Every new face that showed up at the seances now seemed charged with suspicion and malice and sly knowledge. Could there be a cabal forming against him in the church?
Frantically he switched on the phonograph again and stepped on the board. “
In the silence the house was closing in. The walls had not moved, nor the ceiling; not when he looked straight at them. He ran his hands over his hair once and took a deep breath. Hum the first eight bars of our opener. But it was no use.
Outside, across backyards, a dog barked.
“Gyp!”
His own voice startled him. Then he began to laugh.
He laughed as he walked into the hall, laughing up the stairs and in and out of bedrooms, now chastely bare. In the dark-seance room he snapped on the light. Blank white walls. Still laughing and chuckling he snapped the light off and felt for the panel in the baseboard where he kept the projector.
He aimed it at the wall; and there it was, jumping up and down crazily as his hand shook with laughing-the hazy image of an old woman. He twisted a knob and she vanished. Another twist and a baby appeared in a halo of golden mist, jumping crazily as his hand shook with laughing. “Dance, you little bastard,” his voice thundered against the close walls.
He twisted the hand projector until the baby floated upside down, and he roared with laughter. He fell to the floor, laughing, and aimed the beam at the ceiling, watching the baby fly up the angle of the wall and come to rest overhead, still smiling mistily. Laughing and strangling, Stan began to beat the projector against the floor; something snapped, and the light went out.
He crawled to his feet and couldn’t find the door and stopped laughing then, feeling his way around and around. He counted nine corners. He began to shout and then he found it and let himself out, dripping with sweat.
In his office the day was breaking gray through the Venetian blinds. The desk light wouldn’t come on and he seized it and jerked it out of the wall plug and tossed it into a corner. The blinds got tangled with the cord; he gathered them in his arms and wrenched; the whole business came down on top of him and he fought his way free of them. At last the card index.
R. R. R. God damn it. Who had stolen the R’s? Raphaelson, Randolph, Regan-here it was.
The voice that answered the telephone was cool, low-pitched, and competent. “Yes?”
“My name is Carlisle. I’ve been having trouble sleeping-”
The voice interrupted. “Why not consult your physician? I am not a doctor of medicine, Mr. Carlisle.”
“I’ve been taking pills, but they don’t seem to help. I’ve been working too hard, they tell me. I want to see you.”
There was silence for a long moment; then the cool voice said, “I can see you the day after tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”
“Not before then?”
“Not before then.”
Stan beat his fist once against the desk top, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he said, “Very well, Dr. Ritter. At eleven o’clock-Tuesday.”
Whatever she might look like, the dame had a wonderful voice. And he must have pulled her out of a sound sleep. But Tuesday-What was he supposed to do until then, chew the rug?
The house grew warmer. Stan went over and pressed his forehead against the chill of the windowpane. Down in the street a girl in a fur coat and no stockings was walking an Irish setter. Stan’s eyes followed the curve of the bare legs, wondering if she had on anything under the fur coat. Some of them run out that way-naked under their furs-to buy cigarettes or club soda or a douche bag.
Back in the flat Molly would be lying sprawled across the bed with her hair caught up on top of her head with a single pin. She would be wearing the black chiffon negligee but she might as well have on a calico wrapper. There was no one to look at her.
The Irish-setter girl turned, tugging at the leash, and the fur coat swung open, showing a pink slip. With a growl of frustration Stan twisted away from the window. He sat down at the desk and pulled out his appointment book. Message service that evening at eight-thirty. Monday morning, developmental class in trance mediumship and the Science of Cosmic Breath. God, what a herd of hippos. The Science of Cosmic Breath: in through the left nostril, on a count of four. Retain breath for count of sixteen. Exhale through the right nostril to count of eight. Measure the counts by repeating
Monday afternoon, lecture on the Esoteric Significance of the Tarot Symbols.
Stan took the Tarot deck from the side drawer and slowly his fingers began remembering; the front-and- back-hand palm, making the cards vanish in the air and drawing them out from under his knee. He paused at one card and laid it before him, holding his head in his hands, studying it. The Lovers. They were naked, standing in Eden with the snake down on the ground all ready to wise them up. Over their heads was the angel-form, its wings extended above the trees of Life and Knowledge.
The lovers were naked. A wave of prickling crawled up over his scalp out of nowhere and, as he watched, the rounded hips and belly of the woman seemed to rotate. Jesus, if this is what I wanted I could have stayed with the Ten-in-One and been talker for the kooch show! There’s a guy that always gets plenty.
He swept the cards to the floor and drew the telephone toward him, dialing. This time the voice said, “Yes, sir. I’ll see if Mrs. Tallentyre’s in.”
She was in to the Rev. Carlisle.
“Mrs. Tallentyre, I spent most of last night in meditation. And from my meditation I drew a thought. I shall have to seek three days of silence. Unfortunately I cannot go to the Himalayas, but I think the Catskills will serve. You understand, I’m sure. I would appreciate it if you will take charge of the service tonight and notify class members that I have been called away. Just say that I have gone in search of the Silence. I shall return, without fail, on the third day.”
That was that. Now lock up. Lock the office door-time to clean up all the havoc later. Leave the appointment book downstairs on the hall table. Mrs. Tallentyre had a key to the outside door. Leave the inner door unlocked.
He put on his coat and a few minutes later was hurrying through the soft snow.
“Gee, honey, I’m glad you come back! Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. How many times do I have to tell you I can take care of myself?”
“Want a couple of eggs? I’m starved. Let me fix you a couple. The coffee’s all ready.”
Stan stood in the kitchen door watching her. She was wearing the black chiffon negligee; against the early winter light from the window she might as well not have had on a stitch. Whoever figured out dames’ clothes knew his onions. What made her seem so far away and long ago? The one dame who wouldn’t cross him up. And the shape was still something you usually see behind footlights or in magazines.
Stan ran his hands once over his hair and said, “Come here.” They stood watching each other for a moment, and he saw her take a deep breath. Then she turned off the gas under the skillet and ran over and threw her arms around his neck.
It was like kissing the back of your own hand but he picked her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. She clung to him and slid her hand under his shirt and he drew the chiffon open and started to kiss her shoulder but it was no use.
And now she was crying, looking up at him reproachfully as he threw on his jacket.
“Sorry, kid. I’ve got to get away. I’ll be back Tuesday. I’ve- I’ve got to breathe.”
When he had thrown some stuff in a keyster and locked it and hurried out Molly pulled the covers over her,
