came near her. Then he caught a whiff of perfume. The gray eyes seemed as big as saucers, like the eyes of a kitten when you hold its nose touching yours. He looked at the small mouth, the full lower lip, carefully tinted but not painted. She said nothing. As he started to push past her he seemed to fall; he found his arm around her and held on knowing that he was a fool, knowing something terrible would strike him dead, knowing he wanted to cry, to empty his bladder, to scream, to go to sleep, wondering as he tightened his arms around her…
Stan lay sprawling on the floor. She had twisted his shoulders, turning him until his back was toward her, and then planted one neat foot at the back of his knee. Now she knelt beside him on the carpet, gripping his right hand in both of hers, forcing it in toward the wrist and keeping him flat by the threatened pain of the taut tendons. Her expression had not changed.
She said, “The Rev. Stanton Carlisle, I believe. Pastor of the Church of the Heavenly Message, lecturer on Tarot symbolism and yogic breathing, a producer of ghosts with cheesecloth-or maybe you use a little magic lantern. Now if I let you up will you promise to be co-operative?”
Stan had thrown one arm over his eyes and he felt the tears slipping down his face into his ears. He managed to say, “Promise.”
The deft hands released his and he sat up, hiding his face with his palms, thinking of a pillow that had been slept on and perfumed, with shame washing back and forth over him, the light too strong for his eyes, and the tears that wouldn’t stop running. Something in his throat seemed to be strangling him from inside.
“Here-drink this.”
“What-what is it?”
“Just a little brandy.”
“Never drink it.”
“I’m telling you to drink it. Quickly.”
He felt blindly for the glass, held his breath and drank, coughing as it burned his throat.
“Now get up and sit over here in this chair. Open your eyes and look at me.”
Dr. Lilith Ritter was regarding him from across a wide mahogany desk. She went on, “I thought I’d be hearing from you, Carlisle. You were never cut out to run a spook racket solo.”
CARD XII
“LIE BACK on the couch.”
“I don’t know what to talk about.”
“You say that every time. What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“Wishing you sat where I could see you. I want to look at you.”
“When you lie down on the couch, just before you lean back, you run your hands over your hair. Why do you do that?”
“That’s my get-set.”
“Explain.”
“Every vaudeville actor has some business: something he does in the wings just before he goes on.”
“Why do you do that?”
“I’ve always done it. I used to have a cowlick when I was a kid and my mother would always be telling me to slick it down.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Think about it. Did you ever know anybody who did that-anybody else in vaudeville?”
“No. Let’s talk about something else.”
“What are you thinking about now?”
“Pianos.”
“Go on.”
“Pianos. People playing pianos. For other people to sing. My mother singing. When she sang my old man would go in the dining room and whisper all the time to one of his pals. The rest would be in the living room listening to my mother.”
“She played the piano herself?”
“No. Mark played. Mark Humphries. He’d sit down and look up at her as if he was seeing right through her clothes. He’d run his hands once over his hair-”
“Yes?”
“But it’s crazy! Why would I want to swipe a piece of business from that guy? After she’d run off with him I used to lie awake nights thinking up ways to kill him.”
“I think you admired him.”
“It was the dames that admired him. He was a great big guy with a rumbling voice. The dames were crazy over him.”
“Did this Humphries drink?”
“Sure. Now and then.”
“Did your father drink?”
“Hell, no. He was White Ribbon.”
“The first day you were here I offered you a glass of brandy to help you get hold of yourself. You said you never drank it.”
“God damn it, don’t twist everything around to making it look as if I wanted to be like my old man. Or Humphries either. I hated them-both of ’em.”
“But you wouldn’t take a drink.”
“That was something else.”
“What?”
“None of your-I-it’s something I can’t tell you.”
“I’m being paid to listen. Take your time. You’ll tell me.”
“The stuff smelled like wood alcohol to me. Not any more but the first time.”
“Did you ever drink wood alcohol?”
“Christ, no, it was Pete.”
“Pete who?”
“I never knew his last name. It was in Burleigh, Mississippi. We had a guy in the carny named Pete. A lush. One night he tanked up on wood alky and kicked off.”
“Did he have a deep voice?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Never mind. What was he to you?”
“Nothing. That is-”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Damn it, quit deviling me.”
“Take your time.”
“He-he was married to Zeena, who ran the horoscope pitch. I was-I was-I was screwing her on the side I wanted to find out how she and Pete had done their vaude mental act and I wanted a woman and I made up to her and Pete was always hanging around I gave him the alky to pass him out I didn’t know it was wood or I’d forgotten it he died I was afraid they’d pin it on me but it blew over. That’s all. Are you satisfied?”
“Go on.”
