Ghost Story

to reach the hall.

The roommates too seemed arbitrary. Helen had described them to me on the walk up the hill. One of them, Meredith Polk, was also from Wisconsin, a new instructor in the Botany Department. She and Helen had met while hunting for a place to live, found they had done graduate work at the same university and decided to live together. The third girl was a theater graduate student named Hilary Lehardie. Helen said, 'Hilary never leaves her room and stays high all day, I think, and she plays rock music most of the night. I put in ear plugs. But Meredith is better. She's very intense and a little bit odd, but I think we're friends. She tries to protect me.'

'Protect you from what?'

'Vileness.'

Both of the roommates were at home when I reached Helen's apartment. As soon as I came in behind Helen, an overweight black-haired girl in blue jeans and a sweatshirt shot out of the door from the kitchen and glared at me through thick glasses. Meredith Polk. Helen introduced me as a writer in the English Department, and Meredith said 'Dja do?' and zipped back into the kitchen. Loud music came from a side bedroom.

The spectacled black-haired girl cannoned out of the kitchen again as soon as Helen had gone in to get me a drink. She wove through the furniture to a camp chair near a wall against which stood what looked like hundreds of cacti and plants in pots. She slotted a cigarette in her mouth and stared at me with an intent suspicion.

'You're not an academic? Not on the regular staff?' This from a first-year instructor, years from tenure.

I said, 'I just have a year's appointment. I'm a writer.'

'Oh,' she said. More staring for a moment. Then: 'So you're the one who took her to lunch.'

'Yes.'

'Ah.'

The music boomed through the wall. 'Hilary,' she said, nodding in the direction of the music. 'Our roommate.'

'Doesn't it bother you?'

'I don't hear it most of the time. Concentration. And it's good for the plants.'

Helen came out with a tumbler too full of whiskey, one ice cube floating at the top like a dead goldfish. She carried a cup of tea for herself.

' 'Scuse me,' Meredith said, and darted off in the direction of her room.

'Oh, it's nice to see a man in this awful place,' Helen said. For a moment all the worry and self-consciousness left her face, and I saw the real intelligence that lay beneath her academic cleverness. She looked vulnerable, but less so than I had thought.

We went to bed a week later, at my apartment. She was not a virgin, and she was firm about not being in love. In fact she went about the entire matter of deciding to do it and then doing it with the brisk precision she brought to the Scots Chaucerians. 'You'll never fall in love with me,' she said, 'and I don't expect you to. That's fine.'

She spent two nights at my apartment, that time. We went to the library together in the evenings, vanishing into our separate carrels as if there were no emotion at all between us. The only actual sign I had that this was not so came one evening a week later when I found Meredith Polk outside my door when I came home. She was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt. 'You shit,' she hissed at me, and I quickly opened the door and got her inside.

'You cold-hearted bastard,' she said. 'You're going to wreck her chances for tenure. And you're breaking her heart. You treat her like a whore. She's much too good for you. You don't even have the same values.

Helen's committed to scholarship-it's the most important thing in her life. I understand that, but I don't think you do. I don't think you're committed to anything but your sex life.'

'One thing at a time,' I said. 'How can I possibly be wrecking her chances for tenure? Let's just take that one first.'

'This is her first semester here. They watch us, you know. How do you think it looks if a new instructor jumps in the sack with the first guy who comes along?'

'This is Berkeley. I don't think anyone notices or cares.'

'You pig. You don't notice or care, you don't notice anything or care about anything, that's the truth-do you love her?'

'Get out,' I said. I was losing my temper. She looked like an angry frog, croaking at me, defining her territory.

Helen herself arrived three hours later, looking pale and bruised. She would not discuss Meredith Polk's astounding accusations, but she said she had talked to her the night before. 'Meredith is very protective,' she said. 'She must have been to you. I'm sorry, Don.' Then she began to cry. 'No, don't rub my back like that. Don't. It's just foolish. It's only that I haven't been able to work, the past few nights. I guess I've been unhappy whenever I haven't been with you.' She looked up at me, stricken. 'I shouldn't have said that. But you don't love me, do you? You couldn't, could you?'

'There's no answer to that. Let me get you a cup of tea.'

She was lying on the bed in my little apartment, curled up like a fetus. 'I feel so guilty.'

I came back with her tea. 'I wish we could take a trip together,' she said. 'I wish we could go to Scotland together. I've spent all these years reading about Scotland, and I've never been there.' Her eyes were brimming behind the big glasses. 'Oh, I'm a horrible mess. I knew I should never have come out here. I was happy in Madison. I should never have come to California.'

'You belong here more than I do.'

'No,' she said, and rolled over to hide her face. 'You can go anywhere and fit in. I've never been anything but a working-class drudge.'

'What's the last really good book you read?' I asked.

She rolled back over to face me, curiosity defeating the misery and embarrassment on her face. Squinting, she considered it for a moment. 'The Rhetoric of Irony by Wayne Booth. I just reread it.'

'You belong at Berkeley,' I said.

'I belong in a zoo.'

It was an apology for everything, for Meredith Polk as much as for her own feelings, but I knew that if we went on I could only hurt her more. She was right: it was not possible that I could ever love her.

Afterward I thought that my Berkeley life had settled into a pattern to which the rest of my life would adhere. It was, except for my work, essentially empty. But wasn't it better to continue seeing Helen than to wound her by insisting on a break? In the workbound world I saw as mine, expedience was a synonym for kindness. When we parted between us was the understanding that we would not meet for a day or two, but that all would continue as before.

But a week later the conventional period of my life came to an end; after it I saw Helen Kayon only twice.

2

I had found the hook for the Hawthorne lecture; it was in an essay by R. P. Blackmur: 'When every possibility is taken away, then we have sinned.' The idea seemed to radiate throughout Hawthorne's work, and I could connect the novels and stories by this black Christianity, by the impulse in them for nightmare-by what was almost their desire for nightmare. For to imagine a nightmare is to put it at one remove. And I found a statement by Hawthorne which helped to explain his method: 'I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleasing effect, so far as my own mind was concerned, by imagining a train of incidents in which the spiritual mechanism of the faery legend should be combined with the characters and manners of everyday life.' When I had the ideas which would structure the lecture, the details fell onto the pages of my notebook.

This work and my writing students kept me fully occupied for the five days before the lecture. Helen and I met fleetingly, and I promised her that we would get away for a weekend when my immediate work was done. My brother David owned a 'cottage' in Still Valley, outside Mendocino, and he'd told me to use it whenever I wanted to