As Jim and I conversed, he played with an old nickel, hole punched in the center, with a thin chain running through the hole. When I had finished, he put it around his neck, under his shirt, and looked at me. He said, “Did she give you any details about what she’d done that you’re supposed to suffer for?”
“There have been some bodies, apparently.”
“Just bodies?”
“What more do you want, zombies?”
“Never seen a zombie.”
“Never hope to see one. But I can tell you, Abercrombie-”
“Not sure I believe in zombies,” said Jim.
“Nor am I. But no, just bodies.”
“What about witnesses?”
“She’s no fool.”
“Then why does she need someone to go down for the killings?”
“She wants the investigations settled before the authorities dig something up, as it were.”
“Why you?”
“I suppose because I’ll confess to them, and that will end it.”
He stared past my shoulder, his eyes wide as the moon and looming like a stereotype. “Why will you do that?”
“Because she told me to.”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“No. Orders, as they say, are orders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know what they say about Hell hath no fury and all that.”
“You scorned her?”
“No, actually, she scorned me, if you want to look at it that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you love someone who doesn’t love you, you’re in her power, and power is what this is all about. With Kellem, power is always what it is about.”
“And you still love her?”
“No.”
“Then-”
“It’s complicated, Jim.”
He shook his head, still confused. There was no good way to explain it, so I didn’t. He said, “When will it happen?”
“I don’t know. I imagine she hasn’t worked out all the details. It could be tricky for her. I am, as you might guess, overwhelmed with sympathy for her.”
The wind whistled merrily through the wooden slats over the windows on the north side of the house, facing the border of honeysuckle bushes, which are as tall as a man; they died in last year’s drought, but have not yet fallen. Soon they will fall apart, I think, and the wind will whistle merrier still. A cheery place, this old house where Jim the ghost has given me temporary residence.
After a while, Jim said, “I can’t believe there’s nothing you can do.”
“Let’s talk about it outside.”
“You know I can’t-oh.”
I stretched out into the chair and looked at the yellowed ceiling, where shadows from the candle flickered and danced. Jim stood there. I wish he’d sit down sometimes, but I don’t imagine his legs get tired.
“Thing is,” he said a little later, “you sound like you don’t care.”
“Don’t care? No, it’s not that. I don’t want to die, I suppose, but-”
“You suppose?”
“What’s the point of worrying about it? There’s nothing I can do. I mean, I imagine, given a choice, I’d like to go on living, but-”
“You imagine?”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Jim watched me, or at least my chest, without saying anything.
“Should I start a fire?” I said.
“That would be pleasant,” said Jim. “I’m not certain the flue works, however.”
“I’ll check into it,” I said.
“What if someone sees the smoke?”
“There shouldn’t be much if the wood is dry, and there are only a couple of houses across the street. Besides, this area isn’t lighted as well as some.”
The flue was not seriously clogged. I brought some old, rotting firewood in from the old, rotting carriage house, found some newspapers in a neighbor’s trash can, and lit the fire from one of the candles.
“Won’t burn long with those old logs,” said Jim.
“It’s getting late anyway,” I said, stifling a yawn and watching the thickly curling smoke that old bark produces.
“A fire like this wants hot spiced brandy, or cider, or even tea.”
“If you make it,” I said, “I’ll drink it.”
“Don’t have any,” said Jim.
“Me neither.”
A few sparks shot up the chimney and out to defy the winter.
It has been several days now since I felt like coming up here, I guess because there isn’t much satisfaction in talking about how I shower, eat, read the newspapers, and sleep. It’s only when I meet someone and we affect each other that I feel I have anything to write down.
I went back to visit Jill earlier tonight, this time at her house. It would have been harder to find if she hadn’t mentioned the blue light in the attic, but there it was, and there I was. The place had just been painted, sometime within the last couple of months; the smell had survived the weather and it overpowered any other smells. I’ve never been fond of paint smell, but there are worse. I heard sounds of a stereo faintly through the door and recognized 3 Mustaphas 3; it’s always interesting when you discover someone who knows the same obscure music you know. There’s very little contemporary music of any kind that I listen to, and when I discover a musician I like it is usually by accident. In this case, I dated a woman in New York who worked for a record company, and several times found myself waiting for her in her offices, and they were played there. I know the songs they play, and they have more respect for the music than most.
I shouldn’t let myself get started on this, should I?
But I did, in fact, like the music, and I wondered if I’d misjudged Jill. Probably not. I stood on a very wide, very long unenclosed porch, with a few pieces of cheap furniture. The door was thick and wooden, with no screen. I looked for a buzzer and didn’t find one. Knock knock went the nice man at the door.
The music dropped in volume to the point where I could hear the slap of bare feet against a wood floor. The door opened with a melodramatic creak, and two very wide blue eyes appeared vertically in the partially opened doorway. No, it wasn’t Jill. I couldn’t see the smile below the eyes, but the lines around the cheekbones indicated it was there.
“Yes?” she said. “And who might you be?”
I bowed, because it seemed the appropriate response. “I might be Jill’s friend,” I said. “Or I might be an Israeli terrorist looking for PLO supporters. Or possibly a burglar trying to steal your jewels to support my laudanum habit. Or even a neighbor complaining about the volume. That is “Heart of Uncle,” isn’t it? It really ought to be louder.”
She considered this, worked her lips like Nero Wolfe, then threw the door open all the way, placed her hand against the doorjamb while leaning against the casing trim. She had one leg bent, her foot resting against the doorway, and her arms were folded in front of her as she blocked the doorway and considered me. She was as tall as I and thinner; most of her height in her legs. She wore a navy blue skirt, buttoned on the side, and a white tank top. She was small-breasted, with a graceful neck and a delightfully animated face, full of blue eyes and theatrical expressions. Her hair was dark blond, straight, and reached only to the top of her neck, with a navy blue band
