“Cut it out.”
I spread my hands, palms up, and waited. When she didn’t continue I said, “Do you think someone might have noticed?”
“Yes,” she said in a neutral tone, so I couldn’t tell if she was worried, angry, or only vaguely interested.
“Can you cut and run?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I like it here.”
I looked around elaborately. The streets were lined with trees, mostly oak and sycamore. The houses were working-class one-family dwellings, this one blue, that one yellow, that one green, with nothing to choose among them except lawn ornaments.
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“No.”
“I go into coffee shops and talk with artists who are actually creating something. I go to plays, or movie theaters, and meet people with children who talk about how little Johnny speaks in full sentences and he’s only two years old. I-”
“And you like it?”
“Yes.”
“And now and then you do a convenience store or a bank.”
“When I’m desperate for cash; not often.”
“And lately you’ve been committing indiscretions.”
“That’s right. I think I have it under control now, though.”
“That’s good. Then what do you want me for?”
She looked me in the eyes for the first time. Hers were blue, large, and very, very cold. “As I said, the indiscretions have been noticed.”
“So what do you want me for?”
“Someone has to take the fall,” she said. “It’s going to be you.”
The night whispered around us, alive but indifferent.
Steven Brust
Agyar
TWO
or?gan?ic adj… 2. Of, pertaining to, or derived from living organisms… 4. Having properties associated with living organisms… 6. a. Of or constituting an integral part of something; fundamental; constitutional; structural.
I keep discovering ways in which age affects me. For example, when I was younger and, as I said before, considering a career in journalism, I tried to keep a diary, because this had been recommended to me by a professor at University as a way of training myself, but I could never do it. Yet now I find that, as I go through my day, my thoughts keep coming back to this old typewriting machine and I eagerly await the chance to return to it. I don’t understand the reason for this change, and I haven’t the patience for soul-searching.
I don’t think, though, that it is really the need to set down what happens, as much as it is the act of writing, or typing, itself. There is something soothing in hearing the type bars smack the paper with that hollow, crunching sound, and seeing the black marks appear. They are nice and black, because I found a new ribbon in one of the desk drawers that sits next to this hard wooden chair, and after considerable trouble I managed to get it threaded the right way. Then I had to go wash the ink off my hands, because it seems wrong to soil the keys of this venerable machine.
Yesterday I rushed home after meeting with Kellem and, before anything else, I set it all down as well as I could. The act of doing so was very soothing, more so, it turned out, than telling it all to Jim the ghost, which I did as soon as I was done typing. Yet there were things, important things, that I didn’t remember as I typed them. Some of these came back, however, as I told Jim about the conversation. Why is it that some memories cast themselves naturally into written words, while others must be spoken?
As Jim and I conversed, he played with an old nickel, hole punched in the center, with a thin chain running through the hole. When I had finished, he put it around his neck, under his shirt, and looked at me. He said, “Did she give you any details about what she’d done that you’re supposed to suffer for?”
“There have been some bodies, apparently.”
“Just bodies?”
“What more do you want, zombies?”
“Never seen a zombie.”
“Never hope to see one. But I can tell you, Abercrombie-”
“Not sure I believe in zombies,” said Jim.
“Nor am I. But no, just bodies.”
“What about witnesses?”
“She’s no fool.”
“Then why does she need someone to go down for the killings?”
“She wants the investigations settled before the authorities dig something up, as it were.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose because I’ll confess to them, and that will end it.”
He stared past my shoulder, his eyes wide as the moon and looming like a stereotype. “Why will you do that?”
“Because she told me to.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“No. Orders, as they say, are orders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what they say about Hell hath no fury and all that.”
“You scorned her?”
“No, actually, she scorned me, if you want to look at it that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you love someone who doesn’t love you, you’re in her power, and power is what this is all about. With Kellem, power is always what it is about.”
“And you still love her?”
“No.”
“Then-”
“It’s complicated, Jim.”
He shook his head, still confused. There was no good way to explain it, so I didn’t. He said, “When will it happen?”
“I don’t know. I imagine she hasn’t worked out all the details. It could be tricky for her. I am, as you might guess, overwhelmed with sympathy for her.”
The wind whistled merrily through the wooden slats over the windows on the north side of the house, facing the border of honeysuckle bushes, which are as tall as a man; they died in last year’s drought, but have not yet fallen. Soon they will fall apart, I think, and the wind will whistle merrier still. A cheery place, this old house where Jim the ghost has given me temporary residence.
After a while, Jim said, “I can’t believe there’s nothing you can do.”
“Let’s talk about it outside.”
“You know I can’t-oh.”
I stretched out into the chair and looked at the yellowed ceiling, where shadows from the candle flickered and danced. Jim stood there. I wish he’d sit down sometimes, but I don’t imagine his legs get tired.
“Thing is,” he said a little later, “you sound like you don’t care.”
“Don’t care? No, it’s not that. I don’t want to die, I suppose, but-”
“You suppose?”
“What’s the point of worrying about it? There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I imagine, given a choice, I’d like to go on living, but-”
“You imagine?”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Jim watched me, or at least my chest, without saying anything.
“Should I start a fire?” I said.
“That would be pleasant,” said Jim. “I’m not certain the flue works, however.”
“I’ll check into it,” I said.
“What if someone sees the smoke?”
“There shouldn’t be much if the wood is dry, and there are only a couple of houses across the street. Besides, this area isn’t lighted as well as some.”
The flue was not seriously clogged. I brought some old, rotting firewood in from the old, rotting carriage house, found some newspapers in a neighbor’s trash can, and lit the fire from one of the candles.
“Won’t burn long with those old logs,” said Jim.
“It’s getting late anyway,” I said, stifling a yawn and watching the thickly curling smoke that old bark produces.
“A fire like this wants hot spiced brandy, or cider, or even tea.”
“If you make it,” I said, “I’ll drink it.”
“Don’t have any,” said Jim.
“Me neither.”
A few sparks shot up the chimney and out to defy the winter.
It has been several days now since I felt like coming up here, I guess because there isn’t much satisfaction in talking about how I shower, eat, read the newspapers, and sleep. It’s only when I meet someone and we affect each other that I feel I have anything to write down.