The Red Tree

CHAPTER NINE

She’s gone.

Or maybe all that I can say with certainty is that Constance Hopkins is no longer here.

Or, perhaps, simply that I am unable to find her.

Which is not to say that, upon entering the attic, I found nothing.

I’m sitting at the dressing table, staring at one of the sheets of onionskin paper held fast in the typewriter’s carriage, and my fingers move hesitantly across the keys. My head is filled to bursting with images, and with the implications and consequences of what I have seen, what I still see, sleeping and awake. But I seem never to have learned the language that I require to describe what is happening to me. If that language even exists.

I can’t say what’s made me sit down at the typewriter again, unless it’s merely force of habit, or a sense that I am helpless to do anything else, or a delusion that this is better than talking to myself. I almost called someone. Who, though? That’s the catch. Well, the first catch. Who would I have possibly fucking called? Who would have begun to understand the things that need to be said? My agent? My editor? Squire Blanchard? An ex? One of those various people I haven’t heard from since I left Atlanta? A “writer friend” in New York or Boston or Providence or LA or San Francisco? Some family member I’ve not seen in twenty years? I sat on the sofa and held the cell phone for a time, and I opened it twice, but every number I might have “dialed” seemed equally irrelevant.

I found my car keys, and I considered the undeniable wisdom of driving away, driving anywhere that isn’t here, and never looking back. I suspect that I could probably torch the house without getting much more than a stern “thank you” letter from Blanchard. Isn’t that how these haunted-house stories usually end, with a purification by fire? Isn’t that the handy old cliché?

I didn’t telephone anyone. I didn’t drive away. I’m not going to burn the house down and sow the charred ground with salt. And I’m not going after the tree with a chain saw or a hatchet or a can of gasoline. The worst I am capable of is following Virginia Woolf’s example and filling my pockets with stones before walking into the local equivalent of the River Ouse.

I have gone to the attic, and Constance isn’t there, but I still do not know if I am alone in the house.

I seem to have been afflicted with some unprecedented calm, something that settled over me while I was upstairs and which shows no signs of abating. Again, I know we’re running counter to the received wisdom, in which our heroine, having glimpsed some unthinkable atrocity, parts ways with her sanity (at least for a time) and runs screaming into the night. Perhaps it’s only that those sorts of books and movies are, too often, made by people who have never, themselves, stood at this threshold. Even Catherine ran screaming, that sunstroke day at Cabeza de Lobo.Couldn’t I at least be as weak as poor Catherine?

No.

Fine. Then I’ll write it down.

I went to the attic, immediately after finishing the entry this morning. Twice, I called out for Constance, and twice, no one answered me. I knocked, to no avail, and so I knocked again, and harder. There was a moment of serious déjà vu, a moment when it might still have been Saturday morning, after I discovered the fishing line leading away from the back porch, but before I followed it to the red tree. Then I tried the knob, and found that it turned easily in my hand, and the spell was broken. The door was not locked against me, and I couldn’t help but recall what both Amanda and Constance had told me in the dream—Like all doors, it tends to swing open, and so care must be taken to mind the hinges and the latch.

A door, a tree, a hole for a white rabbit and a middle-aged novelist. Six of one, half dozen of the other.

We speak in whimsy, or to children, and it all appears so uncomplicated, no matter how outlandish or monstrous a given scene may be. Me, I can’t even seem to manage the tongue of madness without constant recourse to the perspective of reason, though I know it’s long since ceased to be pertinent to my situation and circumstances.

I turned the knob, and the attic door swung open wide. And the cool air that I am so used to greeting me when Constance opens her door wasn’t there to greet me. And instead of the smell of painting, there was a dank, shut-away odor, and, beneath that, the heady stink of decaying vegetation. I covered my mouth with my hand, with my right hand, and stepped into the attic. I left the door standing open.

The attic was not dark, but, as usual for so early in the day, brightly lit by the sun shining in through the small, high windows. Constance told me more than once that the morning light was one reason she was happy with her garret. So, I can’t dismiss what I saw there as a trick of shadow, an illusion created by a chiaroscuro conspiracy of half-light and poor eyesight. I cannot dismiss it at all, unless I am able (I am perfectly willing) to decide that it was an hallucination. I will not say “only” an hallucination, because I am not so naïve as to believe that what was seen would be any less important or consequential if it were the product of a broken mind and not an accurate perception of an objective, external reality. But yes, the attic was very well lit. Indeed, after the gloom of the stairwell, I found Constance’s room painfully bright,and I squinted and had to wait a second or two for my eyes to adjust.

There was no one in the attic, no one but me, and the floor, and every other horizontal surface, was hidden beneath a thick blanket of green oak leaves. They were identical to the three I found in my room in July, and identical to those that grow on the tree near Ramswool Pond. They were not the least bit brittle or wilted. They appeared to have come freshly from the tree, or from some other tree of the same species. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even gasp. I think that I was expecting something,even if I could not have said what form that something might assume. I bent down and picked up one of the leaves, as though I needed to touch it, to hold it, to inspect the fine network of veins embedded within the pith, in order to verify that the leaves were real. But I must have known they were. I must have known that on some intuitive level as soon as I saw them, even if it took a bit for my conscious, doubting mind to catch up. The sunlight shone through the leaf, making it appear to glow.

So far as I can tell, none of Constance’s belongings had been removed. The leaves covered over everything — her bed, the floor, her portable stereo, the books, clothes that had been left lying on the floor, the few pieces of furniture that Blanchard had supplied, everything.

Words fail. I’ve been sitting here staring at the typewriter, and at my reflection in the dressing table mirror, for the last fifteen minutes, trying to compose the next sentence in my head. Trying to find the words. Outside, birds are singing as though this were any other day. I can pick out the songs of catbirds, cardinals, jays, wrens, a crow or two farther away. And, of course, this is any other day.

First, I saw the leaves.

And then I saw the canvases. There were seven of them, arranged about the attic on seven wooden easels. They were not particularly large canvases, measuring maybe two feet by a foot and a half. All seven were blank, except for a single strip of paper that had been pinned near the center of each one with a thumbtack. The paper was newsprint, yellowed slightly with age. I began with the easel nearest to the door, reading the newsprint, then proceeded to the next.

The first strip of paper read simply, “By Evil, I mean that which makes us useful.”

I admit that I stared very closely at that first canvas, unable to accept its blankness as genuine blankness. I could not stop thinking of Constance’s hands and arms and face and her black smocks, always smeared with paint. But no matter how carefully I inspected the canvas, it was completely empty, save the newspaper clipping. The coarse fabric had not even been given a primer coat that it might eventually receive and hold paint.

The next canvas was the same, only the clipping read, “Places with white frogs in them.”

And on the third easel, standing very close to Constance’s leaf-covered air mattress, was a blank canvas and a clipping that read, “Good in our experience is continuous with, or is only another aspect of evil.”

I am not, by the way, recounting these lines from memory. I would never have remembered a third of them. There was (too conveniently, I thought) a stenographer’s pad lying open on one of the windowsills, and a sharpened No. 2 pencil. Both were partly hidden beneath the oak leaves, but when I happened to spot them — halfway through the canvases — I backtracked and copied the text into the notepad. It’s lying here on the dressing table beside the typewriter.

The strip of paper affixed to the third canvas read, “Angels. Hordes upon hordes of them.”

I lingered, reading that line aloud several times, not wanting to proceed to the fourth, and my mind drew connections that were or were not there to be drawn.

At the fourth easel, which was set up in front of the south-facing dormer, was a scrap of newsprint reading, “Or the loves of the worlds. The call they feel for one another. They try to move closer and howl when they get there.” The fifth canvas was placed so that it faced the wall, and I had to turn the easel about myself to read what had been tacked to it: “I have seen two of the carcasses, myself, and can say definitely that it is impossible for it to be the work of a dog. Dogs are not vampires, and do not suck the blood of a sheep, and leave the flesh almost untouched.” Among the bits of paper on the canvases, this one is conspicuous, not only for being the most wordy, but also because someone had bothered to note its source. Written in sepia-colored ink in a spidery hand, I read, “London Daily Mail,Nov. 1, 1905.”

Five down.

The birds are still singing, and I find their voices an odd comfort. But, right now, I’d give four fingers off my right hand for a cigarette and a cold beer. Sweat keeps running into my eyes. It must be at least eighty-five in this room. Eight-five or ninety, easy. I am waiting for a careless spark, and the oxygen in the air will instantly combust, and everything in the bedroom will mercifully be scorched to a cinder.

The sixth easel was on the far side of the air mattress, near a tiny dresser holding most of Constance’s clothes. I checked the drawers; her T-shirts and underwear and sweaters and socks were all still there, though the drawers were also stuffed with oak leaves. The sixth strip of newsprint read, “I can draw no line between imposture and self-deception.”

Which brings us to the end of this taut length of green fishing line, or to the point where Alice finally reached the bottom of her deep well. Seven. The final easel was standing a foot or two from the north dormer window. Before reading the piece of newspaper tacked to it, I glanced back towards the attic door, and was relieved to see that it had not swung shut. The seventh clipping read simply, “Out in open places there have been flows of a red liquid.” So, there.

And if that were all — these seven canvases and their cryptic commentaries — I would suggest the following: Constance brought the leaves in herself, and placed them all about the room, to frame what she’d conceived of as some bizarre minimalist installation. I hadn’t noticed, but so the hell what. I also hadn’t noticed her leaving the farm, leaving me alone here, but, again, so what. I miss a lot, and the past few days, I expect I might have missed more than usual. If this is where it all ended, I could be satisfied with such an explanation, and I’d not bother with the handful of unanswered questions. But it didn’t end here. I’m not certain, now, that it will ever end.

First, I saw the oak leaves. And then I inspected the seven canvases, each one bearing a single snippet taken from an old book or newspaper. Otherwise, the canvases were naked. And then they weren’t anymore.

Glancing towards the attic door again, and preparing to leave and go back downstairs, I saw that the change had occurred. I didn’t see it happen. That is, I did not catch the canvases in the act of metamorphosing, assuming that’s what they did. I’m trying, hard, to make no assumptions about process, or cause and effect, as I write this out. But assumptions are inevitable. And again, the shock to my senses that I would have expected to accompany such an event failed to take hold of me. I wasn’t horrified. I was not appalled. I didn’t become perceptibly more frightened than I had been before the seven paintings “appeared.”

I’m not even going to try describe all seven of the paintings. I saw them, and, for the most part, that’s sufficient. They were garish, grotesque things. I remember telling Constance that I know very little about paintings and painters, and that’s true. But these brought to mind the works of Francis Bacon, with whom I am familiar because Amanda was somewhat obsessed with him. But I’m certainly not knowledgeable enough to attempt to describe the style. I did look at the Wikipedia article on Bacon before I began writing this (I also checked my email, but there was nothing new there), and the images it included served to confirm my initial impression that the paintings in the attic are reminiscent of his style, especially Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion(1944),Head(1948), and Study After Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X(1953) — more notes from the steno pad, by the way. I cannot say that I committed those titles to memory. The Wikipedia article states that Bacon’s “. . artwork is known for its bold, austere, and often grotesque or nightmarish imagery.”

I examined only one of the seven paintings from the attic closely. The last one that I’d come to (though it was blank when I reached it), the one propped on the easel near the north dormer window. The one that had, only moments before, held a strip of paper printed with a single sentence: “Out in open places there have been flows of a red liquid.”

The first thing I looked for was the artist’s signature, expecting to find Constance’s. Instead, in minute white brushstrokes I read “B. Hirsch ’19.” I think that I said her name aloud, then — Bettina Hirsch — the painter that Joseph Olney had fallen in love with during his time in Los Angeles, but who’d hung herself on Christmas Day 1920. The woman that had formed the focus of his mania regarding the red tree. The woman he’d done murder for, an unknown number of times, because he believed that she was being held captive by demons who lived beneath the tree.

As for the subject of the painting, near as I could tell it depicted the mutilated body of a woman, and at the time I thought she was meant to have been attacked and mauled by some sort of animal. I don’t know if that was the intention of the artist. The figure was rendered in shades of yellow, orange, and deep red, and she had been placed against a background that was primarily a dark brownish shade of purple. Eggplant, I suppose, or aubergine. Both the woman’s legs and both her arms were missing, and there were only what I took to be bloody stumps. Her jaw was hanging open, as though frozen in the act of screaming. The paint had been applied very thickly to the canvas, almost caked on in places. In fact, I had the impression that there might have been another, older painting hidden beneath the one I was seeing.

And still, I didn’t feel the chill up my spine or the possum across my grave or death breathing down my neck or whatever it is we are taught people are meant to experience under such conditions. I didn’t scream at the sight of a murdered rabbit. Perhaps, by this time, I was in shock, and maybe I still am. However, I did feel a distinct sense of revulsion. There was no fear to it, no dread. One does not feel afraid looking at crime-scene photos, or roadkill, or something left too long at the back of the refrigerator. Seeing it, I felt the need to wash my hands (though I didn’t touch the painting), more than I felt anything.

On my way out of the attic, I paused long enough to inspect another of the canvases, the one nearest to the door. It bore the same signature, but was dated 1917. I cannot say for sure what the artist had in mind, but I was reminded of an immense tree, crowned in crimson leaves, and watched over by a moon (or sun) the color of oatmeal. Bettina Hirsch might have placed a series of dancing figures about the base of the tree, or I might have only been seeing a few errant brushstrokes, or something intended as understory, bushes, weeds. But I didn’t look at any of the others. I left the attic and pulled the door shut behind me. I wanted to lock it, but I don’t have the key. I quickly descended the stairs, and for an hour or so I sat on the front porch, half expecting to see Constance emerge from the woods, or come walking across the little bridge over the stream that runs out of Ramswool Pond. I watched for her on the dirt road leading out to Barbs Hill Road.

And now, I think maybe I’ve had a change of heart. I think I do mean to leave this house. I can go to Providence, and it may be that, from a distance, I can begin to sort this out. Or forget it, if that’s possible. Either way, I don’t want to be here anymore.

I’ve just read back over my account of the dream of Amanda and Constance, Monday morning’s dream. And I see that Sarah is up to her old tricks again. Which is to say, I can’t begin to fathom why I bothered to add so much embellishment to what little I could truly remember. Half of it — at least half — is simply made up. I understand why I once fabricated dreams for an insistent therapist, but why bother here? I can’t even say that I was lying to myself. I knew full well what I was doing when I did it. My best excuse would be to claim that it was some sort of defense mechanism kicking in, that I was falling back on the old habit of storytelling as a means of keeping myself calm or giving voice to fear, something of the sort. And having lied, it doesn’t mean that I was necessarily dishonest, any more than “Pony” is dishonest. I am usually at my most brutally forthright when making shit up. That’s the paradox of me. Regardless, seeing it now, all the parts of the dream I didn’t genuinely dream, I find it annoying. Hell, I find this entry complaining about it annoying.

It’s very quiet outside. A skunk passed by the window a little earlier. I didn’t see it, of course, but smelled it. And there was some sort of owl hooting out there for a bit, but, otherwise, the house and the woods around it are quiet and still. I might almost believe that I have been taken away from the world and placed somewhere else. I’ve left all the lights downstairs burning, and the porch lights are on, too, so here I am, a little puddle of brilliance in the inky void. I brought my laptop into the bedroom a while ago, and tried playing a couple of CDs to dilute the silence — Bob Dylan’s Street Legal,and then Fables of the Reconstruction by R.E.M. But the music only seemed to make me more jumpy. It masks the noiselessness of the night, but in so doing, it also masks the noises that I cannot stop listening for. I found myself straining to hear through the music, even if I can’t say what I was listening for. Constance’s coyotes, maybe. Or Constance herself. Or maybe the red tree, after it pulls itself free of the ground and begins an ent-like march towards the house. So, I turned the music off halfway through “Maps and Legends,” and now the stillness is broken only by the clack-clack-clack of the typewriter’s keys, the clack of the keys striking the paper.

This doesn’t seem like the time for confession. Sitting here, swaddled in the dark, and the silence pressing in on my bright electric bubble. Though, on the other hand, the tree and this house don’t seem shy about revealing their atrocities by the stark light of midday, so why should I balk at divulging my confidences by night?

When I discovered Amanda was fucking the owner of the Buckhead sushi restaurant, I confronted her. It was a very cold day, and it was raining, on and off. A misty, ugly sort of rain for a misty, ugly sort of day. It was late afternoon, and there was fog over everything, heavy fog like you don’t often see in Atlanta. She was sitting on the chaise, reading, and I’d been pretending to edit something, the page proofs for a short story. There were pages in my lap and on the coffee table, marked in red. STET written in the margins again and again and again, which is usually the way I react to the ministrations of copy editors, whether they happen to be right or wrong. I write STET, and, half the time, I know I’m just being an asshole, but I do it anyway. They are my mistakes. Let me make them.

I can’t remember what Amanda was reading. A novel. She’d taken the day off. And I said that I knew what she’d done. She laid down her book and stared at it for a time, and then she stared at me.

“So,” she said, finally, “what happens now?”

“I don’t know what happens now,” I replied, and my voice seemed flat, betraying almost nothing of the rage that had been seething inside me for days.

“Who told you?” she asked.

“What difference does it make, who told me?”

She sighed and glanced out the windows at the fog.

“It’s true?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s true. But you know it’s true, without asking. You always know what’s true, don’t you, Sarah?”

She was baiting me, like I needed provocation, and I let the jab go. Or I tried to let it go. Every word that passed between us eliminated the possibility and served to set the future in stone.

At some point, she asked if I wanted her to leave, and I told her no. But I knew that what she was really asking for was permission to leave, that it’s what she wanted, and I had no intention of making it easy. If she wanted to move in with the purveyor of eel and tuna, she could damn well screw up her nerve and do it on her own, without my complicity. And that’s when she got angry, when I withheld a simple release from her predicament. She said things I have tried hard to forget, threw accusations the way some women might have thrown dishes or knickknacks or stones. And, mostly, I sat there with my pages and my red pen, listening, wishing I knew some magical incantation that might yet undo the whole mess. Wishing impossible, silly things, the way a child wishes, the way people pray to their gods. That I could have been the woman that Amanda needed, assuming that such a woman was ever born. That there were still words to set things right, words to facilitate salvage, and that I could find them. That she would just stop,and tell me she was sorry, and that it was over. That it wouldn’t happen again. And that, hearing this, I would believe it, and go back to my copyediting, and she would go back to reading her book.

“Most of the time,” she said (and I remember this; I will always remember this part), “I do not even know who you are, Sarah. You write, but you hate writing. And then you blame everything and everyone around you because writing is all you have. And now, these seizures of yours. How much more am I supposed to be able to deal with?”

“You’re sitting there telling me that you fucked this woman because I hate writing, and because I’m having seizures?” I asked. For a second, I think I might have been more flabbergasted than angry.

“Yes,” she shot back, suddenly standing up and letting the book fall to the floor at her feet. “Yes, Sarah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Because, goddamn it, you never let a day go by that you don’t remind me and the whole damn world how utterly miserable you are, and how you expect us all to be miserable right along with you.”

A lot of other things were said, but that’s the upshot and the part I remember clearly. And later she told me that she was going out. I asked if she was meeting the owner of the sushi restaurant, and Amanda said who she might be meeting was her own business and none of mine. And that’s the last time I saw her alive. Most of this, I told the police. Most of it.

I told them about the affair, and that we’d argued. I suppose I should be grateful that she killed herself in another woman’s apartment. At least it spared me the embarrassment and inconvenience of being suspected of foul play. At least, the sort of foul play you can be arrested and brought to trial for. And I didn’t have to worry about cleaning up the mess.

If I wrote “Pony”—and I must surely have — the rest of my confession is there, in that story, however turned around backwards and veiled it might be, however fictionalized and prettied up with metaphor. What Amanda wanted, I couldn’t give.

The bridle chafed, I suppose.

That day, just before Amanda left, I told her I loved her, and she laughed and said, “Just because you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there.”

I’m finally running out of ribbon, I think, and I don’t have another to replace this one with. Maybe I should conserve whatever is left. Isn’t that a little like the miner trapped after a cave-in, waiting for rescue and trying to make his oxygen or flashlight batteries last as long as possible? Only, I know that no one is coming for me. No one is left who might bother.

I’m going to wait a while longer for Constance. The car keys are here on the dressing table next to the typewriter. I’m only going to wait until morning.

I will add this.

Because this is true also. And because you go so far, and it hardly seems to matter whether or not you let yourself go just a little farther.

I was falling-down drunk the night Amanda died (that is not meant as a caveat). I was drunk, and fell asleep on the sofa, because I could not stand to look at our bed, even though it had once been only my bed. Something woke me, very late, and I’d fallen asleep with the television on. Old black-and-white movies on TCM, and for a while I lay there, half awake at best, blinking and staring at the screen, bathed in that comforting silvery wash of light.

On the TV, a young woman stared out a window. She was watching another woman who seemed about the same age as herself and who was sitting in a tire swing hung from a very large tree. It was almost exactly like the swing my grandfather put up for me and my sister when I was a kid. Just an old tire and a length of rope suspended from a low, sturdy branch. From the angle of the shot, it was clear that the window looking out on the tree was also looking down. I mean, that it must have been a second-story window. Or an attic window. The woman in the tire wasn’t swinging. She was just sitting there. There was no dialog, and no musical score, either. There was nothing but the sound of wind blowing. The woman watching from the window leaned forward, resting her forehead against the glass. With an index finger, she traced the shape of a heart on the windowpane. And then I realized that there was something approaching the tree. It came very slowly, and by turns I thought I was seeing a bear, a wolf, a dog, and a man crawling forward on his hands and knees. Whatever it was, the woman in the swing didn’t see it, but I had the distinct impression that the woman watching from the window did. After a bit, she turned away, stepping out of frame, so that there was only the window, the tree, the woman in the swing, and the whatever it might have been slowly coming up behind her.

And I must have fallen back to sleep then, because that’s all I can recall of the film. My cell woke me sometime after dawn, and there was a Buster Keaton movie playing on the television. I answered my phone, and the call was from the hospital, from a mutual friend who’d gotten the news before me. Amanda had been dead about two hours.

I have no idea what the film was, and possibly it was nothing but a dream. The night my grandfather died, my grandmother told us she was awakened by a very small bird, like a sparrow, beating its wings against the window. She’d been at the hospital for days, but she’d been convinced to go home and get some rest, because everyone thought my granddad was out of the woods. It was the dead of winter, and my grandmother knew the bird must be freezing, but she couldn’t remember how to open the window and let it in out of the cold. She swore she wasn’t dreaming, though my mother suspected that she was. A few hours later, the phone woke her with the news that Granddad had died in the night.

Grandmamma said that the little bird was a psycho-pomp, and that she should have understood.

I’ve been awake maybe an hour. I woke to find a very large dog standing at the foot of my bed, watching me. But when I sat up, startled, it was gone. I saw it very clearly. Its eyes were the same reddish brown as Constance’s eyes, and it had a mottled tongue, gray and pink. Its fur was dark, but not quite black. Not quite.

It could have been the same dog that John Potter shot that summer day in 1724, shortly before both his daughters died. Charles Harvey described the dog very clearly, quoting from Potter’s journal. I don’t remember all of the story now, but it was broad daylight, and Potter had been sitting alone near a window, reading the Bible. He heard a noise and looked up to find this dog staring in the window at him. He said that it was standing on its hind legs, its forepaws propped against the sill. He called for his wife, and it ran. The dog ran. He said it had eyes the color of chestnuts. He said a lot of things, John Potter did, and I don’t know if any of the stuff that Harvey put in that manuscript is true.

I never learned the name of the film, or the year that it was made, or who the actresses playing the woman at the window and the woman in the swing might have been. But then I never tried very hard. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone. My grandmother once told me she wished she’d never told anyone about seeing the sparrow.

I have to leave this place today. I can’t stay any longer. She’s not coming back.

I went up to the attic again, to get the paintings, Bettina Hirsch’s paintings, and to bring them down. I meant to burn them all, because I could not bear the thought of them, of leaving them there to be discovered by someone else. So, I went up the stairs, and the door was still unlocked.

There are no oak leaves carpeting the floor, and there are not seven paintings arranged on seven easels. Everything that Constance brought here with her is gone.

No. Just this once, stop lying. It’s worse than that.

The attic is the same as it was the first time I set eyes on it, that day I went looking for a yardstick. There are boxes and a few pieces of furniture, and everything is covered with a thick coating of cobwebs and dust. My hand-prints are still clearly visible on the lid of the old steamer trunk in which I found the yardstick. Otherwise, there’s no sign whatsoever that the dust has been disturbed for a very long time. No one’s been in the attic since I was up there in June. I stood there for almost half an hour, waiting to see through the illusion, desperate to find that it was an illusion. Like the blank canvases had been, before they became paintings. But no matter how hard I stared, or how many times I looked away, or shut my eyes, nothing changed. If I were to call Blanchard and ask him about his attic lodger, I think I know what he’d tell me.

I’m very tired, Amanda, and I need to rest.

I shouldn’t be this tired when I try to find my way back to the tree. I’ll rest for a while, and I’ll drift back down to the orchard, and the stone wall. I’ll lie in my bed and wait. Someone has turned the ponies out again.

Excerpt from A Long Way To Morning(Sarah Crowe; HarperCollins, 1994):

Andrea lay very still, staring up at the ceiling, what she could see of it by the flickering candlelight. She lay staring at the high ceiling of the whore’s bedroom, warmed by the afterglow of sex, and by the woman’s naked body, so near to Andrea’s own. It occurred to her that Michelle’s sheets smelled like apple cider, which made her think of autumn. And it also occurred to her that it had been a long time since she’d felt this content.

“You promised you’d tell me the story,” Michelle whispered. “After we fucked.”

“You won’t like it,” Andrea replied, wishing silently that she could go back to the quiet, undemanding moment before.

“Isn’t that for me to decide?” the whore asked.

“It’ll only leave you with more questions than answers,” Andrea said. “And just when you think it’s one thing, this story, it’ll go and become something else entirely. It’s fickle. It’s a fickle story.”

“The whole wide world is fickle, and you promised,” Michelle insisted.

“It’s not even a real story,” Andrea continued. “And it’s populated with fairly reprehensible people.”

“So is life,” replied the whore.

“It really doesn’t make a great deal of sense, this story. It’s filled with loose ends, and has no shortage of contradictions. It shows no regard whatsoever for anyone’s need of resolution.”

“Just like life,” the whore added, and she laughed softly and nipped lightly at Andrea’s left earlobe.

“I doubt I’ll be able to finish the whole thing before sunrise,” Andrea said. “In fact, I’m almost certain I won’t be able to.”

“Fine,” said Michelle. “Then I will have to call you Scheherazade, and you will have to think of me as the king. I will be forced to grant you a stay of execution until you’re able to tell me all of it.”

Andrea didn’t respond immediately. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, and tried not to think about the antique straight razor in the pocket of her coat, draped over the back of a chair on the far side of the bedroom.

“How the hell did I wind up with such a literate whore?” she asked, and Michelle laughed again. “Anyway,” Andrea continued, “you’d make a better Dinazade.”

“That’s dirty,” the whore snickered, then added, “Vice is nice, but incest is best.”

“Sure. Besides, the king has lots of other concubines to keep him occupied.”

“Odalisque,” Michelle said. “It’s a prettier word.”

“Fine, then. Odalisque. Regardless, you’ve been warned. This story, it has a lot going for it, as long as you can live with the questions it raises and never answers, and with a certain lingering inexplicability.”

“I pays my money, and I takes my chances,” said the whore, whom Andrea was unable to think of as either a concubine or an odalisque. Michelle was just a whore, and Andrea was just a trick, and the razor was just a razor.

“You don’t get to whine about it afterwards, or ask for your dollar back.”

“I never would,” Michelle assured her.

“Very well,” Andrea sighed, closing her eyes. “But only because Scheherazade always did carry a torch for her sister. Whenever she was getting banged by that fat old bastard Shahryar, she would shut her eyes tightly and think of Dinazade, instead.”

“Well, there you go,” said the whore.

There was a long moment then when neither of them said anything; there was no sound but a few cars down on the street, and a police siren somewhere in the distance. Then Andrea opened her eyes, and she took a deep breath, breathing in the cider sheets. And then she began.

“Not long ago, there was a very talented painter named Albert Perrault, but, before he could finish what would have been his greatest painting, he died in a motorcycle accident in Paris.”

“Wasn’t he wearing a helmet?” the whore asked.

“I have no idea,” Andrea replied, sounding slightly annoyed. “And do not interrupt me again, not if you want to hear this. As I was saying, this unfinished painting, it would have been his masterpiece. . ”