I was not proud, then, that in my frustration I allowed my animal nature to guide me, and as I sat in this room a few scant hours ago and felt sleep overtaking me, I believed that I had come to terms with this nature, and could face Susan’s actions as a rational man. But, as I slept, the animal returned, for as I dreamed my mind created images of Susan and Jennifer; what they might be doing together, the things that perhaps they would say-difficult, because I do not know Jennifer’s appearance, nor do I ever wish to. In the end, I lay awake, unable to move, unable to control my thoughts. Would I care as much if her lover were a man? Would I care more? I cannot tell; all of the tremblings of rage, of fear, of hurt, and of confusion cry out for some sort of action; experience tells me that anything I do from such a motive will diminish me in my own eyes. It seemed to be hours that I lay there alone with these thoughts, gnashing my teeth and cursing under my breath.
When at last I was able to rise, I came back to my typewriting sanctuary, to set down these thoughts, hoping the expression would be the cure. There is no question that it is moods that guide me, much more than thought, and I am not happy in this realization.
Today, therefore, I shall avoid Susan, and I shall likewise avoid doing anything that I am driven to do by any impetus save cold, logical thought. I will remain in this room for hours if necessary, typing if I feel the need, pacing if that seems helpful. I will conquer this demon ere the night falls.
The brash coals of reason
Linger long once passion’s edge
Has curled the kindling paper black and brown;
And elected, for a season,
To stammer, halt, and hedge;
The smoke billows, ashes blow around
And inspect each nook before they kiss the ground.
I can’t believe the coals will burn,
I can’t believe they’ll die,
I long to track the rising, fading gray
Remains that twist and turn
And melt into the sky;
If heart and mind were one I’d surely stay;
If the coals were out I’d surely go away.
I slept well and without dreams, except that I knew, somehow, that Jill was feeling better. I resolved to pay her a visit to celebrate her recovery, as it were, and I further determined that I would neither avoid Susan nor seek her out; my feelings toward her remain ambivalent but not hostile.
It was in this mood, then, that I arrived at Jill’s home. I debated for some few moments whether to knock, with the attendant risk of meeting Susan, or simply to enter, but in the end I struck the knocker, and to my surprise, it was Jill who let me in; Jill who was now dressed, and seemed largely restored to health; Jill who, upon seeing me, stared at me with wide eyes, and opened the door with trembling hand; Jill who, after I had entered, closed the door behind me and stood looking at me, as if waiting for a signal.
I felt the warmth of hunger fall on me like the first stirrings of love, and I motioned her to me; she came obediently enough. I tried to be careful with her, so as not to cause a relapse. I brought her up to her bed and laid her down carefully. Her eyes, which had been closed, fluttered open. It was only then that I remembered that I had some questions I had wanted to ask her. She appeared healthy, except that her breathing was the slightest bit rapid and maybe deeper than usual.
“Jill,” I said softly.
She looked at me and waited, placidly.
“A few days ago, you and Young Don conspired against me.” Tears sprang up in her eyes, I suppose at the mention of Don; I felt a flare of temper, and, at the same time, noticed from the widening of her eyes that she seemed suddenly afraid; I suppose thinking that I intended further revenge upon her. I said, “Do you remember?”
She barely nodded.
I said, “Did Don tell you what to do to your room?”
She nodded again.
“How did he learn?”
She frowned at me, as if she didn’t understand the question. I said, “Did he say anything, anything at all, that could tell me how he found out what to do?”
She struggled for a moment, then said in a whisper, “He said he…” and her voice trailed off. For a moment I thought she had fainted, for her eyes rolled in her head and then closed, but when I shook her slightly they opened again.
I repeated the question. She said, “He said he had found someone who understood these things.”
“Didn’t you ask him who?”
She nodded.
“Well?” I said.
“He said it was a woman.”
For some reason, my thoughts jumped instantly to Kellem, although that didn’t make sense. I said, “Did he give you her name?”
She shook her head.
“Didn’t he say anything about her at all?”
“No,” she said. “I asked, but all he said was that she was sickening.”
“Sickening?”
She nodded.
“That was the word he used?”
She nodded again.
I frowned. An odd way to describe someone who-
Oh. I laughed then, because it was funny. Sickening. Yes, indeed.
I left her sleeping peacefully. Then, in spite of my good intentions, I knocked on Susan’s door, but there was no answer, and I heard no one breathing within, so I returned home. I am filled with a sort of nervous energy and wish I knew whither to direct it. I want to find Susan and talk to her; I want to do something about Kellem, I want to pursue these hints I received from Jill. Instead, I sit here and I type.
But, all right, so there is some “sickening” person (that really is a delightful joke) who knows a few things that are better forgotten; that doesn’t mean she’s out there, staying up nights thinking of ways to get me. There are too many stories of men running headlong into their fate in an effort to avoid it. I will disregard her for now, and merely note her existence for later use.
Note: don’t forget sickening woman.
There. It’s noted.
And now, by all the angels of the pit, I’ve had enough of this. I am going back there, and if Susan isn’t in, I will wait; and then I don’t know. I think, in any case, that I can be certain I won’t do anything that
As I look at the bottom of the last page I typed, I cannot for the life of me think how I meant to end that last sentence. But that was yesterday, and a great deal has happened since then. None of it really important, I suppose, but interesting nevertheless. I was typing away gayly, speculating on going to visit Susan, when I heard the sounds of the door being forced. At almost the same time, Jim appeared in front of me.
“Jack,” he said.
“Yes, the door.” I was already rising and looking for a place to hide the sheaf of papers. “Is it the police?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “They didn’t bother knocking.”
“They might think we’re armed and dangerous.”
“They might.”
I decided it would take too long to hide the papers, so I had to be contented with hiding myself and them along with me, which I did by entering the closet of my sanctuary and pulling myself up through the little rectangular door in the ceiling and so up into the attic. I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay there long; it was even colder than the room, there being no insulation to speak of; hadn’t Professor Carpenter ever heard of energy conservation?
There were still those boxes of books, and I found Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain and amused myself with it for a while. After a wait of perhaps twenty minutes, Jim came up to the attic, passing through the trap door and sitting next to me on one of the horizontal struts that were the only floor the attic had.
“I wonder why they never finished this,” I said. “It could be a good, usable area.”