Hornets and Others

And a moment later he answered: Because I wanted to.

The screen was still blank.

At his desk in his basement office, Kerlan sat staring at the white clean sheet of the word processing program. It was like staring at a clean sheet of paper. Maybe that's why they settled on that color, so that writer's block would be consistent in the computer age.

He cringed at the words: writer's block.

After a moment he looked up over the top of the monitor at the casement window over his desk. Outside the sky was high and pallid blue and the window itself was open, letting the unnatural warmth in. It felt more like late August.

While he watched, a hornet bumped up against the window screen, followed by another. After tapping at the unbroken screen in a few spots, trying to find entry, they moved off with a thin angry buzz.

Not gonna get in here, boys.

Again the thrill of a shiver went up his spine as he remembered the story from the morning paper.

Too bad I can't turn that into a piece for Parade magazine...

The phone rang.

He grabbed at it, as much in relief from the prospect of work as in annoyance.

'Pete, that you?' a falsely hearty voice said.

'Yeah, Bill, it's me.'

His agent Bill Revell's voice became guarded. 'I hesitate to bother you on a Sunday, but...'

'I'm not finished with it, Bill.'

A slow long breath on the other end of the line. 'They need the story by Tuesday, Pete. Halloween's a week from today and they have to coordinate artwork with it and—'

'I know all that, Bill,' he said, with annoyance. 'It's just going slow is all.'

'All that research stuff you found—did it do you any good?'

'Fascinating stuff. But it hasn't helped me yet. I just can't seem to get a handle on this one.'

'Jeez—' Revell started to sound frustrated, but held it in check. 'Come on, Pete. You're one of the most popular children's horror authors on the planet. Your stories have sold in the millions in every language on earth. You can do this stuff in your sleep. Bogey man, a nice little scare, kids save the day, end of story. Tuesday. Two days. Can you do it?'

'Sure I can do it. In their hands Tuesday...'

'You sure, bud?' Revell sounded doubtful.

'No problem.'

There was a hesitation. 'You.. . sure you're all right, Pete?'

'Why do you ask?'

'You sound. . . weird. A little strange.' A pause. 'You been drinking?'

'Hell, no.'

'Everything okay between you and Ginny?'

Maybe I should ask you that, you bastard.

He said, with sarcasm, 'Sure, Bill. Just fine.'

'Oh.' After a long moment, Revel! added, 'Anything I can do?'

'Fifteen percent worth of advice?'

'No need to get nasty, Pete. I'm just trying to help.'

Before Kerlan could stop himself it came out: 'You've already helped plenty, Bill.'

The longest pause yet. 'I told you, Pete, there was never anything between Ginny and I.'

'You know how much I believe you, Bill? Fifteen percent.'

'Perhaps we shouldn't work together any longer, if that's the way you feel.'

'You really want that, Bill?'

'Actually no, I don't. But if you can't get over this idea that Ginny and I had an affair, I think we'd better think about it.'

Something far in the back of his mind, in the place that still was rational and mature, told him to stop.

He took a long breath. 'Let's just forget it,' he said, reasonably.

There was a long breath on the other end of the line. 'I'd like that, Pete. Get back to where things were.'

Continuing in a reasonable tone, Kerlan said: 'I'll have that piece in by Tuesday.'

'Tuesday it is, bud. Maybe we can meet up early next week for a Halloween drink?'

'Sure, Bill. Whatever you say.'

'Talk to you soon.'

'Right.'

There was a click and the phone went dead.

He held it in his hand for a moment, staring at it. Did she have an affair with him or not? The truth was, he didn't know. He was smart enough to know that the root of his problem with Ginny was deeper than that—deeper in himself. She was perfectly correct when she told him that all of his problems were rooted in his own frustration with his writing. He knew that was true. But didn't everything else flow Out of that? He'd always been a grouch—but had his moods grown so dark in the last months that he was actually driving her away from him?

Wasn't it reasonable to suppose that if he was driving her away, she would be driven into the arms of someone else? Someone like Bill Revell, who was handsome, and younger than he was, and made plenty of money?

Did it matter that he had absolutely no evidence of an affair between the two of them, except for that fact that he realized he was such rotten company that she had to fall into someone else's arms? That and the fact that he'd seen Revell put the moves on Ginny once?

God, Kerlan, you're an asshole.

He still loved Ginny, still loved her with all his heart—but had no idea how to tell her that.

The phone receiver still clutched in one hand, he lowered it slowly to its cradle and reached for the half empty fifth of Scotch, which had been open since noon. He poured two fingers of the honey-colored liquid into the tumbler to the left of the keyboard.

I do think I'll have that drink with you now, Bill, he thought, staring at the white sheet of the computer screen in front of him.

Four more fingers of Scotch and two hours later, he was no closer to filling the white blank space with words, but was at least enmeshed in the research in front of him.

Why the hell can't I get this down on paper?

It was fascinating stuff, the legends of Halloween and how they eventually became the relatively benign children's holiday of the present age. It was not always so. Halloween's roots were deep in pagan ritual, specifically the Celtic festival of Samhain, the Lord of Death. Samhain had the power to return the souls of the dead to their earthly homes for one evening—the evening which eventually became known in the Christian era as All Hallows Eve.

Why can't I turn this into a nice, not-too-scary children's story for the Sunday supplements?

He'd tried it a thousand ways—with pets, with witches, with scary monsters—but always it came out too frightening, too strong for children. Always it came out with Samhain as something not benign at all—but rather a hugely frightening entity to be feared more than death itself.

How the hell do you turn the Lord of Death into a warm, fuzzy character?

How the hell do you keep making a living, and straighten your life out, you dumb, useless bastard?

After another two fingers of Scotch, and another two hours, he gave up, went upstairs, and fell asleep on the couch in the living room, dreaming of endless white pages filled with nothing.