suddenly remembering how Young Don had interpreted that word he didn’t recognize.
She glared at me again. “You’d best find paper and pencil to write this down; it is long.”
“Very well.” I signaled the waitress over. She asked if we wanted anything else. I asked for a pen. She provided one and went away again. I turned over the place mat and prepared to write.
The old woman said, “It must be done under the waning moon, the new moon is best.”
“Very well.”
“And you must begin at midnight.”
I laughed.
“You think it’s a joke?” she snapped.
“Of course. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”
Her mouth twitched angrily and she began speaking. I wrote it all down. The paper was too coarse. I prefer typing, I think.
I have typewritten the instructions and set them aside until the moon should become newer. Why is it that we call the moon new when we can’t see her at all? For that matter, why do we say first quarter or third quarter when any fool can see it is a half-moon? Now, by the way, she is big and full and beautiful, rising early in the evening and setting as the sun rises.
I walked through the bitter cold that might be winter’s last serious effort for the year. The harsh winds, I am told, come from Lake Erie and make their way into the center of the state where they become mild and people complain of the cold. Those from Lakota consider themselves hardy, superior folk for surviving winters with winds like this; I think, perhaps, they are merely stupid; and I am including Laura Kellem in their number. I will not stay here a moment beyond the time I am bound; a time which will, I think, end in two weeks, at the dark of the moon of April.
But what if Susan wants to stay? Will I remain here in spite of the risks? No, not unless there is a way to protect myself from Kellem-protect myself thoroughly. And, of course, there is such a way. It makes me tremble to contemplate it, but it is not impossible. If it is that or leave Susan, well, it may become more reasonable. Or not. If I can free myself from Kellem, that is enough; she is stronger than I, and older, and, even if I owed her no gratitude, it would be foolish to take such a risk.
It is funny, I think, how I cannot conceive of life without Susan, and yet we’ve never talked about such things. Or perhaps we have-that she offered to give up her other lover is, I think, as unprecedented for her as these feelings are for me.
I believe I will go see her, and maybe we will talk about these things, and perhaps I will be in for another shock-an unpleasant one if my suppositions prove to be ill-founded. But it is better to know than not to know, isn’t it?
I spent the evening with Susan, though we didn’t go anywhere and I didn’t touch her, save for an arm around her shoulder. She seemed disappointed, and I was sad that I couldn’t explain.
We sat on her couch listening to Maazel conduct the Cleveland Orchestra through Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 5. I’ve always liked Shostakovich; he’s morbid. I said, “Jill isn’t back yet, is she?”
“No. I spoke to her, and she said she’d be getting out tomorrow. Are you going to be here to welcome her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Yes. And then, perhaps I shouldn’t.”
She said, “You know, Jonathan, you never actually said that you’d stop seeing Jill if I stopped seeing Jennifer.”
“I implied it pretty strongly, though.”
She smiled and nestled closer to me. “Mmmm,” she said.
“But all right, I formally agree. Yes. Done. Compact made, signed, and sealed. An alliance offensive and defensive against this wicked world.”
“That will do,” she said.
“I will tell her next time I see her.”
She frowned, watched me with her big eyes, and said, “Do you think that right after she comes out of the hospital is the best time?”
“Somehow,” I said, “I don’t think it will break her heart.”
“Oh?”
“Trust me.”
“I do.”
“When are you going to tell Jennifer?”
She nestled her head against my shoulder and said, “About two hours ago.”
“Oh. Hmmm. How did she take it?”
“She’s a bit of a bitch. But we’re going to get together and talk things over.”
I almost offered to make sure she stayed out of her life, but then I thought that she wouldn’t like that. My next idea was that I could simply cause her to disappear, but then Susan might feel guilty about it. Perhaps I ought to just allow things to run their course. I’m glad I didn’t send that letter to Traci.
I said, “Confident, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She stroked my hair.
“But,” I said.
“Yes? But?”
“What of the future?”
She pulled her head back just a little and looked at me. “What of it?”
“I have been considering leaving this city.”
“Oh,” she said, very carefully.
“If I do, will you come with me?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it. Everything I’ve been working for-”
“I know. You don’t have to decide now, just think about it.”
“All right.”
“If you decide to stay, I might not be able to leave.”
“Is it so important that you do?”
“I don’t know. It might be.”
“Why?”
I shook my head and we listened to the music. Susan never presses me about things; that is one thing I like about her. After a while I said, “You never press me about things; that is one thing I like about you.”
“Mmmm. What’s another.”
“Your body.”
“You’re batting a thousand so far, cutie pie. What else?”
“How shy and hesitant you are about discussing your own merits.”
She laughed that wonderful laugh. “I was wondering when you were going to get to that.”
Outside, the sky wheeled above us, and the full moon sank in the west.
I guess I’ll never make a detective.
I have this whole pile of information from the newspaper, and I couldn’t find what I wanted. Why? Because I was looking the wrong way. I was trying to find something that said, “Laura Kellem committed this murder,” knowing, really, that even had she signed her work the signature wouldn’t have made it into the paper. If, instead, I’d looked at it the other way around, I would have seen it at once.
And if I’d known what was going on, I could have been more circumspect, and then-but what’s the point? I might as well record it as it happened, and save the reflections, if any, for later.
I came downstairs today after my shower and found Jim staring out the remains of the one window that both faced front and wasn’t boarded up. I said, “Are they still out there?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But they have been here, off and on, every day for the last week.”
“So they probably aren’t neglecting us at night, either.”
