The last time she'd felt so consumed by a story, Galilee had been the man telling it-
She looked at the journal again, without touching it; at the way the words were neatly laid on the page. Too neatly perhaps. Was this the diary of a man who was living out these experiences, and hours later setting them down? Or had this all been constructed after the fact, by a man who'd been tutored in the art of telling a tale? Tutored by a man who loved stories; who told them as seductions.
"No…" she said to herself. No, this was not the same man; once and for all, there were two Galilees: one in the journal, the other in her memory. She looked at the teasing words again:
Haw shall I say what happened to me then?
It was a clever bluff, that sentence. The writer knew exactly how he was going to say what happened to him; he had the words ready. But it made those words seem more true, didn't it, if they appeared to come from a man uncertain of his own skills? She felt a spasm of revulsion for the story, and for her own complicity in its deceits. She'd gorged on it, hadn't she? Lapped up every decadent detail, as though this other life could give her dues to her own.
So far, it had shown her nothing of any real value. Yes, it had titillated her with its Gothic nonsenses; its tales of ghost children and unearthed limbs, but these scenes in the house had gone too far. She didn't believe it any longer. It might pass itself off as history, but it was a fabrication; its excesses made it absurd.
She was still angry with herself when she went to bed, and she couldn't sleep. After an hour and a half lying in an uneasy doze she got up, popped a sleeping pill, and went back to bed to try again. The pill turned out to be a bad idea. Something in her simply didn't want to rest, and her body fought the soporific. When she finally succeeded in falling asleep for a few minutes her head was filled with a chaotic rush of fragments, from which she woke in an aching sweat, with such a dread upon her, such a pro found, wrenching dread, that she had to get up again, turn on the light and talk herself back into a semblance of calm. She padded down to the kitchen, made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea and returned to the journal. What was the use of trying to resist it, she thought as she sat down in the circle of lamplight and turned her eyes to the page. Nonsense or not, it had her in its grip, and she couldn't be free of it until it had finished with her.
Halfway across town, lying awake in his bed, Cadmus Geary thought of his beloved Louise, and of those days of dalliance that sometimes seemed so far off they'd happened in another life and at others, as tonight, seemed to have taken place just a few days ago, the memory was so clear. What a beauty she had been! Entirely deserving of his devotion. Of course she was playing hard to get tonight, but that was one of the prerogatives of beauty; all he could do was stay close to her, and hope she saw his sincerity.
"Louise…" he murmured.
A man's voice answered. "There's nobody called Louise here," it said quietly.
His faint condescension irritated Cadmus. "I know that," he snapped. He reached for his spectacles which were on the bedside table.
"You want some water?" the man said.
"No, I want to see who the hell I'm talking to."
"It's Mitchell."
"Mitchell?" His fumbling fingers had found his spectacles, and he put them on, peering at his grandson through the thumbed glass. "What time is it?"
"It's the middle of the night."
"So what are you doing here?"
"We've been talking, on and off."
"Have I been making any sense?"
"Of course," Mitchell reassured him. This was not strictly true. Though the old man had been more coherent than Garrison had reported, he was still in a semidelirious state much of the time. "You've been sleeping, on and off."
"Talking in my sleep?"
"Yes," Mitchell said. "Nothing scandalous. You've just been calling for this woman Louise."
Cadmus sank back into the pillow. "My lovely Louise," he sighed. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me." He dosed his eyes. "What are you waiting for?" he said. "You've got to have something better to be doing than sitting here. I'm not planning to die just yet."
"I didn't think you were."
"So go have a party. Get drunk. Fuck your wife, if she'll let you."
"She won't." ,
"Then fuck somebody else's wife." He opened his eyes again and laughed, the sound like the hiss of escaping air. "That's more fun anyway."
"I'd prefer to be here with you."
"Would you really?" the old man said incredulously. "Either I'm more interesting than I thought or you're even duller." He raised his head an inch or so and peered at his grandson. "You got the looks didn't you, Mitch? I mean, you really are a handsome fellow. But… you're not as bright as your mother and you're not as honest as your father, and that's a pity, because I had some hopes for you."
"Help me then."
"Help you?"
"Tell me how you want me to be, and I'll work at it."
"You can't work at it," Cadmus said, his tone close to contempt. "Just get on with what you've got. Nobody blames you. It's the luck of the draw." He settled his head back on his pillow, delicately, as though his skull was cracked. "Are you here alone?" he said.
"There's a nurse…"
"No. I mean your brother."
"Garrison's not here."
"Good. I don't want him here." He closed his eyes. "We've all done things we regret, but… but… oh Lord, oh Lord…" He shivered a little.
"Should I get another blanket for you?"
"It doesn't help. I'm just cold and there's nothing to be done about it. What I want is my Louise…" He made a puckish little smile. "She'd warm me up."
"I don't know who you're talking about."
"Your wife… resembles my Louise… did you know that?"
"Really?"
"We have that much in common, at least. A taste in beauty."
"Where is she now?" Mitchell said.
"Your wife?" Cadmus said. "You don't know where your wife is?" He made another laugh. "That was a joke, Mitchell."
"Oh."
"I don't remember you being so humorless."
"Things have changed. I've changed."
"Well, don't lose your sense of humor. In the end it may be all you've got. Christ knows, it's all I've got." Mitchell started to protest, but the old man hushed him. "Don't tell me how deeply loved I am because I know better. I'm an inconvenience. I'm standing between you and your inheritance."
"We just want to do our best for the family," Mitchell said.
"We meaning…?"
"Garrison and myself."
"Since when was murder a smart thing to do?" Cadmus said, with agonizing sloth. "All your brother has brought this family is shame. Shame. I'm ashamed of my own grandchildren."
"Wait-" Mitchell protested. "That was all Garrison. I had nothing to do with what happened to Margie."
"No?"
"Absolutely not. I loved Margie."
"She was like a sister to you."
"She was."
"You don't understand how it could have happened. It's a tragedy. Poor Margie, poor drunken Margie. What did she ever do to deserve it?" He bared his brown teeth. "You want to know what she did? I'll tell you what she did. She gave birth to a nigger, and your big brother never forgave her that."
"What?"
"You didn't know? She had Galilee's kid. At least, that's what Garrison thought. How could it be his? I mean, he's a Geary. So how could it be his, a little black fuck of a thing?"
"I don't understand."