“You tell lies, too.”
“Not I.” The witch laughed; her laughter was clear and yet unpleasant. “I used to as a child, I confess. But I soon found the truth more disconcerting.”
“Next thing you’ll tell me you knew I was here, and that was why you come.”
“Not at all. I am as destitute as the rest, or nearly. Like them, I attempt to live by my wits; and though I wish to think I have more, I live as badly as they.”
Free looked at her and shook his head. “You’re proud of it, though, girl. Proud you’re whatever you are.”
“Whatever I am is the best thing to be. I am the only person I have ever met who is not a fool.”
“Present company excepted, I s’pose.”
“You tell me you are awaiting destruction and your death. If I were you, I would welcome them; but you do not, and neither do you flee.”
“Where I just come from, men don’t die easy. Women neither.”
“I am properly rebuked. Why don’t you run? Even if you have no money, there are places that will accept a homeless old man.”
“I can’t. I won’t. You think you can see thirty foot into the hill, don’t you, girl? You can’t see a thing.”
“What can I not see, Mr. Free?”
“You think this here me that’s talking to you is all there is. Don’t you know there ain’t a man to either side of the Muddy that’s all held in his skin?”
“There is something in what you say.”
“You think these walls are mine. I’m telling you these walls are me. Here’s where I started out from. Here’s where I’ve come to lick my wounds for—well, a sight of years. More than my whole life. Here’s where I’ll live as long as they stand, and here’s where I’ll die when they come down. See my chimney there? That’s as much me as what you’re talking to.”
“We live inside you then, we four. I find that amusing. Like worms in a corpse. Very well, Mr. Free, will you speak to me out of your chimney? Or is your flue hoarse from smoking?”
One of the tiles of the coping slipped under the witch’s feet. She nearly fell before it shattered on the pavement two floors below.
As the night wore on, the old house became cold. Barnes stripped the blankets from his bed, wrapping one about his shoulders, the other around his legs.
Dear Box 188B,
I do not know what else to call you so I will call you that. I think it is a nice name. The 1 means you are alone and I am 2. That is a pun I guess but I really am. The 88 makes me think of a piano which has 88 keys. I used to play and I bet you do too. To tell the truth I was never very good but I admire people who are. Now since I am a salesman and live in hotels I can never practice. B is for beautiful. It is a womanly letter to me and always has been. A & C is male and so is I. (More puns.) Since I said I was a salesman I bet your thinking I am one of those guys who goes on the road and cheats on a wife. I am single (divorced) I really am. Your ad says you are a JW. I am a GM. I am not prejudiced and do not see why you should. I am 35, 5 ft. 9 in. with black hair and mustache. But, I am not Black. I am White of course.
If you would like to have my picture send me yours and I will send mine right away.
Could be Yours
When he had inspected this letter and sealed it in its envelope, Barnes threw off the blankets, stood up, and stretched. For a moment he looked thoughtfully at the picture of the voluptuous blonde, now as thoroughly clothed as was possible for her. Then, shrugging, he flipped off the wall switch.
This time he was rewarded. Light gleamed from the hole, and he put his eye to it.
It penetrated the wall only a few inches above the top of the witch’s dresser, where some bulky object (he had never learned what it was) cast a shadow on it. From it he could see most of her bed, much of the rest of the room, and a part of the door.
The witch was seated on that bed, fully dressed, nervously smoking a long cigarette that boasted lavender paper and a scarlet tip. For an instant she seemed to look directly at him. She exhaled a stream of smoke and rose; he recoiled instinctively, half expecting to see the burning end of her cigarette come through the hole.
When he looked again, she was seated once more and holding a hairbrush. She drew long pins from her hair, which tumbled in a cascade of night. Under his breath, Barnes began to count the strokes with her. One, two, three … Then he realized she was not counting but brushing to the rhythm of verses she murmured in a foreign language.
He stopped counting, but he was sure she had gone far beyond a hundred when she threw down her cigarette and lowered her brush. A moment later he heard it clack on the dresser top. She came into sight again, head bent as she removed contact lenses.
He expected her to undress, and she did not disappoint him, first removing her boots. They were small and spike-heeled, apparently of black kid, now wet and much worn. She looked critically at the sole of each before putting it down.
Her dress she pulled over her head with one easy motion, then padded away to her closet, presumably to hang it up. Under it she wore a black corset with garters, and Barnes was in ecstasy.
At that point, however, she seemed to lose interest in the process. She paced her room, looking for all the
