The Throat

into the blue roses twining up the paler blue background of my bedroom wallpaper—to become the twist of an elm leaf on Livermore Avenue, the cigarette rasp of a warm voice in the darkness, the gleam of silver light momentarily seen on a smooth dark male head, the dusty shaft of paler light speeding toward the screen in a nearly empty theater.

4

With two exceptions, the weekend went by in the same fashion as the preceding days. At Ransom's suggestion, I brought my manuscript and new notes downstairs to the dining room table, where I happily chopped paragraphs and pages from what I had written, and using a succession of gliding Blackwing pencils sharpened to perfect points in a clever little electric mill, wrote the new pages about Charlie's childhood on a yellow legal pad.

Ransom did not mind sharing the legal pad, the electric sharpener, and the Blackwings, but the idea that I might want to spend a couple of hours working every day alternately irritated and depressed him. This problem appeared almost as soon as he had helped me establish myself on the dining room table.

He looked suspiciously at the pad, the electric sharpener, my pile of notes, the stack of pages. 'You had another brainstorm, I suppose?'

'Something like that.'

'I suppose that's good news, for you.'

He returned to the living room so abruptly that I followed him. He dropped onto the couch and stared at the television.

'John, what's the matter?'

He would not look at me. It occurred to me that he had probably acted like this with April, too. After a considerable silence, he said, 'If all you're going to do is work, you might as well be back in New York.'

Some people assume that all writing is done in between drinks, or immediately after long walks through the Yorkshire dales. John Ransom had just put himself in this category.

'John,' I said, 'I know that this is a terrible time for you, but I don't understand why you're acting this way.'

'What way?'

'Forget it,' I said. 'Just try to keep in mind that I am not rejecting you personally.'

'Believe me,' he said, 'I'm used to being around selfish people.'

John didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. He made dinner for himself, opened a bottle of Chateau Petrus, and ate the dinner and drank the bottle while watching television. When the Walter Dragonette show ceased for the day, he surfed through the news programs; when they were over, he switched to CNN until 'Nightline' came on. The only interruption came immediately after he finished his meal, when he carried his wineglass to the telephone, called Arizona, and told his parents that April had been murdered. I was back in the dining room by that time, eating a sandwich and revising my manuscript, and was sure that Ransom knew that I could overhear him tell his parents that an old acquaintance from the service, the writer Tim Underhill, had come 'all the way from New York to help me deal with things. You know, handling phone calls, dealing with the press, helping me with the funeral arrangements.' He ended the conversation by making arrangements for picking them up from the airport. After 'Nightline,' Ransom switched off the set and went upstairs.

The next morning I went out for a quick walk before the reporters arrived. When I came back, Ransom rushed out of the kitchen and asked if I'd like a cup of coffee. Some eggs, maybe? He thought we ought to have breakfast before we went to his father-in-law's house to break the news.

Did he want me to come along while he told Alan? Sure he did, of course he did—unless I'd rather stay here and work. Honestly, that would be okay, too.

Either I wasn't selfish anymore, or he had forgiven me. The sulky, silent Ransom was gone.

'We can leave by the back door and squeeze through a gap in the hedges. The reporters'll never know we left the house.'

'Is there something I don't know about?' I asked.

'I called the dean at home last night,' he said. 'He finally understood that I couldn't promise to have everything settled by September. He said he'd try to calm down the trustees and the board of visitors. He thinks he can get some sort of vote of confidence in my favor.'

'So your job is safe, at least.'

'I guess,' he said.

The second exceptional event of the weekend took place before our visit with Alan Brookner. John came back into the kitchen while I was eating breakfast to report that Alan seemed to be having another one of his 'good' days and was expecting us within the next half hour. 'He's mixing Bloody Marys, so at least he's in a good mood.'

'Bloody Marys?'

'He made them for April and me every Sunday—we almost always went to his place for brunch.'

'Did you tell him why you wanted to see him?'

'I want him relaxed enough to understand things.'

The bell buzzed, and fists struck the door. A dimly audible voice asked that John open up, please. The hound pack was not usually so polite.

'Let's get out of here,' John said. 'Check the front to make sure they're not sneaking around the house.'

The phone started ringing as soon as I passed under the arch. A fist banged twice on the door, and a voice called, 'Police, Mr. Ransom, please open up, we want to talk to you.'

The men at the door peered in through separate windows, and I found myself looking directly into the face of Detective Wheeler. The smirking, mustached head of Detective Monroe appeared at the window on the other side of the door. Monroe said, 'Open up, Underhill.'

Paul Fontaine's voice spoke through the answering machine. 'Mr. Ransom, I am told that you are ignoring the presence of the detectives at your door. Don't be bad boys, now, and let the nice policemen come inside. After all, the policeman is your—'

I opened the door, beckoned in Monroe and Wheeler, and snatched up the phone. 'This is Tim Underhill,' I said into the receiver. 'We thought your men were reporters. I just let them in.'

'The policeman is your friend. Be good boys and talk to them, will you?' He hung up before I could reply.

John came steaming out from the hall into the living room, already pointing at our three dark shapes in the foyer. 'I want those people out of here right now, you hear me?' He charged forward and then abruptly stopped moving. 'Oh. Sorry.'

'That's fine, Mr. Ransom,' said Wheeler. Both detectives went about half of the distance across the living room. When John did not come forward to meet them, they gave each other a quick look and stopped moving. Monroe put his hands in his pockets and gave the paintings a long inspection.

John said, 'You sat in the booth with us.'

'I'm Detective Wheeler, and this is Detective Monroe.'

Monroe's mouth twitched into an icy smile.

'I guess I know why you're here,' John said.

'The lieutenant was a little surprised by your remarks the other day,' said Wheeler.

'I didn't say anything,' John said. 'It was him. If you want to be specific about it.' He crossed his arms in front of his chest, propping them on the mound of his belly.

'Could we all maybe sit down, please?' asked Wheeler.

'Yeah, sure,' said John, and uncrossed his arms and made a beeline for the nearest chair.