He had drooping mustaches and a scraggling black beard. Small dark eyes blinked at Pat through reddened lids and very thick glasses. He wore the inevitable jeans and a torn blue T-shirt with " Arizona State " printed on the front. Pat liked him. He had a nice smile and a firm handclasp, and he had had the courtesy to put out his cigarette when she came in, though the room still reeked with the sickly, cloying smell of marijuana.
"I didn't realize you were having a party," she said apologetically. "You should have told Mark."
Jay looked blankly at the other guests, a round dozen or more, who were disporting themselves on the pillows in various uncouth poses. One young man, his dirty blond hair streaming down his back, was trying to coax music out of a battered guitar.
"It's no party," Jay said. "Just… you know. Sit down, Mrs. Robbins. Uh, wait a minute." One hand swept the dog off the sofa; the other gestured at the vacated seat, with a grace worthy of a Spanish don. Pat sat down and Jay continued hospitably, "Let me get you something. Uh…" From his facial contortions Pat deduced that he was rapidly and despairingly running through a mental list of available refreshments.
"Beer?" she suggested, picking what she assumed to be the least evil of the possibilities. Jay's face brightened. "Right," he said.
Kathy and Mark were sitting on the floor listening to the guitarist. Mark had given her a lecture on how she was to behave as they walked down the street; she could have done without it, but she was doing her best to present the proper image.
Josef had refused to come. He had work to do, if nobody else did, he had remarked austerely. At least he had agreed to work at her house, instead of returning to his own. She wasn't quite sure she could trust him, but she intended to return long before the witching hour.
It took Jay some time to bring her beer, and when she saw the damp glass he proffered with naive pride she knew he had had to search for a glass, and wash it. His usual guests probably drank from the can. She sipped the beer and tried not to shudder. She didn't really like beer, and this was not a good brand.
"It's nice you could come," Jay said, squatting on the floor beside her. The dog had returned to the sofa and was sprawled beside Pat. "I've been trying to get up nerve enough to visit you; I mean, your house is really fascinating. But I didn't want, you know…"
"That was thoughtful."
"Oh, well, like, you know-" Jay waved his can of beer. Some liquid slopped over onto the dog, which roused itself and licked its stomach appreciatively.
"I meant to visit the historical association too," Pat said. "You know how it is; when you live in a town, you never see the important sights."
"Well, I wouldn't say the building is that much of a historic landmark," Jay said. "It isn't as old as some of the houses in town. But it was donated and, well, you know how it is. You should have seen the place when I took it over. What a mess! The old guy who had been curator for like a hundred years had good intentions, like, but he was just too old for the job-lately, I mean. I've been working my-I mean, I've been putting in fourteen hours a day since I started, just getting the library more or less in order."
Pat realized that for all his uncouth appearance Jay was interested in his subject and was probably good at it. She made encouraging noises, and Jay went on, "You really ought to come over and look at some of the material on your house. It's interesting. And up till six months ago you couldn't have even found it. I mean, like, it was buried."
"What kind of material?" Pat asked. This was almost too easy. But her house was one of the genuine historic landmarks, and it was not surprising that Jay should be intrigued by it.
"Odds and ends," Jay said vaguely. "You know the family that owned your place was named Bates. Old Miss Betsy Bates, she was the last; she lived there till she was, like, eighty years old. Wouldn't sell or rent, and the place was falling down around her ears. Her relatives, they were some kind of cousins, tried to get her to move out and go to an old folks' home, but she wouldn't do it. Not that they cared whether she lived or died, they wanted to sell the house while it was still in one piece. They even tried to get her declared incompetent. But the judge, he was the son of an old boyfriend of hers, and he wouldn't do it."
"The house was in bad shape when we bought it," Pat said.
"So I was told. I hear you and your husband did a great job of restoration."
"Jerry did it, not I. You must come and see it."
"Hey, could I?" His eyes shone with genuine antiquarian fervor. "I'll show you some of the Bates family stuff. Miss Betsy left it to the historical association instead of to her relatives. They were pretty mad. Tell you what, I'll let you borrow the family papers. They're not supposed to leave the library, but what the hell, you'd take good care of them."
"I would, of course; but maybe you shouldn't-"
"There's an old photo album that will give you a real charge," Jay went on, warming to his subject. "You know Mr. Bates, the first owner, was some kind of government official during the Civil War."
"Was he?"
"Uh-huh. Kind of unusual, because he wasn't especially important locally. Maybe Lincoln was trying to get in good with the abolitionists."
"Are you sure Bates was an abolitionist?" Pat asked. Mark had insisted on this very point, but she had shared Josef's skepticism. The confirmation of Mark's hunch made her vaguely uneasy.
Jay nodded vigorously.
"Yeah, I'm sure. And his son was in the Union army. Got a bunch of medals."
"What regiment?" asked a voice. Pat turned and saw that her son had crawled across the floor to join them. He was listening avidly.
"I forget. You could look it up."
"I'll come over tomorrow," Mark said.
"But tomorrow is Sunday," Pat protested.
"Yeah, I can't tomorrow; I've got a date to go sailing," Jay said.
"Come over for a drink afterwards," Mark said. "Maybe you could bring the Bates records with you."
"You're as subtle as a sledgehammer," Jay said, without rancor. "If you're that anxious, I just might be persuaded to lend you the stuff, before I take off… If you'll tell me why this sudden passion for history."
"Term paper," Mark said. "It's already overdue."
This was no explanation and no excuse, and Pat knew it as well as the two men, who exchanged looks of mutual suspicion.
"We really would like to have you drop in, Jay," she said, feeling embarrassed, though why she should be she did not know; she had had ample evidence of the strange manners of the youth subculture, and it was clear that Jay had not taken offense. With a genuinely charming smile he patted her hand.
"Look, Mrs. Robbins, you're a nice lady and someday I would like to see your house. But not tomorrow. I won't be back till late, and I can see Mark is putting you on the spot. How about another beer?"
She accepted, out of appreciation of his thoughtfulness, and Jay swiveled on his haunches, preparing to rise. As he did so he caught sight of Kathy, who had been sitting modestly behind Mark. His eyes narrowed.
"I've seen you someplace before," he said. "I thought when you came in you looked familiar, but… Damn, I almost had it."
"You probably have seen me around," Kathy said. "I live in Halcyon House, next door to Mrs. Robbins."
"Speaking of houses I'd like to see…" Jay's voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he continued to pursue the elusive memory. Eventually he shrugged. "No, I can't remember. But I've seen you somewhere-and it wasn't on Magnolia Drive."
The room was filling up as more and more people arrived at the non-party. Jay returned with Pat's beer but he was soon occupied with the newcomers, and before long Pat was able to make her excuses and depart. She had expected some argument from Mark, but he seemed even more anxious than she to leave. As the three of them walked down the dark, spring-scented street, Mark betrayed himself.
"Of all the worn-out lines," he said bitterly. " 'Where have I seen you before, chick?' I thought that one went out with high-buttoned shoes."