— That's not the point, JJ objects.
— What is the point? Is this any business of yours really? I ask.
The disconsolate woman's cheeks look pinched, JJ and the Wineman are uncomfortable, shifting in place, and my skin is burning even in the cold.
— It's for the good of us all, JJ finally exhorts, not to engage in hocus pocus. It's ridiculous.
We stand there, in the cold night, the wind whipping us, they in a semicircle, I'm the isolate across from the group, but in at least two minds, one, I must assuage them, the other, I must ignore, pummel, or maybe vanquish them, though this seems extreme, so first I attempt the former with an appeal to history, specifically to the psychic or parapsychological history of the Rotunda Room, where spirit photography sessions took place, where seances were held, which celebrated poets attended, and this pleases the disconsolate young woman, whose grasp of history is likely meager and who, I have just been forced to acknowledge, is inflamed with jealousy about my relationship with the Count, which now threatens my peace of mind. I believe JJ is somewhat mollified.
— Think of it as theater, I say directly to JJ, courting her.
The demanding man is immune to my discourse or infuriated and scolds that the room's history makes no difference, it was shameful doings then, it still is, and this silliness will bring disgrace, and even haunts us now.
— It is silly and evil, he sums up.
— How can something silly be evil? I ask him.
He repeats his denunciation: the past infects us, haunts us in very bad ways. I again appeal to history, a recourse that's generally a cheap trick, but I started it and can exploit it, with interest accruing from his old chestnut, since if the past haunts the present, I can press for its validity, for if a notion holds, if it remains resilient from one century to the next and impresses us still, then there must be something to it. With this, which isn't necessarily true, the fretful woman looks as if she will explode with fury at me, the dispute, and her colleagues, she is certainly not the ringleader, and, unable to bear one more second of it, she shouts:
— All right, all right, we've said it, let's go, for God's sake.
They stride away in three different directions.
I'm left alone in front of my residence, gazing at the peerless, black sky with its uncountable stars, or dead planets, not thinking about stars in ways that interest me, until I can drag myself from my arrested position. I return to my bedroom, first carefully opening the door and then impetuously slamming it shut, where on the bureau my crystal ball and potions greet me silently, like my young wild cat who stands by the door when I come home, in the place I call home, and sometimes runs out, either to escape his fate or to play. Impulsively, I upturn the ball and watch the fake snow whirl and occlude the scene. I should prepare mentally for the seance, but I'm much less composed than before, after their hyperbolic and anxious warnings, readying me for tragedy or a flaunting of fate that might bring ruin, but I'm more intent upon it, not just because I'm obstinate and know my rights, or because it may be foolish or disreputable, all of those things, and, now in addition, by attending, I will solicit chance, which written history excludes regularly, but which art, science, and design count on, since mistakes or accidents pry open spaces for imaginative endeavors and uncover clues or keys, good and bad, for, as my design teacher insisted, "There are never stupid mistakes, only mistakes whose potential isn't recognized." I'm grabbing an opportunity or the ring of chance, exposing myself to risk, of what nature I'm not sure, nevertheless I visualize the righteous assembly again, the demanding man fulminating about evil, their stern faces, and, as I do, undress and dress again fast, pulling on the slightly wrinkled but soft trousers, with my lucky Bauhaus button in the pocket, change my sweater to a purplish black, gentle lambswool and cashmere pullover, no buttons, no hooks, nothing to catch, and, looking down, I slip on and tie my patent leather and suede oxfords, while admiring their sleek lines. Even here, where I'm to rest and move on with my life in any way I see fit, I can't take a step that isn't blocked or threatened by others' opinions or irrational responses, by characters who never admit their failings or the deficiencies in their behavior, that their children are cruel, that their feelings can be dumb, that their experiences and emotions don't trounce everyone else's and can't be recounted as gospel, that their dogs are vicious, like the ones who attacked a cat and whose owner thought domestic cats should fend for themselves rather than her leashing her aggressive, territorial dogs, that people mostly don't listen, that they lie easily and fart, that they cover up and connive and will do anything to survive, rationalizing every sorry action, and those who don't are martyrs and fanatics, and, regrettably, I have my lapses, remorse flagellates me, it's my melancholic whip, because I can't stop, but the fault can lie outside me in human and other obstacles, though the tarot card reader said I would meet an obstacle or person who would change my life soon, or maybe, I believe, I will overcome an obstacle, which could be embodied in a person. Still, I might be impeded by powerful or petty ambitions not my own, and, by the stars, I suppose, whose description is frequently prosaic and certainly inadequate, whose capacity for prediction or prophesy is beyond my comprehension and which I don't accept. There are rumors, they abound, but few songs of ruin worth mentioning or remembering.
It's close to midnight on a dark and stormy night, and with this oddly reassuring allusion, I slip into my warm, virgin-wool black coat, down to my ankles, wrap my battleship-gray cashmere scarf around my neck twice, and march outside, hoping to suspend disbelief, since I don't hold it in abeyance for other performances, unless they are awful, but I want mindlessness and mindfulness, too. I'm less worried about which residents will attend, as some of the worst have announced their disdain, so I can expect a congenial crew who have fewer prejudices, less fear, or more curiosity and recondite wishes. No one is in the main room, all the lights but one are out, I can't see any of the photographs and paintings on the wall, there are some embers burning in the grand fireplace, and without hesitating I start toward the stairway to the Rotunda Room. I'm excited and scared, the way I was entering kindergarten, but then I walked beside my mother who left me at the door and didn't accompany me into the classroom to meet the new teacher, the way the other mothers did, I had to push open the heavy door and present myself alone, but my mother doesn't remember this incident, along with mostly everything about me, except that I did things fast, and now she has little short-term memory through no fault of her own, but my mother remembers her name, my name, that her husband left her alone, and also our family cat, but not that she, without mercy, put the cat and my dog to death.
Birdman crouches, in shadow, at the bottom of the stairs, he's just driven in from the airport, returned from Italy, and smiles beatifically, showing his gold-capped front tooth, reminding me that he is mostly a happy man, seemingly not oppressed by severe complexes, except that he must care for any sick bird he finds, that he is driven, day and night, by worry for animals, sometimes he has become ill, his intestines in a twist for weeks, bordering on colitis, about the fate of a wounded baby sparrow or precious falcon hawk, and he buys worms or whatever food they eat and nurses them as if he'd birthed them. Birdman, or Desmond, lean, blond, and tall, his oval face set off by large navy-blue eyes, with dark lashes, his fingers long and graceful, has a good complexion, though somewhat sallow, but his skin is leathery from exposure to the elements, he probably doesn't moisturize his skin as many men do. He asks why the lights upstairs are on, and I explain what's happening, concerned about his response, since he might take exception, too, but he appears not to care.