“That’s for me, Mr. Fanshawe. Hope you enjoy your stay!”
Baxter lumbered off to tend to more guests, leaving Fanshawe mystified amid a flurry of questions. He examined the painting for several minutes more before he finally left the cove.
They must be having a convention here or something, he guessed of the next crowd of patrons waiting to check in. They were mostly older men, dressed in suits, but many bearded and long- haired. Immediately Fanshawe thought of academicians. He glanced down another short hall, then felt instantly enthused. SQUIRE’S PUB read a transom sign, and within he could see a small but neatly appointed hotel bar bearing the same decorative motif as the hotel.
Behind the bar top, Abbie was polishing some glasses; she smiled at him and waved, silently mouthing, Hi, Stew.
Her eyes glittered. Man, she’s attractive, Fanshawe thought, and she DID promise to tell me more about the town’s history. It seemed a perfect excuse to go in, but just as he would do so, at least a dozen guests beat him to it and filled the bar in only moments. Damn it, he thought. Guess I’ll go for a walk instead. I can talk to her later when there aren’t so many people in there.
He walked back toward the entrance, paused, then ducked into a cove. He wasn’t aware of what induced him to do so, yet next he found himself looking back down at that bottom shelf, at the shiny optical device.
He re-read the label: WITCH-WATER LOOKING-GLASS, MADE BY JACOB WRAXALL, CIRCA 1672.
Witch-water, he reflected. What on earth could that be?
(II)
Sports jacket over his shoulder, Fanshawe strolled around town, first the older, quainter Back Street, then Main. Most of the shops, buildings, etc., were single-story; he forced his eyes away from the few that weren’t. I’ve just got to be careful, I’ve just got to be strong. How much strength must it take to choose not to be a “peeper?” The arcane question always baffled him, but then Dr. Tilton never ceased with her reminders that he was not a typical man; instead he was plagued by a “deep-seated paraphilic addiction.” Though Fanshawe appreciated seeing attractive women as much as any natural man, merely witnessing them did not kindle his strange obsession. It was seeing them in a forbidden way, seeing them when they didn’t know it. Somehow, that was the unreckonable key to…
To my sickness, he confessed.
But he was here to forget about all that. He hadn’t peeped in a window for over a year, as difficult as the resistance had been. That’s strength, isn’t it? he tried to reassure himself.
He was often prone to self-condemnation, but then he felt he deserved it. He’d done outrageous things made even more outrageous considering his financial and professional status. It sounded incredulous: a business mogul, a financial genius, and a small-scale billionaire…who was also a voyeur or, worse, to use Dr. Tilton’s unwelcome supplement, “a clinical scoptophile.”
Jesus…
“Forget about it all, forget it,” he whispered to himself, clenching a fist. When a shapely, sable-haired woman passed him on the sidewalk, her curvaceous body seemed to slide around within her silk top and shining chiffon skirt as though her garments were actually some magical liquid that served to highlight her physique as enticingly as possible. Her eyes met his and she smiled. “Hi,” he said too quickly, and then she was gone. But on the street like this, her upper-class beauty was only generic: she’d only truly be beautiful to Fanshawe if looked upon unaware through a private window…
Forget about it! He was supposed to be “cured” by now; Tilton had said so.
Instead he let his mind wander. What do normal people think about when they walk around in a neat little tourist town? He blankly eyed passing cars, various street signs, the herringbone-style pattern of the brick sidewalks. When he stopped before a flower shop, he focused on the colorful bouquets, then realized he felt insensible about them in spite of their arresting colors and fascinating scents. Tourists passed this way and that, mostly elderly couples, but several families with chattering children; Fanshawe felt unseen, like a ghost, amongst them. Regular people living regular lives, he thought with more of that same self-condemnation. Every observation he made—and as hard as he tried to feel positive—left him barren- minded. Snap out of it. You’re just in a bad mood, and financial tycoons have NO RIGHT to be in bad moods. Finally he passed one of the pillories and snorted under his breath, smiling. Back then? They would’ve put ME in one of those things.
He crossed the meager intersection, scarcely aware of what he wanted to do. More tourists milled about here, eyeing restaurant menus or simply absorbing the town’s impressive architecture. From the mouth of a curving alley, two women in polyester shorts and mid-waist T-shirts emerged, hands fisted as they jogged, talking briskly with their eyes straight ahead. One’s tight top read YALE, the other’s, HARVARD; both had headbands, ponytailed hair, and toned, lissome physiques. The Harvard woman seemed more robustly breasted, while Yale’s nipples jutted like diminutive teepees beneath the tight fabric. Fanshawe watched them both as if hypnotized; they bobbed up and down on silent sneakers, bosoms bobbing as well, in perfect synchronicity. Knowing that they weren’t aware of his glances left him tingling in some abstract visual fervor. They jogged on, and when he pulled his eyes off them, he gave a start because the first thing he saw next was a display in a curiosity shop window: a mounted skeleton whose yellow-boned hand held—of all things—a pair of binoculars to its face. Fanshawe frowned. He hoped the grotesque thing was artificial but had the edgy notion that it wasn’t. Who the HELL is going to buy that? Next was the Starbucks—Some things never change, he thought—and, next, an information kiosk tended by a spry, elderly woman with a crown of frost-white hair. “Just out for a gallivant, sir?” she piped up in surprising British accent. “Yes,” he said, still distracted, “I just arrived. Not really sure what to do.” “Well, sir, if you’re of the type to fancy such things”—she pointed across the street—“you might have a look in the waxworks, but if you’re easily dispirited, be forewarned to steer clear of the back hall,” yet she pronounced “hall” as ’all. Fanshawe followed her finger to glimpse a pair of Revolutionary War soldiers “guarding” the wax museum’s entrance. At first he thought the pair were living actors in costumes but in a few moments their perfect stillness betrayed them as mannequins, lifelike to an unnerving degree. That’s pretty good work, he realized, though he’d never been particularly impressed by waxworks. He was amused, though, by the elder woman’s reverse psychology. She’s daring me to go in. “I don’t know if I’m easily dispirited,” he said, “but I guess there’s a torture chamber and the whole witchcraft theme.” “That there is, sir,” she replied. “It’ll give you a case of the creepers, it will.”
Fanshawe smiled. “And, of course, a lifelike mannequin of Jacob Wraxall, hmm?”
“’Tis nothing more than the truth, ole limb of the Devil that he was, and that wretched daughter of his. Oh, the carryin’ on they got up to? Heavens!”
But Fanshawe had had enough of Jacob Wraxall for one day. “Thanks for the information,” he said, glancing at the town map. On the index, he spotted the words: FORTUNE TELLER, and its numbered code indicated it to be close to the waxworks. He looked back across the street and saw it. LETITIA RHODES - PSYCHIC, announced the small window sign in gaudy neon. PALMISTRY, CHARTS, TAROT. It occurred to Fanshawe that he’d never had his palm read.
“I see you’re eyein’ the palmist’s, sir. Well, I can only speak like what my heart tells me and say you’re a-better off passin’ that one up.”
“Oh? Why’s that, ma’am?”
“An odd card that Letitia Rhodes is, sir, yes, sir, not that I’m speakin’ ill, mind you, not one word of it. But one day I was just havin’ me my stroll to the tea shop, and I passed her, I did, and she look me right in the eye and say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Anstruther”—that bein’ my name, o’course—Anstruther, Delores, Anstruther, sir. So I say back, ‘What loss might you be referring to, Ms. Rhodes?’ and then she go all white in the face and eyes big ‘round as saucers, and she rush off, apologizin’ under her breath. I just took her to be daft, I did, but then when the daily post come I get a letter from Merseyside sayin’ me brother
