He winced just a little at the profanity and said, “You forget that I’s a eddicated nigguh.”
“Right. I don’t know how long I’ll be around. Word reached me that an acquaintance was here and wanted to see me. I’ll see what she wants, then be on my way. I prefer bigger cities, in general.”
“Why are you going to her rather than the other way around?”
“She’s older than me.”
“So?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“What are you going to do, kill me?”
I laughed. “Where and what is Howard’s?” I said.
“I don’t know; find a phone book.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Do you have paper and pens here, in case I want to write to her?”
“Better than that, there’s a typewriter in one of the upstairs rooms. Can you type?”
“I used to. I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. There’s paper?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I said, then yawned.
“Tired?”
“Yes. It’s winter. I always get more tired in winter.”
“Seems reasonable. Shall I light the way, suh?”
“With what?”
“Mah two glowin’ eyes.”
“Don’t bother. Just practice up the poltergeist stuff in case anyone tries to wake me.”
“Shore, bawse.”
“Thanks. I’ll double your salary.”
He probably would have said “Shit,” but, as I had already learned, Jim never, ever swore. I went down to my room and slept.
Here it is, less than forty-eight hours since I left this machine, and I’m back here again, though I’m not certain why.
It is always strange to be in the grip of emotion and not know what that emotion is. Or, to put it another way, to have been through the sort of experience that ought to engender a strong response, to be waiting to feel that response. I’m not sure if I want to set it down at all, yet I feel the need to tap on these keys. It’s addicting, I think, this business of putting one word after another. Byron mentioned something about that once while he was sick from taking too much of some drug or another.
I got up several hours before the appointed hour, so I showered, brushed my teeth (the house, though deserted, has its own well, the pump of which still works), got dressed, then found a flower shop just as it was closing. The proprietor took pity and invited me in, and I ordered a bunch of purple roses to be sent to Jill. I toyed with having a cactus sent to young Don, and I might have done so if I’d known how to reach him.
I took a turn around part of the city, getting to know it the way as a young man I’d gotten to know the twists and turns and buildings at University. I listened in on a few private conversations, just because they were there, but heard nothing worth the trouble of repeating. Eventually I found a phone booth. The difference between Lakota and Staten Island can be expressed in the fact that the phone booth had a city directory in it, looking as if there was no reason for it not to be there. I looked up the address of Howard’s, asked directions of a young man getting into a blue ’86 Ford Pinto, and set out for Woodwright Avenue, called the Ave, which was in the sort of funky part of town, called the Tunnel, that lies between two of the colleges.
Howard’s turned out to be a nightclub on the Ave with a fake wood front and a covered entryway complete with doorman and red carpet, just like in a real city. I think it is what they call “trendy.” A useful word. Whenever the door opened I could hear nonthreatening jazz creep hesitantly out onto the street, then change its mind and slink back inside when the door closed. To my eyes, Kellem blended into the scene the way Bette Midler would have blended into a monastery, yet no one seemed to notice her.
It’s funny how I’d forgotten so much of what she looked like. She is about five feet ten inches tall, has red hair and the pale complexion that goes with it. Her face is thin, with strong bones and very bright blue eyes. She had a thin red scarf wrapped around her throat. Her camel-colored coat was thick, elegant, and short. Beneath it she wore dark trousers and low boots. What I noticed right away, however, was that she had a few bald patches on top of her head. I couldn’t imagine what would cause that, but I made up my mind not to ask unless she brought it up. In any case, the patrons didn’t notice either one of us much.
She saw me at about the same time I saw her, and walked up to meet me. “Agyar,” she said.
“Kellem.”
“How long have you been in town?”
“A little more than a month.”
“Really? It took you a while to find a place?”
“Yes. I didn’t know you were in a hurry.”
“I’m not. But you’re settled in now?”
“Pretty well.”
“Good. Hungry?”
“No. You?”
“Always.” She smiled without humor. “But let’s just walk and talk.”
“Sure. Your place?”
“Funny, Agyar.
“You know where I live.”
“That’s different, as you well know.”
I shrugged. “Lead on, then.”
She did, taking us a block away from the Ave, onto a side street called Drewry where there was no traffic and most of the houses already had their lights out. Someone once told me it never really got cold in Northeastern Ohio, but either that someone lied or he was Canadian. A pair of squirrels woke up as we walked by their tree, then went back to sleep. Mama raccoon ducked back into her sewer. She smelled like the rats had.
“Any trouble finding a place to stay?” asked Laura.
I shrugged. “As I said, I took my time. There was no problem keeping everything locked up in the train depot.”
“How did you come across the house?”
“I just walked around and listened to gossip. I heard about Carpenter deserting a house, tracked him down, got invited to a party, found out where the house was, and moved my things in. I had no trouble gaining entry, because no one lived there. So to speak.”
She chuckled. “Does Carpenter know?”
“No.”
“Well, thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I had nothing pressing. What’s on your mind?”
“Settling down.”
“Not a bad idea. I’ve done it myself, once or twice.”
“Do you believe in omens?”
“Does the Pope believe in bears?”
“What about dreams?”
“Dreams. I’m not certain about dreams. Why?”
“I’ve been having some odd ones.”
“What about?”
“Children. That is, my own.”
“Have you any?”
“Not in the conventional sense.”
“And that’s the sort you’ve been dreaming of?”
“Yes.”
“And it seems significant?”
“Very.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not going to live forever, you know.”
“An axiom, Kellem, without substance.”
“Maybe, but that’s not how it’s been feeling.”
“Is that why you’ve brought me out here? Because you’ve been having dreams?”
“I brought you out here because I knew how to reach you, and I needed to reach someone.”
“To talk about your dreams?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well?”
There were a pair of kids, a boy and a girl, both about seventeen, across the street talking about what they were going to do when the year ended. She’d go to school in town, probably at Twain, and he was going to apply to MIT in Boston. The calendar year would be ending in another few weeks, but I decided they probably meant the school year. That was all right, one is as arbitrary as the other, and the year as measured by the progression of seasons doesn’t really mean anything in a city. Their conversation faded into the background din of man and nature, who keep changing each other and making noise while doing so.
“The dreams have been affecting me,” she said. “I’ve done some strange things.”
“Taken chances?”
“All of that.”
“What sort of chances?”
“The sort you take when you’re desperate, and not really in control of your actions.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I’m not sure.”
“If you want help, you must tell Doctor Agyar-”