The door opened and he called to Bridget without looking. 'I'll see you at dinner,' he lied.
The door closed softly. Spence smiled to himself. She didn't have enough self-esteem to slam the door in anger. She would be apologizing by this evening, thinking the little scene was all her fault.
She was by far the most enjoyable of Spence's corruptions, out of all the English majors and married professors and young literary agents and assistant editors who thought they'd fallen in love with him. But, in the end, they were nothing, just meaningless stacks of bones, scaffolds to prop him up when the loneliness was unbearable. When he was working and working well, he needed no one's love but his own.
'And yours, of course,' Spence said to the portrait of Korban, lest his creative benefactor frown.
Spence picked up the manuscript and began reading. The grace of the language, the tight sentence structure, the powerful description were all superb. He'd never been shy about patting himself on the back, but now he had topped even his own lofty literary standards. He would shame them all, from Chaucer to Keats to King.
He didn't question the origin of the words. That was a mystery best left to those whose livelihood was derived from the scholarly vivisection of the humanities. But he'd never before written with such ease as he had last night and today.
Automatic writing. That's what it felt like.
What Spence always called, during those few occasions when the ink flowed so freely, 'ghostwriting.' As if the paper and typewriter themselves were sucking words out of the air. As if his fingers knew the next word before his brain did. As if he were not even there.
Appropriate to the manuscript, to call it ghostwritten, he thought. It had a Gothic feel, somewhat darker than the southern-flavored literature that had once made him the darling of New York. And then there was the protagonist, the handsome, bearded, and odd man whose name he still hadn't decided upon. That was strange, to be so far along in the manuscript and not even know the main character's name.
He caught himself looking, for the tenth time, at the painting of Korban that hung on the wall above the desk. Then he closed his eyes. After a moment, he resumed ghostwriting.
'Did you hear that?'
'Hear what?'
'A thumping sound.'
Adam strained his ears. Paul was probably just being paranoid. He had slipped outside and smoked a joint after dinner. Paul was two things when he was stoned, paranoid and horny.
'Probably that fat writer banging his chippy in the room below us,' Adam said.
'If it is, they're the most uncoordinated couple in the history of the human race. Quickest, too.'
'All I care about right now is us,' Adam said, resting his head on Paul's shoulder. 'Thanks for the good time.'
'No, thank you.'
'And I promise not to bring up the subject of adoption for at least a week.'
'You just brought it up.'
Paul. 'Forget I said anything.'
Adam pulled the covers up to his chin and curled his body against Paul's warmth. Adam was afraid he'd have trouble sleeping. The mountaintop estate was too quiet for a city boy, and Adam had never experienced such near- total darkness. He still missed the bright lights, traffic, and aggravation.
'Do you feel like getting out the radio?' he asked.
'Did you bring batteries?'
'Yeah. Figured we might need a little contact with the outside world. The radio's in my bag.'
'I'd have to crawl over you to get it.'
'I won't bite.'
'I'm too tired, anyway. 'Fagged,' as that phony-assed photographer would say.'
'You just drank too much wine, that's all. And you know what pot does to you.'
'Tonight was for fun. Tomorrow, I'm going to be working again.'
Adam collected the radio, brought it back to bed, and switched it on. He twisted the dial, switched bands from FM to AM. Nothing but weird static. 'I guess radio waves get blocked by the mountains.'
'Or else cool-freaky pop gets censored up here.'
They lay for a moment in the darkness. The house was still and hushed. The embers had grown low in the fireplace, and Adam didn't feel like fumbling for a match to light the oil lamp on the bedside table.
'I've been thinking,' Paul said.
'News flash. Stop the presses.'
Paul elbowed Adam in the ribs. Adam tickled him in return.
'But seriously,' Paul said. 'I'm thinking of doing a documentary on this place.'
'This place?'
'Korban Manor. It's pretty unique, and I could get a lot of scenic footage. Ephram Korban's history sounds pretty interesting, too. An industrialist with a God complex.'
'A historical documentary?'
'Something like that?'
'What about all the footage you've already shot, all those weeks in the Adirondacks and the Alleghenies?'
'I'll keep it in the can. I can use it anytime.'
'I don't know, Paul. The grant people might get upset. After all, you signed on for an Appalachian nature documentary.'
'To hell with the grant committees. I do what I want.'
Paul was pulling his Orson Welles bit. Even in the dark, Adam could visualize the famous 'Paul pout.'
So what if Paul spent months on footage, and still had weeks of postproduction, editing, and scripting left? Those were only technical details. Paul wanted to be the artist, the posturing auteur, the brash visionary. Stubbornly refusing to sell out.
No matter the cost.
But Adam wasn't in the mood to argue. Not after the good time they'd just had.
'Why don't you sleep on it, and we can talk about it in the morning?' Adam stroked one of Paul's well- developed biceps. Lugging a twenty-pound camera and battery belt through the mountains all summer had really toned him up.
'I mean, this is like an alien world or something,' Paul said. 'No electricity, people living like they did a hundred years ago. And the servants, all of them still live here, like serfs around the castle.'
Adam was drifting off despite Paul's excitement. 'Uh-huh,' he mumbled.
He must have fallen asleep, because he was standing on a tower, the wind blowing through his hair, dark trees swaying below him No, it wasn't a tower. He recognized the grounds of the manor. He was on top of the house, on that little flat space marked off by the white railing-now, what had the maid called it? Oh yeah, the widow's walk-and Adam found himself climbing over the rail and looking down at the stone walkway sixty feet below, and the clouds told him to jump, he felt a hand on his back, pushing, then he was flying, falling, the wind shook him, why 'Adam! Wake up.' Paul was shaking his shoulder. Paul had sat up in bed, the blankets around his waist. A decent amount of time must have passed, because a little moonlight leaked through the window.
'What is it?' Adam was still groggy from the dream and the after-dinner drinks.
Paul pointed toward the door, his eyes wide and wet in the dimness. 'I saw something. A woman, I think. All dressed in white. She was white.'
'This is the southern Appalachians, Paul. Everybody's white.' Adam shook away the fragments of the nightmare.
'No, it wasn't like that. She was see-through.'
Adam gave a drowsy snort. 'That's what happens when you smoke Panamanian orange-hair. It's a wonder you didn't see the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover in drag.'
'I'm not joking, Adam.'
Adam put a hand on Paul's chest. His boyfriend's heart was pounding.
'Get back under the covers,' Adam said. 'You must have fallen asleep and had a weird dream. I think I had one myself.'
