owned a house not far from there which had never been rented. The girl (was it Rachel? Rebecca? something like that) had been trying to convince me of the existence of spirits, and claimed that the house was demon-infested, which is how the subject had come up.
Whether it was or not, I had already pumped Mrs. Lockwitt for the location, and she had confirmed that it was deserted, apparently because she had convinced “Arthur” to move in with her. She said nothing about demons. I don’t happen to believe in demons, so I wasn’t surprised. I had found what I wanted, though, and was ready to leave. I took a last look around.
Near the door a tall, serious-looking young man wearing a dark sweater and tan knit slacks was engaged in premating rituals with a long-necked beauty in a tight, slinky black dress that came down to her knees and was held up by straps. It wasn’t all that flattering, as it made her neck seem even longer, almost deformed. I looked at Mrs. Lockwitt’s earring once more, but she didn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation. She helped herself from the punch bowl and offered me some. Who puts punch bowls in the library? In any case, I knew what had gone into it, so I declined, excused myself with a gesture, and headed for the probable lovers-to-be.
“… several generations,” he was saying. “All in the same family.”
“So you think it’s genetic?” she said, sounding more interested than she probably was. “It doesn’t surprise me. There are whole families of artists and musicians, why shouldn’t mathematics be the same way?”
“Exactly. We’re planning a project now with preschoolers, testing their aptitudes and relating it to their parents’ aptitudes. We’re working on a grant proposal with Timson in Biology.”
“It sounds exciting,” she said, as if trying to convince herself it was. “How far along-” She stopped because I had arrived. They looked at me, holding back their smiles a bit, the way one does with strangers who interrupt a conversation or a mutual seduction. He was half a head taller than I was, and broader; not at all matching the stereotype for people who talk about such things. She was almost my height, but more attractive than I am.
“I don’t believe we’ve met before,” I said, shifting my eyes to include them both. “John Agyar. Jack, if you like.”
They looked at each other quickly, not knowing how to deal with the interruption. As the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he loosened up a little and said, “Don Swaggart.”
“Jill Quarrier.”
I looked at her and performed a frown of recognition. “The artist?”
You could practically see her thaw. “You know my work?” I haven’t always been good at guesswork, but I’ve learned.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing any; but you’ve been spoken of in very complimentary terms.”
“Really? By whom?”
I warmed to her a little; most people would have said “who.” “Several people around the department. I don’t recall any names, but I was certainly intrigued by what I heard. Do you happen to have anything with you?”
“Yes, do you?” said Young Don, no doubt feeling her attention slip away.
“I’m afraid not,” she said, either pleased, disappointed, or both. I couldn’t imagine what sort of artist she would be-her face had no animation whatsoever. That was all right; it wasn’t her face I was interested in.
“Is your work on display at the college?”
“Not at the moment. I have a few pieces at the studio in Berkshire West.”
“I’d love to see them.”
Donald shifted uncomfortably, probably trying to think of something to say other than “so would I.” He settled for asking me, “What department are you with?”
I laughed without showing teeth. “What would you guess?”
She said, “Most people here are Modern Languages, but I’d have guessed you for Drama.”
“Really? I think I’m flattered.”
Young Don said, “I’d have guessed Business.”
I caught his eye and said, “No, I’m afraid not. And you’re Sociology.”
He frowned. “Good guess.”
“No guess,” I said. “You fit the profile.”
He was wise enough not to ask, but she seemed stung on his behalf and said, “Why is everyone down on sociology? I think the study of how people live together is fascinating.”
“People are down on sociology,” I said, “because it was invented by people who felt someone ought to answer Marx, and there’s no answer for Marx outside of religion, a field any civilized person ought to avoid.”
“That’s preposterous-” he began.
“What is?”
“Your contention about sociology.”
“Oh. I thought you meant my contention about religion.”
“What makes you think-”
“Who first popularized the term?”
“Sociology? It was coined by Comte-”
“Who popularized it?”
“I suppose it was Herbert Spencer.”
“And what did he say about Marx?”
“Huh? Almost nothing, as a matter of fact.”
“And what was the strange thing the dog did in the nighttime?”
Jill laughed, which was half the battle won, and Young Don sputtered, which was the other half. “I don’t think you can conclude-”
“Read any Max Weber?” I said.
“Some.”
“Well?”
“Are you a Marxist?” He probably thought it was a good counterattack, but I couldn’t help laughing, both at the question and at his predicament.
“Not likely,” I said. “Merely a student of applied realities. And a lover of art. And a cardplayer.”
Donny frowned as the conversation went completely out of his reckoning. “You’re a gambler?”
“Not when I can help it,” I said. “You?”
“Uh, no.”
It was time to bring Jill back into it. “How about you?”
She gave the question more consideration than it was worth; probably the overintellectual type. “Sometimes,” she said. “Gambling can be exciting.”
“Winning is better, if you know how.”
“You know how?” she said, trying to act a little amused.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Show me your paintings, and I’ll let you in on the secret.”
“Sure,” she said, laughing. “When?”
“Now,” I said. “Unless you’re finding the party too exciting to slip away from.”
“You have wheels?”
“No, I have feet. It’s a lovely night, and Berkshire isn’t far.”
“It’s cold.”
“Not too cold; there’s no wind.”
She looked up at me through squinted eyes. Her brows were fair and I saw the faint blond roots of her dark hair. Amusing. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I thought I detected a sense of humor down there somewhere, as if she knew what was was happening and thought it was funny. Maybe she thought she was gambling. In any case, Young Don was forgotten. “All right,” she said. We went to the hallway, where I helped her with her parka of some synthetic material. My coat was the authentic English bobby’s coat; very natty. Stylish. We left together, while Donald was carefully looking in another direction.
The night was the cold of Midwestern mid-winter with a big moon, a day shy of full, but mostly hidden by high, fast clouds. There were few streetlights. No one was out, save a howling dog a block away, an owl who darted from tree to tree in a vain search for winter rodents, three rats whom the owl didn’t notice, and one dark
