I’ve just come back from spending a few hours visiting our neighbor, Bill. I met him and his infuriating dog again as I was leaving the house, and, once again, the dog nearly went berserk. Bill apologized, and we spoke, and he renewed his offer, and this time I accepted. Their house is about as different from Jim’s as you can imagine for two houses in the same neighborhood. It is from the 1950’s, a style I detest, with low ceilings and space conservation everywhere; although when the forced-air heating system started up I began to see the virtues. It is very simply decorated, mostly with books. I was pleased to see a good number of old, leather-bound editions of Dickens and Hawthorne and such.
The dog wouldn’t settle down, so they put it out in the fenced-in backyard, and showered me with apologies about which I was quite gracious.
His wife’s name is Dorothy (I didn’t ask her if she was from Kansas, although I was tempted), and she’s a bright, slightly dumpy middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair. They tried to feed me and I declined, eventually accepting half a cup of coffee.
We spoke about the college, and he mentioned that he had a new project.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s called the Swaggart Study.”
“From Jimmy Swaggart?”
“No, no, Don Swaggart.”
I kept my face impassive. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s the guy who started the project, over in Sociology.”
“Oh.”
“He died recently, and he was pretty much the main force behind it, so we decided to keep it going in his honor and name it after him.”
“That was thoughtful. An older fellow?”
“No, quite young. He was killed. Some sort of break-in at his house.”
“Really? A shame. Did you know him?”
Bill nodded. “Yes. Very well, in fact.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was a shock. It’s hard to get to be my age without having a close friend die unexpectedly like that, but I’ve managed.”
“I’ve never gotten used to it myself,” I said.
He nodded, then laughed a little. “I still don’t quite believe it. I mean, I’ve read Spider Robinson; people don’t really die. Not dead dead.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
Dorothy offered me some Rondele on crackers which I declined, and then she asked if I had any children.
“No. Do you?” Which was the cue for them to get the pictures out. Lord! They even had a son in the army, stationed in Germany; it was the kind of photograph that makes you think the kid is an officer if you don’t know insignia. They also had a daughter who, judging from her graduation picture, was not unattractive. I started to ask about her, then changed my mind.
The conversation drifted after that. Bill brought up Young Don once or twice more, but I had nothing to say about him, and we eventually worked our way to a discussion of crime in general. I was able to keep a straight face while agreeing with most of what they said.
Then Dorothy said, “The police were over at the house across the street today.”
“Really?” said Bill and I at the same time.
She nodded. “I went out and asked one of the officers what was going on, and he ordered me back in the house.”
“It must have been serious, then,” I said.
Bill nodded. “That’s the real problem with empty houses; you never know who might move in, unofficially.”
“Indeed,” I said. “That is very true.”
A long day today. I went back to see Jill, hoping she might be able to tell me where Young Don got his great ideas. I opened up her door and went in, and found the place full of flowers, a tray next to the bed, a teapot and cup on the tray, and Jill lying sound asleep. Someone had evidently been taking care of her.
I tried to wake her up, but she only moaned a little and, if anything, fell deeper into unconsciousness. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to go, and found Susan in the doorway, looking at me with an expression that seemed puzzled and not entirely happy. I held my smile until I should know what she was about. She didn’t waste any time telling me.
“What have you been doing to Jill?” she said. She looked right at me, her voice and expression without fear or compromise, and I felt the way I suppose the lion feels when confronted by his trainer with whip and chair.
Yet, despite the horrible plunging sensation in my chest, and the odd tingling at the bottoms of my feet and in my palms, I determined not to give up anything more than necessary. I said, “What do you mean?”
“Jill,” she said, “has been lying here all day, hardly waking up for more than five or ten minutes, and she’s been calling your name and moaning.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “she misses me.”
“She’s been moaning ‘no, Jack, please don’t.’ Does that sound like she misses you?”
It came to me that I’d been hearing those very words, in her voice, while I was sleeping. In my dreams I had thought it slightly amusing; now I did not. I groped for a reply, and finally settled on asking “Could she mean, please don’t go?”
“I think not,” said Susan, biting out the words one at a time. She was still looking at me in a manner that was nearly accusing.
My temper began to rise, and I had an almost overpowering urge to take Susan right then, whatever her desires; almost overpowering, not quite. I don’t know what it was that held me back, but for a moment things hung in the balance, and in that time I think Susan saw a side of me I had not intended to show her. At any rate, she took a step backward and watched me the way one might watch a dog whose disposition has not been ascertained.
But this time, the dog only bristled a little. I regained composure, and Susan regained her puzzled look, and she seemed to shake herself as if she weren’t quite certain what it was that she almost saw.
I said, “I can hardly be responsible for her delirium. Have you consulted a doctor?”
She frowned. “No. Do you think I should?”
“Does she seem sick?”
“Look at her.”
“Well, then perhaps calling a doctor would be more productive than accusing me of I know not what crimes against your roommate.”
She took a couple of deep breaths, then nodded. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I’m worried about Jill.”
“Yes. As far as I can tell, you have reason to be.”
“Then should I-?”
“Yes. If she’s still like this tomorrow, I’d call a doctor.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You could do it now, if you’re worried, but I should give it another day.”
She nodded, and I think what had really been bothering her was that she hadn’t quite known what to do with a roommate as sick as Jill apparently was, nor had she had anyone to ask. “Wait another day, you think?” she said again, as if for more reassurance.
“That’s what I’d do, unless she seems to be getting worse.”
“Okay,” she said, relaxing as the decision was made. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Now I frowned. “You look a little pale yourself. Have you eaten today?”
She blinked, as if it were a question that would never have occurred to her. “You know, I don’t believe I have. Are you hungry?”
“No, but I can keep you company. Where shall we go?”
She smiled, and she was the Susan I knew again. “Out,” she said, swinging her arms.
“Shhhh. Don’t wake patient.”
She lowered her voice, but said, “I doubt that I could.”
I led the way. As we locked the front door behind us, she said, “How do you keep getting in without my knowing it? Did Jill give you a key without mentioning it to me?”
“Trade secret,” I said.
“What trade is that? Cat burglar?”
“Yes, although I prefer the technical term.”
“What’s that?”
“Music promoter.”
She laughed. “You aren’t really a promoter, are you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. If I were, I’d give you a contract.”