much relieved.

Mr. Patrick Rule was not hard to find, as it turned out. When I
rang the bell at the house Mrs. Locke had occupied on Octavia
Street, he opened the door. By the puzzled look on his face, I
could see he did not immediately remember me, and I thought I
should play upon this advantage as long as possible.

"Mr. Rule, how good to see you!" I deliberately did not supply
my name, but advanced as if I had every right to be invited across
the threshold and indeed expected it. He stepped back to let me
in.

Quickly, so as to keep him off balance, I said, "I was
distressed, of course, to see the awful news about Mrs. Locke's
death in the newspaper. But she always did tell me, if ever I were
in need of guidance in matters otherworldly, and she were not
available, I should come to you."

At this he smiled a little, his facial lineaments relaxed, and I
had cause to silently remark what a classic face-of its type-he
had. Its hawklike qualities remained, but at close hand his visage
was interestingly able to be both sinister and ascetic, depending
how. the light struck his features. A mere tip of the head and
one's impression could alter entirely. My Michael had such a face,
and so of course Patrick Rule fascinated me. His hair, whose color
I hadn't been able to discern on the night of that fateful seance,
was dark auburn, an attractive and unusual color. His eyes were
gray, not changeable in the blue-to-gray range like Michael's, but
a pale, clear gray that was curiously flat. I wondered whether
those eyes had had depth when he gazed on Abigail Locke, whom he'd
seemed to so adore.

"And do you find yourself now in need of such advice, Miss, or
Mrs.-?"

"Miss," I said, and no more, as I moved into the parlor, in
spite of the fact that the room looked as if it had not been in use
for a very long time. I chose one of the side chairs pulled up to
the oval tea table in the window. Following my lead, Patrick joined
me and leaned over to turn on the lamp, which was made of glass in
the old style but fitted with an electrical cord right up through
the middle.

I lowered my voice and leaned forward confidingly when the lamp
was lit: "It is not for myself that I've come, but for a friend.
She cannot come herself, you see."

He tilted his head. A raised eyebrow and a certain set to his
mouth indicated his skepticism, but those flat eyes did not change
at all. How strange.