“I had already accused Josh of messing with the typewriter in the middle of the night. What’s Charlotte going to think if I tell her I heard the same thing again?”
“That you’re losing it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“But you’re telling me what you really heard. Suppose I think you’re losing it?”
“Do you?”
Bill sighed. “I haven’t got any other explanation.” He tapped the edge of his racket on the glass. When the women turned around, he pointed to an imaginary wristwatch. The women ended their game and exited. One of them gave a long smile to Bill as she blotted her neck with a small towel.
“You’re as bad as Hoffman,” Paul said as the woman headed for the locker rooms.
“Hey,” Bill said, “that’s low. He was married. I’m not.”
They ducked through the low door and entered the court.
“So you do think I’m losing it,” Paul said.
“I’m not saying that,” Bill said. He was holding the ball. He tossed it a couple of feet into the air and whacked it against the far wall.
Paul returned the serve. “What are you saying?”
Bill, swinging, said, “You’ve been totally stressed-out and this is how it’s manifesting itself.” The pings of the ball bouncing off the walls echoed within the court. “There’s no evidence anyone was in the house, right?”
Paul swung, hit the ball. “Right.”
“The door was locked, you didn’t see anyone, you didn’t hear anyone running down the stairs.”
Paul ran to the right side to hit the ball. “Yeah.”
“So no one was there, and you couldn’t have heard what you thought you heard. Which means one of two things. You heard something else that sounds like that typewriter, or you heard it in your head.”
Bill went into the corner for the ball as Paul said, “What else sounds like a manual typewriter?”
“So you dreamed it.”
“I didn’t. I was awake.” He let the ball sail past him.
Bill shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Are we stopping?”
“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” Paul said, looking ashamed to admit it.
“Then let’s stop before I end up killing you.”
“Thanks.”
The court was still theirs, so they stood there as they continued talking. Bill shook his head, struggling on Paul’s behalf for an explanation.
Bill snapped his fingers. “I got it.”
“What?”
“Mice.” Paul rolled his eyes. “No, hear me out. You’ve got mice, and they ran over the keys in the middle of the night.”
“Even for you, that’s pretty dumb. Even if we did have mice, which we don’t, a mouse weighs so little, the key wouldn’t go down. And you’d need an entire troupe of dancing mice to make as much noise as I heard.”
Bill held up his palms in defeat. “Call the Ghostbusters.”
Paul ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t even work up a sweat.” As they turned for the door, Paul said, “I think I’ll move it.”
“What?”
“The typewriter. I’ll put it in the laundry room or something.”
Bill nodded thoughtfully. “That’ll make Charlotte happy. Her special gift relegated to the laundry.”
“Shit.”
“And what, exactly, would that prove? Where’s the logic? If you believe someone, somehow, is breaking in, hiding the typewriter isn’t the answer. A fucking dead bolt is the answer.”
“We’ve got a dead bolt on the door.”
“Windows all secure?”
“Yes.”
“You got an alarm system?”
“No.”
“Maybe that should be your first step. If you still hear keys tapping in the night after that, well, then maybe you really do need the Ghostbusters.” He grinned.
“Who ya gonna call?”
Bill’s face lit up. “Here’s what you do. Roll in a sheet of paper and see if there’s a message in the morning.”
“That’s the strategy of a crazy person,” Paul said.
That night, at dinner, Paul said, “What would you think about our getting a security system?”
“Seriously?” Charlotte said, digging her fork into her salad. “What, you’re getting me a priceless jewel collection?”
“Just asking.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Sure. I can get some recommendations at the agency. But what’s prompted this?”
Paul pressed his lips together hard, debating with himself whether to get into it. His mouth was dry, so he picked up his glass of water and took a long drink. “So you know, that thing with Josh? When I said I heard typing noises in the night?”
“Yeah?”
“I heard it again.”
“The typewriter?”
Paul nodded slowly. “That’s why I was up. I didn’t hear someone at the door. I heard someone on the typewriter.”
Charlotte shrugged. “So you were dreaming. Or, more specifically, having another nightmare. Was it about Hoffman?”
“It was.”
“What happened in it?”
He touched his stomach without thinking about it. “I don’t even want to say.”
“Okay.”
“But... but at the end, he was trying to talk to me, but the sounds coming out of his mouth were like typewriter sounds.”
“So it was a dream.”
“But then I got up. I went to the bathroom. I started hearing it again.”
Charlotte studied him for several seconds. He could see the skepticism in her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything.
But finally, she spoke. “So, if you hear it again, wake me up.”
Paul nodded. “Deal.”
And that night, there was nothing.
Paul lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, waiting for the chit chit chit to begin.
It did not.
When he rose the following morning — he thought he’d finally fallen asleep around five — he was exhausted and bleary-eyed, but also slightly relieved.
But the more he thought about his situation, the less relieved he was. If the typing sounds were imagined, even when he was certain he was fully awake, was his head injury to blame? Were there symptoms the doctor had not discussed with him?
Had he been sleepwalking? Had he been in some kind of trance?
At breakfast, Charlotte said, “So, no tippity-tap last night?”
“No,” he said groggily. “I listened for it all night.”
“Oh, babe, you gotta be kidding. No wonder you look like shit.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like shit, too.”
She went back to the counter and filled a mug from the coffee machine. “I’ve just renewed your prescription.”
He stared into the black liquid and said, “Can you inject this directly into my veins?”
“Look, I gotta go,” she said, leaning in to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Maybe the mystery typist will return tonight and we can all have a drink together.”
Paul didn’t see the humor in the comment.
“What have you got on today?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Just my project.”
After Charlotte had left for work, he continued sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in. He noticed his hand was slightly trembling.
“God,” he said to himself. “You’re a mess.”
The door to his small study was open, and from where he sat, he could see the black Underwood typewriter sitting atop his makeshift desk, dwarfing the laptop next to it, facing in his direction.
The semicircular opening to the cathedral of keys struck Paul as a kind of garish smile.