Witch Water

CHAPTER THREE

(I)

The sun was just beginning to wester when Fanshawe made it back to town. Recession be damned, he thought. If anything, more tourists were apparent now, more cars in various lots, more strollers enjoying the town’s quaint shops and atmosphere. As a financial maven, he was pleased to see that people had vacation money to spend. It also pleased him that some resolve seemed to be filtering back into his conscience: he’d resisted the impulse the pass the Travelodge and its alluring windows and sunbathers, and instead had taken a more circuitous route via a street farther off, mostly residential. He walked casually now, more at peace with himself. He spotted several empty beer kegs stacked behind the tavern; they made him think of the unlikely barrel on Witches Hill. I’ll have to ask Abbie about that, he ventured. Later, he came around the back of the Wraxall Inn. Not once did he look up at the windows of the upper floors. Back in New York, when his sickness had been at full spate, the city’s endless trove of windows had caused him to brim with something like feverish delight. At night he’d walk the posh Upper West Side, to duck into tactical alleyways and raise his mini-binoculars at the gem-like glass frames that too-often presented the merchandise that his warped mind shopped for. His office, with the door locked, served as a veritable voyeur’s outpost on the countless nights he’d tell his wife he’d be working late, and for this he possessed a high-powered pair of Nikon field glasses and even a compact telescope, both fitted with digital cameras. Worse, he’d gone on to purchase a mini-van with custom one-way window-inserts; at night he’d park in strategic lots and manipulate a small Zeiss-brand spotter scope at the windows of the best condominiums.

Whacked in the head, he thought. And for years, his poor wife had never known, and never known either that whenever they made love, Fanshawe’s mind was stuffed, steamy, and delirious with the images of other women he’d viewed so discretely and pervertedly. The inconceivableness of his addiction struck even Fanshawe himself: a man of extraordinary financial success enslaved by this lowly and risky crime. At least Dr. Tilton understood—all too well—and he was encouraged to know that she’d treated others suffering from his own diagnosis of chronic scoptophilia. “For sure, Mr. Fanshawe, yours is a disorder that is rather commonplace in a general realm but oh so uncanny in particular regards to you.” “Pardon me?” he’d asked, prickled by her insinuation. “You are most certainly an unrepresentative peeper”—and at this, Fanshawe winced—”in that your bounteous wealth retails little mollification at all.” “I don’t even know what that means,” he snapped. “For $1000 per hour, could you please speak English?” And then she’d smiled in that tiny, barely discernible way of hers, a way that made him feel even lower. “A man of your vast financial solvency could certainly enjoy the pleasures of the most beautiful call girls and strippers available, but you’ll have none of that, hmm? Instead, you skulk around alleys, or hide in your van to slake your dismal and pathetic need from a distance.” He’d wanted to walk out then and there, until he admitted that she was quite right, and that this observation proved her clinical competence. The highest-class strip clubs and the most preeminently attractive call girls did nothing for him. “It’s no good, is it, Mr. Fanshawe, unless the lecherous images with which you quench your craving are stolen, from victims, not whores, from unknowing targets, not willing and morally oblivious pole-dancers? You must steal from them, Mr. Fanshawe, you must look at them in your unrestrained lust without their permission, otherwise the satisfaction is useless, no better than a heroin addict injecting tap water.” Fanshawe stared right back at her, insulted, humiliated, but realizing that his hatred for her was just camouflage for his hatred of himself. He croaked his reply: “You’re absolutely right…”

Weird, weird, he thought now. Of all the addictions to be cursed with, Fanshawe had been cursed with this.

When he slanted around the back lot of the Inn, he saw that the closest half of it was filled with cars while only one car sat far off in a space in the farthest section. It was an old black Cadillac Deville; Fanshawe knew that the year was early ‘60s because his own father had owned a similar vehicle when he was a child, yet this one had been restored to almost show-room condition.

He heard a slight scuff, then saw that the trunk was up. A stooped, stout-bellied man placed a suitcase inside, then thunked the lid closed and walked back.

The man was Mr. Baxter.

He reentered the hotel through a back door. Did the Cadillac belong to Baxter? And was he going on a vacation of his own? Why park the Caddy way out there? Fanshawe wondered.

He walked around front, then paused to stand a moment, taking closer notice of the old inn’s architectural style, which he guessed would be called some manner of “Georgian,” for England’s King George. The imposing cross-gable made the basic structure seem even more classically timeworn; it gave the sprawling mansion the form of an uncapitalized “t.” The building’s roof segments were steeped at uncommonly high angles. Fanshawe thought himself a modernist when it came to architecture, yet, since he’d come here, he’d grown more and more fond of all this historical archaicism. This used to be a family house, a patriarch’s, he reminded himself; hadn’t Baxter referred to Wraxall as an upstanding resident? Talk about going downhill fast.

He mused over what life must have been like so many years ago. Cutting your own woodslats, digging your own wells, chopping wood every day of your life… Evidently, Jacob Wraxall had been the equivalent of a wealthy country squire; hence, it had been his personal taste behind the mansion’s layout. But…an occultist? Someone who believed he was a warlock? If he believed that, then surely he believed in the Devil. Fanshawe wondered what went on behind these baronial walls when the rest of the town slept unaware.

A large double glass door had been installed, but the rest of the building’s front face couldn’t have appeared more authentic. A pillared portico surrounded the entire house, while narrow lancet windows marked the second story; of the third, Fanshawe noted small circular windows marking the hallway, and wide bow-windows set into the faces of the extending cross-gables. The gable he peered at now would offer a “peeper” a bull’s eye view of the Travelodge and some of the Back Street upper windows. Thank God I didn’t get THAT room…

A stunning, multi-colored dusk bloomed behind him when went back inside. The inn stood cozily quiet, save only for the methodic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. He sighed happily; the lengthy walk had helped him unwind just as he’d hoped. Now, a meal might be in order. He walked down the silent hall, stopped for a moment, then went on. He knew he’d been about to re-enter the display cove containing the bizarre looking-glass, but…

Why do that? Why remind myself? The idea made about as much sense as an alcoholic looking at ad signs pasted in the window of a liquor store.

But I’m NOT an alcoholic, he asserted. Across from the cove, the sign reminded him: SQUIRE’S PUB; then a quick peek inside showed him that the bar was empty save for—

Abbie…

And there she was.

Fanshawe felt a butterfly in his stomach.

“Hi, Stew!”

He looked to the bar to be confronted by a smile that hit his eyes like a strong, white light. God, she’s beautiful… He tried to seem casual as he approached the modest bar but instead felt hopelessly nervous. “Hi, Abbie. I meant to come in for a drink earlier but the place was packed.”

She was putting up glasses in an overhead rack. “Oh, I know, and that was some crew. The New England Phenomenology Society have their annual conference here every year.”

Fanshawe winced. “The Phenoma—what Society?”

“Phenomenology,” Abbie chuckled.

“What is that?”

“They explained it to me a dozen times but I still don’t know. Some kind of philosophy. They’re mostly professors from Ivy League colleges.”

Fanshawe nodded. “Now that you mention it, they did look like a bunch of professors—”

She made an expression of incredulity. “Yeah, but they drink like a bunch of students. If we had a chandelier in here, those guys would be swinging from it—party animals, I’ll tell ya. I’m not complaining—they tip great—but it’s not easy getting hit on by a couple dozen sixty-year-old eggheads.”

Fanshawe tried to think of something clever to say but stalled when Abbie placed another glass in the overhead rack. Her posture when she’d reached up accentuated her figure and thrust her breasts.

He cringed and pried his gaze away.

“So what did you do today?” she asked.

He pulled up a stool. “Checked out the shops on Main and Back Street, looked around, then went for a long walk.”

She grinned. “Witches Hill?”

“You got it. I couldn’t resist the signs. It was Mrs. Anstruther who recommended the trails.”

“Oh, now there’s a character—” Abbie leaned over and whispered, “Every now and then she comes in here and gets crocked, drinks Boiler Makers, and she’s in her late-eighties! You wouldn’t believe the stories she has.”

“Somehow…I think I would. She practically dared me to go into the wax museum, as if it’d be too much for me.”

“It’s plenty realistic, that’s for sure.” Now she was restocking the reach-in coolers. “The torture chamber can be a little over the top—definitely not for kids. Some of the sets gave me nightmares when I first saw them.”

Fanshawe diddled with a bar napkin. It was difficult diverting himself from her presence. “But you guys really do pump up the witch-motif, huh?”

She paused, a bottle in hand. The label read: WITCH’S MOON LAGER. “Well, sure, we exaggerate it all, for the sake of the tourists.”

“It’s good business. Market-identification.”

“My father thinks it’s silly. Silly drivel, he calls it—”

“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”

“Yep. My grandfather bought the inn in the fifties, and when he died, my father inherited it. We’ve been running it ever since.”

“But if he thinks the witch theme is silly, why does he push it?”

She splayed her hands. “Because he knows it can make a buck, but he still thinks it’s—and I quote—silly drivel.”

Fanshawe asked automatically, “You don’t?”

Now her pause lengthened. “In a way. But it’s also history, and that’s interesting. These things really happened back then, when our culture was in its infancy.”

What is it about her? Fanshawe was hectored by the thought. He struggled for more to talk about. She turned her back to him for a moment, to arrange strainers and jiggers, then was agitating something in a shaker. Her reflection stood beside herself, while Fanshawe’s eyes had no choice but to fall on her back and buttocks, on the figure beneath the simple blouse and jeans: a figure of perfect curves. His eyes adjusted, to glimpse her face in the reflection as she looked down at the counter. For an indivisible instant, her own eyes flicked up and caught his in the mirror—

He gulped.

She turned. A sound—clink!—and then a shot glass was set before him.

Abbie was grinning. “On the house.”

“Thanks…” Fanshawe squinted. Some dark scarlet liquid filled the glass.

“It’s our drink special,” Abbie announced. “Could you ever guess?” and then she pointed to the specials board which read: TRY OUR WITCH-BLOOD SHOOTER!

Fanshawe chuckled. “I barely drink at all these days but with a name like that how can I resist?” He raised the glass, peered more closely at it, then looked back to Abbie. “Wow, this really does look like blood…”

Abbie laughed and tossed her hair. “It’s just cherry brandy mixed with a little espresso and chocolate syrup.”

Fanshawe downed the chilled shot neat, then raised an approving brow.

“Not bad at all.”

Abbie grinned. She grinned a lot. “Just what you need after a trip to Witches Hill.”

Fanshawe felt, first, the liquor’s chill, then the delayed bloom of heat spread in his belly; it seemed quite similar to his “butterflies” when he’d first seen Abbie behind the bar. “You know, tourist gimmick or not, it was pretty unnerving, standing in the middle of a place where executions occurred.”

“Oh, they occurred, all right—wholesale. Thirteen in one day, and a over a hundred more for decades after that. In truth, there were far more folks executed for occult offenses than criminal offenses. Some claim to fame, huh? Did you see the graveyard?”

“No. I didn’t know there was one.”

“Well, there is, believe me, and it’s ten times creepier. Half of it’s unconsecrated ground; it’s on the western end of the hill. Unconsecrated burial grounds are always located to the west or north of a town’s church.”

Fanshawe opened his small map on the bar. “I don’t remember noticing it on this—”

“There,” she said, pointing. Her fingertip touched next to a minuscule cross on the colorful map.

“No wonder I didn’t see it, it’s tiny,” but then he looked up, his eyes following the line of her arm. It was an unconscious tactic for any “scoptophile” or voyeur: Abbie’s blouse—as she leaned down slightly to address the map—had looped out between two buttons. Fanshawe glimpsed part of a sizable breast sitting within a sheer bra. A ghost of a nipple could be seen through the light fabric.

Oh, God… “I’ll check it out tomorrow,” he recovered.

“And there aren’t many regular tombstones, either,” she went on. “Just splotches of this stuff called tabby mortar.”

“Tabby mortar?”

“Yeah. It’s like low-grade cement. The convict’s name would be written in this stuff by someone’s finger—you’ve got to see it to know what I mean.”

Fanshawe had trouble concentrating on her words, still too hijacked by her image, by her simple proximity. Whatever shampoo she used didn’t help; the soft, fruity scent affected him aphrodisiacally. But when he recollected what she’d said, he wasn’t sure if she spoke with genuine interest or— Is she just laying a bunch of tourist crap on me? Same as the old lady? “I guess it’s just more of the motif, that and the power of suggestion. But it was a good marketing ploy to name the hotel after”—he faltered, for the name drew a blank. “Jacob… What was his name?”

“Jacob Wraxall, one of the founding members of the town. He lived here with his daughter, Evanore—”

Fanshawe remembered with some unease the old portrait and Wraxall’s thin, sinister face. The rendition of the daughter, however, struck him with an even more ominous impact. Evanore… Her fresh-blood-colored hair sent a butterfly of a far less pleasant type to his belly. Fanshawe felt a momentary whooze…

He shook the image out of his head, then looked back up at Abbie. The clean, guileless good looks made him whooze again—sexually, though. He cleared his throat. “Jacob Wraxall, yes, and his daughter Evanore. Your father pointed out the portrait in one of the coves.” He tapped a finger on the bar, half-remembering a blank face half-submerged in shadow. “And there was a third person too, wasn’t there? A yard-hand or something?”

“Um-hmm. Callister Rood, but he was more than a yard-hand. He was the family apprentice necromancer.”

“That’s some job title,” Fanshawe tried to jest, but it didn’t come off.

Abbie’s voice lowered, either as if she were playing her description up for drama’s sake, or she was genuinely unsettled. “It was in this very house that they solicited the devil.”

The devil, Fanshawe thought. But the notion of devil-worship, and even the name—the devil—was so hokey he had to smile.

Abbie’s smile had disappeared. “They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew.”

“Well, someone must’ve known—”

“Of course, but a lot of time went by before anyone found out. Evanore was the one who got caught first.” She leaned closer against the bar, her voice nearly fluttering. “She and the coven were all condemned to death.”

“Evanore but not her father?” Fanshawe asked logically. “Why didn’t Jacob get nabbed too?”

“Jacob was abroad in England at the time, and Callister Rood had gone with him. But when they returned, his daughter had already been executed and buried.”

“But Jacob must’ve been into witchcraft even more than her. I didn’t see any books in your display about her, only Jacob.”

Abbie stepped away, as if to separate herself from something that had fazed her. She began to arrange the fruit cups in the service bar. “Jacob Wraxall was the most notorious heretic of his day. But that shows you how smart he was. Nobody suspected him until much later, after so much damage had already been done.” Finally, her grin returned. “You’re staying in his room, by the way.”

Fanshawe gave a start after the words registered. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” but then she winced. “I’m sorry I mentioned it—sometimes I get a little carried away with this stuff. But no one’s ever complained about the room, Stew—it’s the best one in the house. I mean…if it bothers you, I’d be happy to put you somewhere else—”

“No, no, that’s not it. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything like that. The room is great, but there’s just something…odd, knowing whose it was…” Suddenly the most gruesome possibilities occurred to him; he looked up, sheepish. “Please don’t tell me he boiled cats and made blood-sacrifices up there.”

“Nope. The only thing that went on in that room was…” She turned quickly to clean more glasses in the triple-sink, and yet again the image of her slammed into Fanshawe’s senses. She pumped the soiled glasses up and down on two pointed brushes sticking up from the sink. This activity, of course, caused her to lean over, highlighting her cleavage.

Fanshawe repressed an audible sign; he had to force his eyes anywhere but on her. He knew she wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Then his attention snapped back on. “Wait—what? The only thing that went on in that room was? You never finished.”

She smiled, aloof, tossing a shoulder as she plunged two more glasses into the sink. “It’s nothing, Stew. I shouldn’t be talking about it—”

“Come on,” he urged, almost raising his voice. “You can’t start to say something, then stop. It’s not fair.”

She poured him another shot, then whispered. “My father would kill me if he knew I was telling you all this.”

“Why? All you’re doing is talking up the witch motif. You even told me the sign out front was your father’s idea.”

“He’d just get really pissed at me. Some people are turned off by that sort of stuff. I don’t want my father thinking I’m scaring off guests.”

Fanshawe couldn’t imagine why he even cared, but— “Abbie, I’m the one who asked.”

She stood upright at the sink, her hands wet. “All right. You want to know what Wraxall did in that room? I’ll tell you.” She tapped a foot. “No one would’ve suspected in a million years, because Wraxall regularly attended church—”

“But I thought all witches and warlocks did that. If they didn’t, then they’d be suspected instantly.”

“Exactly. But Wraxall was also a bigwig in the town. He built the roads, he built the first schoolhouse, he loaned money to farmers. Everybody loved him. Only his diary revealed was what really going on in that room upstairs.”

Fanshawe stared. “Abbie? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Now she seemed outright uncomfortable. She let out a long sigh. “There was…quite of bit of…you know…”

“No. I don’t know. That’s why I asked ten minutes ago.”

“Quite a bit of incest went on in that room for quite a while.”

Fanshawe blinked. Seconds ticked by. “Oh, you mean with Evanore.”

“Uh-hmm. Pretty icky stuff, and it didn’t end until Wraxall was well into his seventies, and, well…” She caught herself, then stepped away. “Be right back, I forgot the bar towels.”

She disappeared into a side door.

Fanshawe chuckled, shaking his head. The old Keep A Jackass In Suspense Routine. He couldn’t figure her. Any other time he’d suspect that she was only trying to spark to his sense of curiosity, and was embellishing detail for the sake of it. But—

I don’t think so. I can always tell when I’m being played.

Another scarlet shooter sat before him, which he’d scarcely noticed. He sipped it this time, thinking. Incest. Terrific. At least Wraxall was a bigger pervert than I am, but that was hardly a consolation.

Through the window, full darkness welled. Beyond, dim wedges of light from streetlamps cut Back Street up in a fuzzed luminescence. Fanshawe saw undefined figures wander into and out of the light, like content specters. Some were holding hands. When was the last time I was doing that?

He didn’t answer himself; the realization was too dismal. The normal people are out there…

Where am I?

So much for sipping his drink; what remained went down in a gulp. When he looked back up, his eyes found the mirror again; in the reflection, behind his shoulder, he saw a face disappear. Had someone been standing behind the bar entrance, peeking in? Fanshawe thought so, and he turned.

It looked like Mr. Baxter, he thought.

But why would Mr. Baxter be frowning into his own bar?

No one stood in the entrance when Fanshawe turned. A shadow fluttered, or seemed to. “Mr. Bax—” he began, but then shrugged it off.

“I’m back.”

He traversed on his stool to find Abbie hanging up towels. “I forgot to ask. Would you like to see a menu?”

“No,” Fanshawe said good-naturedly. “I want you to finish saying what you were saying about Jacob Wraxall.”

She opened a menu before him. “The Lexington-Concord soup is out of this world, or try the Valley Forge Pan-Seared Crabcakes. I’ve never had better, and I’m not just saying that ’cos my father owns the place.”

Fanshawe closed the menu. What does Valley Forge have to do with a friggin’ crabcake? “It all sounds great, Abbie, but all I want is for you to finish what you were saying.”

She was a fragrant dervish behind the bar. Now her back was to him again, but she returned an instant later, to place a third Witch Blood Shooter before him.

Fanshawe laughed to himself. “Trying to make me forget the topic won’t work.”

She grinned. “What topic is that, Stew?” and the she turned again, to lean over a reach-in. Fanshawe’s next words were lost; he was staring at her rump in the tight jeans.

He took a deep breath and looked away. “Jacob Wraxall’s room. Incest.”

“Hmm?”

“The tone of your voice implied that things other than incest took place in that room. Worse things.”

The act was over. She leaned again the service bar, facing him, and pursed her lips. “You really want to know, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s gross, Stew. It’s lousy bar talk.”

“I love lousy bar talk—I’m from Manhattan.”

She slumped. “I just told you that Wraxall and his daughter had incestuous relations well into Wraxall’s seventies. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

He thought back to the grim portrait in the other room; in it, Wraxall appeared to be in his fifties while Evanore looked more like late-teens. And the old warlock was doing it till his seventies… That’s a long time for a guy to be hobknobbing with his daughter.

Then—Moron!—the answer snapped into his mind. It dismayed him how someone so instantaneously analytical could be so thick-witted when it came to the plainly obvious.

“They had…children?” he said more than asked.

“How did you ever guess?” she shrilled, amused, then the amusement leveled off to stolidness. “They had a lot of babies.”

“Well, then, what happened to the family line?”

The amusement drained fully. “The Wraxall family line died when Wraxall himself died, in 1675.”

Fanshawe leaned forward, piqued. Suddenly, this morbid curiosity overpowered his attraction. “What do you mean? If the line died with him, then what happened…,” and the rest of his query melted like wax on a hearth.

“What happened to all those babies?” She crossed her arms just under her breasts and in a voice almost gravel-rough said, “Nobody knew for sure until after Jacob’s death, when they found his diary but…from time to time over the years, Evanore would disappear. So when the townsfolk asked Jacob where she was, he’d say she was traveling.”

“I’m not scoring high marks for perceptiveness today, but I’ll take a wild guess and say she probably wasn’t really traveling.”

“No. She wasn’t. She was in the house the whole time for…nine months at a time, if you catch my drift.”

“So none of the townspeople would ever know she was pregnant,” Fanshawe reflected. Then the rest kicked in. “Oh, don’t tell me—”

“Right again, Stew. Evanore wasn’t traveling, she was pregnant, with babies sired by her own father, but the babies were never seen by anyone, ever. Not to spoil your night completely but—hey—you asked.”

“That I did.” He knew he had the rest, but he needed to hear her say it. For this, he merely looked at her in morose beseechment.

“It wasn’t cats Jacob was sacrificing for his occult rituals.”

Fanshawe downed his drink as he went pale at the bar. “On that note…could I have another shot, please?”

««—»»

Fanshawe spent the next hour avoiding all conversion relative to Jacob Wraxall, witchcraft, warlocks, and the like. Instead he made small talk, which was much nicer, and unique because only then did it occur to him that he hadn’t sat in a bar in a long time, much less talked to a woman who wasn’t either his wife or someone connected to one of his businesses. He learned that Abbie had grown up in Haver-Towne, had attended a local community college for a certificate in hotel management, and, after spending a year in Nashua—”I thought I’d test the water in a small city before plunging headfirst into a big one, like New York”—she’d opted out of a shot at the glitzy metropolitan hotel bizz and decided to stay right where she was at. “I’ve never been much of a carrot-chaser,” she’d said. “A lot of people spend their whole lives wanting things they don’t need.” Why leave when she was happy here? “Better to help run my father’s place, which he’ll pass on to me some day.” In truth, she’d never even been to New York, and had never felt a desire to see it or any other big metropolis. “Slow-paced, peaceful, no rat-race—I know myself enough to realize that’s the only kind of life I really want to live,” she’d said. “So what if the money’s crummy?” His fetishist’s attraction notwithstanding, Fanshawe discovered that not only did he admire her for her polar-opposite ideals, but he envied her. Look what lots of money and the big city did for me, he thought. I’m a super-rich clinical pervert in recovery. I lost my marriage and even went to jail. What a great guy, huh? What a winner. He knew she’d be disgusted to know the truth. Billionaire or not, her father would throw him out of the hotel.

But he also learned that not only was she unmarried now, she’d never been married. No kids. She’d had a few inert flings in Nashua, but the only serious relationships she’d had had been with local men who’d turned out to be “a bunch of crud-heads and moochers who didn’t want to work a job.” Instead, she’d accepted her slow-paced, simple life in her home town, figuring “whatever happens, happens, and whatever that might be, it’s a great life and a beautiful world.”

Fanshawe could see in her eyes that she meant it. There was something shockingly refreshing about that.

But what am I really thinking?

He didn’t know. He felt weird in a way he couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was the alcohol—he rarely drank, and the only reason he was doing it here was because of the circumstance. This is the first time I’ve been away from people in—damn—I can’t remember when. His professional life involved his being constantly surrounded by underlings or other financial whizzes. His front office bosses had objected to no end when he’d told them he was going off on a long vacation by himself, as though he were some volatile political figure with enemies around every corner waiting to pick him off. His personal manager, Arthur Middoth, had practically had a panic attack. “Stew, please, a guy like you can’t just drop everything and go for a road trip. Lemme get’cha our best driver and a good vehicle,” the man had suggested with some angst in his voice. “I have a car, Artie, a bunch of them, and I don’t need a driver. I want to go by myself—that’s the whole idea.” Artie pushed his fingers worriedly through his hair, even though he didn’t have much. “Well then lemme send a couple of our guys in a second car.” “A couple of our guys?” Fanshawe laughed. “I’m not a mafia don, Artie. I just need to get away for a while, six months, maybe a year,” and then he’d added, “Period.” What could any of them say? Fanshawe owned them in a sense. Nevertheless, he felt skewed now, his insides diced up and shuffled around like something in a wok. First time out of the office and I don’t know which end is up. Then he looked back at Abbie.

He wanted to say something but couldn’t. Their eyes locked, and several moments passed, but those several moments seemed to Fanshawe like full minutes.

Abbie grinned again. The grin couldn’t have been more full of a joy of life. “What?”

Fanshawe felt like someone speaking in a cavern. “Can-can I take you out to dinner when you get off work?”

Her pause seemed like shock. “I can’t. I have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a convention.”

“Oh.” He’d had no previous idea that he was going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I’m fifteen years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I’m the OPPOSITE of her. He struggled for something to say next, but then—

An uproar poured into the bar with no warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired, bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where earlier they’d been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar, ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They’re like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only…old. But one thing he didn’t like was loud groups.

And he was embarrassed. Abbie had turned him down.

Part of himself was oddly impressed, because she already knew he was rich. But still…

It was past ten already, and his fatigue from the long drive was taking its toll. “This is a little rowdy for me,” he tried to tell her.

“Huh?” She was juggling bottles for squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. “Not to be born is best!” someone howled; then someone responded, “Sophocles!”

“I’ve got to go,” he attempted again. “Can you just put my drinks on my room bill?”

“They were on the house,” she raised her voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar taps simultaneously.

Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St. Augustine. “Pardon my Dasein,” the man said, then barked to Abbie. “A Witch’s Moon Lager, please!” Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding customers. “See ya later,” he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of his seat. She hadn’t heard him. I can’t even say goodnight to her it’s so damn crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed two attractive women chatting with some of the professors, long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild buzz. It took a moment to realize he’d seen them before, but in running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and Yale, he recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their breasts visible in their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, “The human self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified!” and someone responded “Bullshit! There is no objective basis for truth!”

This is some weird party, Fanshawe thought. Finally, he broke out of the crowd under the bar transom, almost desperate now to flee the sudden tide of raucous drinkers. He turned toward the elevator, but before he could stride away—

“Wha—”

A hand grabbed his arm with some insistence; he turned around to see that Abbie had trotted after him. Her face was beaming as more drunk professors shouted objections behind her. “I’ll be right there!” she yelled to them, then turned back to Fanshawe. “You didn’t give me time to finish before all those old eggheads barged in. Day after tomorrow, I get off at seven. There’s a great Thai place on the next block.”

Fanshawe was subtly rocked. She hadn’t turned him down after all. “That’s great. Seven o’clock it is, day after tomorrow.”

“So it’s a date. Just meet me here.”

“Sure thing, Abbie, but I hope I see you before then.”

“So do I,” she said, then seemed surprised she’d said it so abruptly. “But where are you going now?”

“It’s late; I’m bushed from the long drive. And after four Witch-Blood shooters? I definitely need to go to bed.”

Her grin amplified. “Not going to the graveyard?”

The graveyard… “At night? Are you kidding?”

From the bar, the professors were banging their fists on the bartop, yelling “Barkeep! Barkeep! Barkeep!” in unison.

“You better get back in there,” he advised. “I think the professors are about to riot.”

“Good idea.” Her hand slid down his arm, an inconsequential contact, yet Fanshawe felt electric. “See ya! Oh, and remind me to tell you about the Gazing Ball.”

“The what?”

But Abbie was already bulling her way back into the bar. The professors began to applaud.

I hope she’s got earplugs, Fanshawe regarded. And…what did she say? Gazing Ball? But as he waited at the elevator, he realized he was brimming; she’d agreed to go out with him. The elevator took him up, and he saw his own smile warped in the stainless steel siding.

What’s the big deal about a financial mogul going on a date? he asked himself, but he knew, and he knew what Dr. Tilton might say. The situation was unique because it represented his re-emergence into “the regulated societal stream”—which was her way of referring to the everyday, normal world. For most of his adult life, exceptionally attractive women had made themselves all too available, with sexual implications all too apparent. Fanshawe had never been interested; they did not exist at the other end of a telescope or pair of binoculars; therefore, the were unexciting. Even in the year since his marriage had detonated, he had not been interested. Tilton’s right. Now that I’ve removed myself from the “purveying environment” I WANT to go out with a woman, not lust after her through a window. True, he’d felt the pangs during his walk through town, but since he’d been in Abbie’s presence at the bar, those old demons had barely reared their heads.

Any other time, he’d be itching to go on a “peep.”

Maybe I really am getting cured…

Half-tipsy, he walked down his hall which stood in total silence. The elegant tulip-shaped lamps branched out from the flower-papered walls; they looked a hundred years old, and added to the inn’s rich authenticity. He frowned when he reached into his pocket for his card-key and found a twenty-dollar bill. Unbeknownst to him, Abbie had slipped his tip money back, a pick-pocket in reverse. Classy, he thought.

He went to bed and fell asleep instantly, something that hadn’t happened in a long time.

But it would not be a sound sleep.

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