Agyar

SIX

Several days have passed since I was last in front of my typewriting machine, and I’m finally beginning to feel a little better. The trauma didn’t hit until I tried to get up again the day after I was shot; I collapsed, and lay like a corpse until I fell asleep again several hours later. The next day, when Jim looked in on me, I was hardly able to respond to him. He seemed worried, but what could he do? More days passed in this way, though I’m not certain how many. Yesterday I felt that I might be starting to recover but I didn’t want to press my luck. Today I managed to rise and, after a moment or two, stumble up to my typing room. I need to at least be doing something or I shall go mad.

I am feeling weak and lethargic, but not too bad other than that.

I think I will rest some more now, and tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, I will be about my business. Seeing Jill I must put off for another day or two, but it is high on my list, and then-

Jim and I have had a pleasant enough chat. I told him what had happened with Jill and Don, and he has told me some of his own history, which I’d set down here but I don’t remember enough of the details to make it worthwhile; it is detail that makes a story interesting.

He asked me of my own history, and I told some of it, though in no particular order; because the recollections that come bubbling forth from my memory like water from a fountain don’t seem to want to emerge in any recognizable pattern; although, now that I think of it, I’ve been relating the day-to-day events of these past weeks very much in order; but that’s merely a matter of setting down what has just happened and isn’t at all the same.

For example, when I think of Laura Kellem, what I get are images of her face, or pieces of conversation that might have happened any time during the years we’ve known each other, or parts of the strange dreams I used to have after we’d first met. That was, I believe, while I was in my third year at University. A friend-his name escapes me-had invited me out to a tavern, and, as was our custom, after a few pints we went stalking through those areas that the painted ladies, as we called them, were known to frequent. Now, in all honesty, neither of us had ever indulged ourselves in spending time or money on these ladies. I don’t know why we never did, whether it was fear of some blot that would follow us around, fear of certain diseases that clergymen and professors would hint at but never name, or merely want of courage, but it is nevertheless the case; on the other hand we both took a strange thrill in passing them by and hearing them speak to us in the cadences of their profession, voices both hard and soft, forbidding and promising.

At first, I thought Kellem was such a one, as I recall seeing her leaning with ease and confidence against the filthy wall of a boarding house in an area where no lady would venture alone; yet I realized that her ankles were decently covered, and she wore a hat, and her dress, though hanging much straighter than was fashionable (most ladies were wearing hoops), was not such as one of the painted ladies would wear, being made of some fabric of dark green with flounces, a bright yellow ribbon hanging down the front, and a small bit of white lace about the collar and the sleeves.

I was intrigued at once by the character shown on her face. I can still remember the way she appeared as if she were in command of the street, as if no one could possibly question her right to be there or make any insinuations about her, much less accost her unpleasantly; and there was, at the same time, a glint of humor in her eyes as if all she saw amused her. I did not then understand it, though I do now.

My first thought was that she had a far more interesting face than Prudence, to whom I had recently become engaged; my second was to reproach myself for thinking such things. It was because of that, no doubt, that, as we walked by, I sent her a look of scorn, as if she were, indeed, what I had first taken her for. To this day I don’t know if that look annoyed her or amused her, but, at all events, she called out to me as I went by.

“Young man,” she said, in a voice at once melodious and sharp, like the timbre of a flute without the breathiness.

We stopped, my friend and I (his name was Richard, I now recall), stopped and looked at each other, then at her. I bowed slightly and said, “Yes, madam?”

For a moment she just stared at me, smiling a secret smile, and the moment grew to the point where I became uncomfortable, although I found her eyes fascinating, as if they had a mysterious pull that promised rapture beyond the limitations of earthly lust or heavenly love. At last she said, “I have become lost, I’m afraid. Would you mind escorting me home?”

Richard and I looked at each other once more, but, after all, she was clearly a lady; how could we refuse? We placed her between us, and she took my arm and we began walking in I know not what direction. Nor, now that I think of it, do I know what became of Richard that night; I do not believe it has ever occurred to me until now to wonder how she managed to get me to her rooms alone without giving either Richard or me any suspicion that anything out of the ordinary was happening. I don’t believe that Richard ever even spoke of the event; it was as if he’d forgotten it had happened; and I certainly never brought it up. But Richard, and, for that matter, Prudence, all begin to fade from memory at about that same time, so I cannot be certain.

All in all, it was a simple and elegant seduction. I’ve done it many times, and perhaps as well, though certainly never better.

I have discovered a place called Flannery’s, located on Terrace, near Fullerton, which is right on the edge of Little Philly. They have a strip bar in front, the sort where the strippers are forty-year-old women wearing caked-on makeup in hopes that a myopic drunk will think they’re college girls and tip accordingly. The drink prices are high, but not as high as the bars where the college girls do “lingerie shows.”

In any case, they have a back room where one can play poker. It is a typical arrangement: the house supplies the dealer, takes five percent of each pot, makes sure there’s a waitress around, and other than that the players are left alone. I was down to a couple of hundred dollars when I started; I left with a little less than three thousand.

Playing cards isn’t the easiest way I know to get the money I need to make life comfortable, but I think it is my favorite. I’m careful at first; staying with small pots and folding if I’m not sure. But after about an hour I get so I can pretty well see who has what, and by the time I’ve been playing with the same people for two hours, I cannot be fooled, or “bluffed” in the parlance of the game.

An experienced dealer can tell at once if there is so much as one card missing from the deck, but after he’s been sitting with me for a couple of hours I can stop worrying. Yet even though I cannot be bluffed, and even though I might have a nine of diamonds waiting to be slipped in where needed, still, every hand is different and I never know what kind of luck I am going to have. Or, to put it another way, I know I’m not going to lose, but I enjoy the process of discovering exactly how I’m going to win.

One of the waitresses, a tall redhead with an odd trace of Latino in her face, started noticing me after a few hours and being especially nice; I guess she was watching the pile of money in front of me grow. By this time the bar was closed, and there were only two waitresses working the four tables of card players. I tipped her well, and returned some of her inane banter, but I realized, as I was beginning to think about leaving, that I had no interest in her at all.

There were ugly looks when I left; it’s that sort of place; and the waitress seemed disappointed, but I left the bar alone. I walked through the heart of Little Philly, which is an area I’d heard talk about, and noticed from newspaper accounts as being dangerous. It seemed quiet enough to me; there were more police cruisers than anything else, and it had none of the atmosphere of danger that I remember from the Lower East Side of New York, or certain parts of Soho. I guess everything is relative.

The rats still played in the sewers, though, and there were a few stray cats who paced me, and a few dogs who howled and ran off. People talk about how peaceful the countryside is, or the deep woods, or the mountains, or the lakes. Maybe so. But there is a certain kind of peace that you find in the middle of a city when you are the only one on the street, and you can hear your footsteps echo on the dry pavement, and the smell of petrol and exhaust is only the faint lingering reminder of what the place is like when it is alive.

The walk was not unpleasant; there was no moon to contend with the stars that were visible through the glow of the streetlights and I was not cold. I expect February to be the coldest month, but I’m told that in Ohio January is usually the worst. February still has a firm grip, but she’s so confident that she doesn’t mind letting the thermometer climb just a little, knowing she can send it back down whenever she wants to. This is such an evening, and I can even imagine that someday the snow will melt, and the pavement will begin to sprout once more. I wonder if I will see the spring.

I regret leaving without that waitress. I am still feeling weak, and very tired.

The nights are getting shorter.

It is time for me to sleep.

This evening seems to be shaping up very nicely indeed. There is a low cloud cover, a breeze that is almost warm, and no moon. The breeze carries with it the least hint of news from the north, suggesting colder weather to come, but I think it is lying; I believe we will have another day or two of relative warmth before the next murderous cold wave hits. In either case, tonight is pleasant enough.

I dreamed about Susan, and woke up seeing her face.

This is no good. While it has been very nice spending time with her, I cannot afford, especialy now, to

To what? I don’t know how to complete that sentence.

Well, it doesn’t matter. It is time to pay Jill the visit I owe her; for I have no doubt that she has not done what I commanded her to, and probably thinks me out of her life. I will correct this misapprehension, and I will not allow myself to be distracted by her roommate.

It is time to be about it.

I’m a little puzzled by

Oh, this is too amusing for words. Between the previous line and this one has been about five minutes of laughter, bordering on the hysterical at times. Jim came in and looked at me, but I just shook my head and didn’t say anything, so he shrugged and went away. The best jokes, I think, are those played by Lady Fate, and she has just performed a fine one. Let me set this down so that, if sometime later I come to read it, I will be able to savor the humor in all its grandeur.

Jill wasn’t home when I got there, and, as I’d expected, she hadn’t made the changes in her room that I had ordered. I seethed for a moment, then shrugged and went down the hall to say a quick hello to Susan, who was standing in the bathroom, naked, with the door open, brushing her hair. I watched her for a moment, admiring the curve of her back and the set of her shoulders, then went up and stood next to her.

She jumped, but only a little.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.

“You move like a cat.”

“Miaow.”

She gave me one of her extravagant smiles, then looked puzzled and said, “How did you get in?”

“I picked the lock, broke a window, and came down the chimney.”

“Oh, the usual.”

“Right.”

“Vivian always said that a man who couldn’t surprise you is a waste of time.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I said.

She smiled into my eyes. “Jill isn’t here, you know.”

“I know. You are.”

“Yes,” she said, “I am,” and came into my arms. Some time later I carried her into the bedroom.

I don’t know why I bother making promises to myself when I know I can’t keep them.

I was still there some hours later when her eyelids fluttered open. She curled up next to me and said, “You’re dressed.” Her voice was a little hoarse.

I traced my initials on her side and said, “Yes.”

“Is Jill home?”

“I heard her come in about an hour ago.”

“What did she say?”

“The door was closed; I doubt she knows I’m here.”

“You didn’t talk to her?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Mmmmm.”

She stretched a little in happy contentment as I watched. I took my feelings out and examined them; surprised, not at the state she was in, but at my own pride in having brought her there. I said, “What do you think of Jill’s room?”

“Mmmmm. It’s her room. She hasn’t gotten evangelical on me, so I don’t really care. She did try to put those things all over the house, but I put my foot down. I live here, too.”

“Indeed. But isn’t that what you meant before about claiming territory?”

“Yes,” she said brightly. “But she didn’t succeed.”

“I should imagine,” I said, “that many women dislike you.”

She looked hurt, and for a moment I was afraid she was going to cry. “Hey,” I said. “I didn’t mean-”

She shook her head and smiled as if sharing a joke with herself. “Not as many as all that,” she said. Then she was serious again. “But I don’t understand why.” This was said very softly.

I realized I’d hit a sore spot, and I didn’t know what to say. “You don’t? Women are so often territorial when it comes to men, and you-”

“Oh, come now, Jonathan. I respect boundaries as much as anyone.”

“But you said-”

“It is simply a matter of establishing them in my home.”

“I think I understand.”

“I don’t make it a practice to, what is the word? Poach. I think I’ve heard it called that, as if men were some sort of game that could only be hunted in season and in certain places. What a revolting idea.”

“Well-”

“But if someone has a lover, I don’t interfere.”

“Good idea.”

“So why is that so many women feel threatened by me?”

“You’re asking me? I have no idea.” I looked around for a way to change the subject, feeling a little uncomfortable with this one. I said, “Did the sudden change surprise you?”

“What change?”

“In Jill.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose it did,” she said reflectively, “but it shouldn’t have. She hasn’t been very happy lately, and the thing with Don was the last straw, I think. She hasn’t been willing to talk about it. I ought to have predicted either this or drugs, and this is better.”

“What thing with Don?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“No.”

She shook her head and I think was going to tell me, but then she yawned and suddenly looked very sleepy, and she dozed off before she got around to it. I picked up my coat and went over to Jill’s room. I waited just outside of it. Presently, Jill came out, looking vaguely confused. She saw me, and the shock grew in her eyes. She opened her mouth and took in a breath. I clapped my hand over her mouth. “Don’t wake up Susan,” I said. “She’s sleeping.”

She did her best to wake her up anyway, but I had her in a firm grip. She stank, horribly, so that I almost gagged from being next to her, but I forced myself to endure it long enough to strip off everything she was wearing. I couldn’t help but laugh. “All of that nonsense in your room, and only the stench on your person? One might doubt your sincerity. Or your intelligence, at any rate.” This only made her struggle harder; I had to choke her almost unconscious, but at last it was done. I dragged her to the bathroom and turned on the cold water, then pulled the knob for the shower. She continued to struggle the entire time. When the smell was gone I took her from the shower, pushed her against the wall and held her until she stopped struggling.

I finally took my hand away from her mouth and told her exactly what she was going to do. She nodded her agreement, but when I released her she took a step, then collapsed to the floor and began to tremble violently, as if she were having some sort of seizure. I knew she wasn’t diabetic, but perhaps she was an epileptic; if so, I didn’t know what to do except to try to keep her from hurting herself in her thrashings; and it seemed reasonable that I ought to try to keep her warm.

I wrapped her in a towel and carried her down to the couch, where she lay twisting and jerking violently for a long time, until she gradually settled down to shivering. Her face went through the most amazing contortions, as if she were trying to disown her tongue. I put an Afghan comforter over her, and then, when she kept trembling, I added a few coats. After about an hour, she abruptly stopped, broke into a sweat, and lay perfectly still in a sleep from which I could not wake her. I checked her breathing, which seemed fine, and her pulse, which was racing at first, but gradually settled down.

Not knowing what else to do I went home and came up to my typing room, put a fresh piece of paper in the machine and began to hit the keys. It was only then that I noticed that my right hand itched the way skin does when it is repairing itself, though I had not noticed being hurt. I looked, and saw the traces of the damage still there in my palm, which is when I stopped and, as I said, laughed almost hysterically for a while. I couldn’t help it.

Apparently, while attempting to escape my muffling, Jill had bitten my hand hard enough to draw blood.