by Ellen Datlow
“Gillian, yes,” Hunter said. “And no, nothing. You never met her, did you?”
“Once,” Carl said. “At the party you had for your book, the one about New Orleans after Katrina.”
“American Atlantis.”
“That one. Melanie came with me. She met Jill, too. She didn’t like her.”
“Your wife is a very perceptive woman. Which is why I’ve never asked you what she says about me.”
“It’s not all bad. She thinks you have a good eye.”
“Coming from Mel, that’s high praise.”
“I take it Francesca hasn’t been in touch.”
“Believe it or not, she has. Nothing like your old man’s imminent demise to bring you to his doorstep. She was here last week for a few days. I wouldn’t call it a good visit, but I didn’t expect it to be. She had a chance to say what she wanted to. Where I could, I explained and apologized. Not everything that’s happened to her has been my fault. We left things about as good as we could.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“At least I saw her.”
“How about the woman I saw on my way in? Walking a golden retriever? Is she—did you say her name was? Annie?”
Hunter nodded. “Her name is Antoinette, Antoinette Mazarine; although she prefers to be called Madame Sosostris. It’s . . . her professional name, I guess.”
“Exactly which profession is she in?”
“She’s a psychic, fortune-teller, that kind of thing. She’s here to help me with some stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Drink up,” Hunter said, emptying his tumbler and holding it out for more. Sunlight turned the lake into a sheet of bronze, made the mountaintops burn white.
V
At some point thereafter, Carl looked at the Auchentoshan and saw that the bottle was empty. Simultaneously, he realized that he was drunker than he had been in years, since his last visit with Hunter, when the two of them had stayed up after his book release party drinking their way down a bottle of high-quality rum, which Hunter took straight, and Carl mixed with various leftover sodas. The next morning, much to Melanie’s mingled amusement and irritation, he had suffered a hangover so blinding he crawled into the back seat of the car and lay there while she drove them home. “Melanie isn’t here,” he mumbled, the statement filling him with crushing sadness.
“What?” Hunter said.
“Nothing.” With great care, he leaned over and lifted the Talisker from the table. He attempted to remove the seal from the cap, which proved a far more laborious task than he thought it should be. Finally, he peeled the last bit of plastic from the bottle’s neck and twisted the stopper free.
“At last,” Hunter said. “I thought I was gonna die of thirst.”
“You live next to a lake,” Carl said, amazed at his ability to pour the contents of the bottle into his friend’s held-out glass.
“So?”
“So, there’s plenty of water there.” He gestured at the windows, outside of which, the water was dark blue, the mountains heaps of shadow crowned by clouds lit red and orange.
“Yeah,” Carl said, “but . . .”
“But what?”
“We’re almost—we—we only have one bottle left.” He nodded at the Talisker, whose contents were already noticeably diminished.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said, “we can get more. There’s a liquor store in town.”
“Sure,” Carl said, “but neither of us can drive. Not like this, in this state, this state of drunkenness.” He was finding it difficult to express himself; he wasn’t sure the words he was using meant what he wanted them to.
“Not us,” Hunter said. “Her. Annie. Sosostris. Madame. When she goes for the pizza, she can pick up another bottle. Or two.”
“Oh. That’s okay, then.”
“See? Problem solved.”
“Wait. Did we order the pizzas?”
“Of course, we did. Remember? Mushroom for me, cheese for you.”
“I never said I wanted cheese.”
“Well, why didn’t you? It’s too late to change now.”
“No—I mean, I don’t think we called anyone.”
“We didn’t. Madame Annie did.”
Had she? Carl couldn’t recall anyone entering the study after the two of them, but neither could he bring the last couple of hours into focus. “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m . . .” Hunter’s voice trailed off. “Dammit. Didn’t we?” He placed his glass on the table. “Tell you what. One more, and if the pizza isn’t here, we’ll go order it. Mushroom for me, cheese for you.”
“Hawaiian,” Carl said.
“What?”
“Hawaiian,” Carl said. “Or maybe you call it Canadian. I know I had it in Canada. At a knockdown tournament in Toronto. Ham and pineapple.”
“On a pizza?”
“It’s delicious.”
“Ugh.”
“That’s what I want. It’s delicious.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Hawaiian is what I say.”
“I thought it was Canadian.”
“Either way.”
There was more conversation after that, but Carl couldn’t keep track of it. Some of it involved Hunter lecturing. He was a great one for holding forth when in his cups, was Carl’s friend. “The French call them . . . What do they call them? Les fantômes de . . . something.” Hunter’s one last drink turned into another two, or three, and Carl tipped a couple more servings into his tumbler, and the Talisker was done, which seemed an unbelievable, a ridiculous amount for the two of them to have consumed in a couple of hours. Except the view out the windows had gone dark, and the room’s track lighting was glowing—had Hunter switched it on? Or did the study have some kind of light sensor? Or maybe that woman, Annie, had looked in on them and turned on the lights. Did it matter? No, what mattered was that their pizzas hadn’t appeared. Which meant that someone hadn’t delivered them. Or ordered them. No pineapple and mushrooms for them. From the windows, a pair of middle-aged men regarded them from the comforts of their padded easy chairs. Jesus, when did we become so old? Still holding his glass, Hunter heaved himself from his chair with such force he staggered forward a half dozen steps, almost losing his balance before recovering. Waving for Carl to follow him, he staggered from the room; although Carl wasn’t certain of his friend’s destination, the kitchen or some other spot deeper within the house. Either way, his eyelids had grown incredibly heavy, as had the rest of him. Full of Scotch, he supposed. Who knew alcohol weighed so much? He set his tumbler on the table, closed his eyes, and unconsciousness rose over him in a flood.
VI
He woke needing to pee, urgently. On legs not fully awake, he lurched from the chair, swaying with the effort not to tip over. The room spun like a carnival ride winding down. Still drunk, he thought, though not quite as much as he had been. The utterly disconnected feeling had subsided, replaced by the sense of being on a one to two second delay, requiring the slightest bit more time to respond to his surroundings. There was a bathroom somewhere nearby. At different moments throughout the afternoon and evening, he and Hunter had risen to seek it out. On the other side of the kitchen, on the way to the living room. Third door on the left.
Though the kitchen seemed to have expanded dramatically since he had crossed it last, he succeeded in navigating to the hallway where the toilet was. His bladder relieved, he exited the room and continued along the hall to the living room, whose assorted seating was dimly visible in the moonlight falling through the windows. Whether Hunter had shown him his room, he couldn’t remember, nor was he sure enough of his recall of the house’s layout, especially drunk and in the dark, to want to search for it. He would crash on one of the couches. First, he would have to venture out to the car for his bag.
As he exited the front door, a pair of lights clicked on to either side of it. The temperature had plunged; his breath vented from his mouth in a cloud. Mist floated near the ground. The steps
to the driveway sparkled with frost; he descended them with care. At the foot of the steps, another set of lights, these positioned over the garage doors, snapped to life. Down here, the mist rose higher, denser, catching the light and holding it, submerging the cars in a lake of pale radiance. It was colder here, too. Gooseflesh raised up and down his arms. Carl hurried to the Subaru and lifted his bag from the back seat. He shut the door, and caught something out of the corner of his right eye.
Standing near the edge of the woods, a child regarded him. The mist reduced it to an Impressionist blur, but its size suggested eight or nine. It appeared underdressed for the cold in a red T-shirt and jean shorts. A sleepwalker? From where? Did Hunter allow campers on his property? Who would want to spend the night outside in this weather? Carl took a step forward, halted. There was something else out there. Closer to the tree line, a pair of shapes paced back and forth, weaving in and out of the pines. Lean, low to the ground, they could have been mountain lions, except their trunks were too long, their legs spread to either side in a way that suggested a spider’s limbs more than a big cat’s. Their heads, too, something was off about the heads, a disfigurement the mist would not allow him to see clearly. They were too long. Fear icier than the air sliced through his intoxication. Could these be dogs? They didn’t seem to be menacing the child, at least, not yet. He dropped his bag and felt in the front pocket of his jeans for the knife tucked there (ironically, a gift from Hunter). He considered calling the house on his cell, but his friend was likely to be deeply unconscious; nor was Carl certain of Annie’s location. Knife retrieved, its blade unfolded, he advanced toward the child, his eye on the twin creatures behind it.
The closer he drew to all three, however, the harder they were to see. The mist thickened until only the glow of the lights at his back indicated direction. Left hand up in a guard, right ready to stab, he moved in small steps, sliding the soles of his sneakers over the ground to minimize an attacker’s ability to knock him off his feet. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Carl. I don’t know if you can see me, but I’m walking to you. I don’t want you to be frightened, but there are a couple of animals out here with us. They’re probably just dogs, but I don’t know them, so I think it’s a good idea to be careful. Can you tell me what your name is?”
In reply, the air erupted in high pitched laughter, like the lunatic cries of a pack of hyenas. Carl started, his heart hammering at the base of his throat. He stopped where he was. The hysterical yelps subsided, replaced by a new sound, the scrape of skin over dirt. Something was treading a wide circle around him; he was reasonably certain it was not the child. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He turned with the noise, doing his best to keep the knife aimed at whatever was producing it. Of course, a voice in the back of his brain said, this would be a good way to distract you from an attack to the rear. “One thing at a time,” he murmured. Should have held on to the bag, could have used it as a shield. “Too late, now.”
Without warning, the lights over the garage went out. Momentarily blind, Carl tensed, listening for the paws he was certain were about to run at him. None did. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that the mist had thinned to a fine vapor, and that he was at the edge of the woods. Of the featureless child, the strange predators, there was no sign. He stared into the trees, but if anyone was standing amidst their dim ranks, he could see neither them nor any animals.
For a second time, manic laughter filled the air. Glancing over his shoulder as he went, Carl retreated to his car, bending at the knees to retrieve his bag. Finally, the garage lights popped on. He was half expecting to find the child standing at his elbow, one of the big predators ready to pounce, but there was nothing there.
VII
Certain he would not be falling asleep any time soon, if ever, Carl dumped his bag next to the biggest couch in the living room before heading to the kitchen. Although his nerves were humming with adrenaline, he could feel the drag of the alcohol his system had not processed. He found a glass in one of the cupboards and poured and drank four and a half cups of water. Given how much Scotch he had imbibed, there was no way he was escaping a hangover, but he figured he would do what he could to minimize it. Depositing the glass in the sink, he returned to the living room, where he settled onto the couch. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was late, far later than he was accustomed to being awake these days. Old, he thought, you’re so old.
The next he knew, he was climbing out of sleep, prompted once more by the urge to urinate. No time seemed to have passed, but a look out the windows showed the sky washed with faint light, herald to the dawn. He found the bathroom more easily this time, and foregoing modesty, left the door open while he peed. The chamber music echoed through the hall. While he was washing his hands, he heard mixed with the water’s hiss another sound, what might have been the squeak of sneakers on the floor outside the bathroom. He shut off the tap and waited, listening.
Nothing. He dried his hands and walked to the kitchen. Another couple of glasses of water, then back to the living room, where the couch was waiting to receive him.
VIII
Breakfast smells (coffee, sausages, toast) and sounds (the stuttering burp of the coffee maker, the sizzle of oil in the pan, the ticking of the toaster) roused him to late morning sunlight. Head complaining at the effort, Carl sat up. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen this coming. At least he’d remembered to hydrate; otherwise, the hangover would have been mortal.
Hunter was waiting in the kitchen, standing at the stove cooking sausages in one pan and scrambled eggs in the another. A gray tracksuit floated around him. Aside from his sunglasses, he showed scant evidence of the previous day’s excess. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”
“About two steps from death,” Carl said. “How is it you’re even moving around?”
“Please,” Hunter said. “You think that’s the most I’ve ever had to drink? I tell you about the time I was in Chechnya, following a squad of Russian spetsnaz? Those guys spend all night working their way through a case of vodka, then are on the move at dawn, fighting by breakfast. If you want to run with them, you have to be able to keep up with them.”
“I’m amazed your liver survived.”
“Yeah, well, I did lay off alcohol for about a month after I came back from that assignment. What do you want to eat? Eggs? Sausage? Both?”
“For the moment, this’ll do,” Carl said, lifting the mug of coffee he’d poured. “I don’t suppose you have any oatmeal.”
“Yeah, there’s a box of the instant stuff in the cabinet to my left. Apple and cinnamon, I think.”
“That’ll be fine, thanks.”
They sat on high stools at the kitchen island, Carl with his coffee, Hunter with a plate of sausage and eggs. Through the windows, Carl watched a hawk skim the tops of the evergreens. “Actually,” Hunter said through a mouthful of food, “that was among the drunkest I’ve been.”
“No ‘among’ for me.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve never been what you’d call a heavyweight, but I’ve put away my fair share of booze. Not like that, though.”
A smile broke over Hunter’s face. “Good. I like the idea of our final visit being marked by a memorable event. You’ll always be able to say, ‘The last time I saw Hunter, we drank more Scotch than I ever had before or since.’ ”
“Couldn’t we have gone out for a nice dinner, instead? Or a game of miniature golf, maybe?”
“Nah. Think of it as being like Vikings on the eve of a big battle, working themselves up for it.”
“We’re fighting a battle today?”
“What would you say if I said yes?”
“I’d say I wish I stayed home, sent you a nice card, instead: ‘So long, nice knowing you.’ ”
“A card? Really?”
“A nice card. You’d love it. They’d show it off at your funeral.”
“After I was killed in the battle you bailed on.”
“It would be some card,” Carl said. “Speaking of which, are you planning a memorial service?”
“Yeah.” Hunter nodded. “Immediately after I go, there’ll be a small gathering in Burlington, at one of the galleries. Then, in the spring, there’ll be a bigger event down in Brooklyn, a retrospective of my work with remarks by a few of my friends and colleagues. If you’re available . . .”
Carl’s throat tightened. “Sure.”
“Good. Thank you. I’m just about done writing your speech. I figured we could rehearse it later.”
“What? You don’t trust me to tell the truth?”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“So, what’s the plan for today?”
“Finish your coffee,” Hunter said. “You should probably have your oatmeal, too.”
IX
After breakfast, Hunter led Carl to the guest room, which was on the other side of the study, up a flight of stairs, and along a short hallway. “I’ll see you for lunch,” Hunter said. “I have some dying stuff to attend to.”
“Right,” Carl said.
The room was on the east side of the house, what Carl thought of as its back side. Instead of a wall composed of glass, a pair of regular-sized windows gave a view across an overgrown field behind the house to the tree line. Low hills rolled in the distance. Resisting the temptation of the queen-sized bed, Carl showered in the attached bathroom, dressed, and called home.
“How hungover are you?” Melanie asked.
“It could be worse,” Carl said.
“That bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you leave any Scotch for today?”
“Technically, it was today when we finished the second bottle. I think it was, anyway.”
“Wonderful. Well, I’m sure Hunter has more liquor, just in case there’s anything left of your liver. How is he?”
“Honestly, he’s in better shape than I was expecting. Don’t get me wrong: He’s skin and bones, with an emphasis on the bones. But I imagined he’d be confined to bed, too spent to say much; instead, he’s up making scrambled eggs and sausages this morning. As far as I can tell, he’s as sharp as he ever was.”
