Apprehensions and Other Delusions

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Naomi drained her aquavit. “Well, that’s my limit.” She frowned. “You want another?”

  Ordinarily Fanchon would have refused, but this time she decided she might as well have another. Perhaps more brandy and coffee would warm her up, for she was still very chilly. “Sure. Why not.” Impulsively she reached for her purse. “I’ll buy. We’ll celebrate something—things working out for you, me getting some peace and quiet—something.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Naomi.

  “Let me,” said Fanchon.

  Naomi considered it and accepted with a quick nod. “God, it is a world of despair sometimes, isn’t it?”

  “General malaise?” Fanchon suggested. “It comes with fall, or the new semester, or taking chances with Bill?”

  “It’s worse than that, I think,” Naomi said, gesturing to the waitress for the same again. “It’s getting so that there’s very few reasons to feel good about who you are and what you do. And that’s not midlife crisis talking, it’s a very scared psychologist.”

  Fanchon sat still, staring at her empty snifter and half-full coffee cup. “I don’t have any answers. It’s all I can do to try to explain to my students why Victorian women were so savagely exploited by employers. The present and the future are beyond me.”

  The waitress brought their drinks. “The smorgasbord is out.” It was part of the same pitch she delivered at this time every evening. “Five-fifty for all you want.”

  “Thanks,” said Naomi as Fanchon handed the waitress a ten-dollar bill. “We’ll get something in a couple of minutes.” She straightened up. “So. What are you going to do about that neighbor of yours?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to talk to Peterson again. But to tell you the truth, I wish it would just go away. The noise.” She sipped her coffee and found it too hot. “I don’t want it to come down to one of us moving. I’m not prepared to move, and I’ve got a pretty good idea that the guy doesn’t want to move, either. He just got here.”

  “Maybe if you approached the neighbor again, talked to him about the problem as a way not to go to the landlord, maybe he’d be more cooperative.”

  “Are you practicing shrinkery on me?” Fanchon asked, doing her best to avoid the discussion completely.

  “Habit,” said Naomi. She looked up as a tall, mustached man approached her. “Oh, shit. My hair’s a mess.”

  “You look fine,” said Fanchon in the same tone she used with her older sister when she claimed to be poorly groomed.

  The man reached down, putting his hand on Naomi’s shoulder. “I don’t want to interrupt, but I’ve got a table reserved for us in twenty minutes.” He smiled vaguely in Fanchon’s direction. “Excuse the interruption.”

  “No problem,” said Fanchon. “I’m not staying long.”

  Naomi beamed at him. “Twenty minutes is fine.” She patted his hand before he removed it and slipped away. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Seems pleasant enough. But ten seconds probably isn’t long enough for good judgment.”

  “Thanks a bunch. You’re supposed to be bolstering me up,” Naomi protested.

  “Hey, with my track record, I’m the last person you ought to be asking for bolstering. Two failed live-ins in eight years isn’t a recommendation.” Fanchon drank her coffee quickly. Then she tossed off the brandy, feeling its jolt with certain pleasure. “It’s getting pretty dark. I better head for home.” She picked up her purse. “I really hope it turns out okay for you, Naomi.” She almost meant it.

  “So do I,” said Naomi. “But what about upstairs?”

  “I guess I’ll try your way—I’ll talk to him. It can’t hurt. If that doesn’t work, I suppose I’ll have to call Peterson.” She smiled crookedly. “I’ll call you.”

  “Good,” said Naomi, her attention already on Bill. It was colder and Fanchon realized her sweater wasn’t enough to keep her warm. She hugged her arms across her chest and walked faster.

  Evenings were always the hardest for her, the time when the noise was more intrusive. It made her feel isolated, empty. “Maybe I should get a dog,” she said aloud. She had got into the habit of talking to herself in the last two years, and occasionally it troubled her. “Peterson doesn’t allow pets.” Maybe she would get a tank of fish. She doubted the landlord would object to fish. The house seemed fairly silent as she approached it, but as soon as she went in through the kitchen door, the steady, thumping, screeching wail shuddered down the walls from above. Fanchon gripped the edge of the sink and gave up on eating dinner. She hated scenes. Angry voices made her stomach hurt.

  She went out the rear door and climbed to the upper flat. “Hey!” she shouted, pounding on the door. There was the sound of banging pots in the kitchen. “Hey! In there!”

  Loud, hurried footsteps sounded and a moment later the door was jerked open. “What is it?” her upstairs neighbor demanded.

  Now that they were face-to-face, it was difficult for Fanchon to speak. “I ... I have to talk to you. It’s about the music you play.”

  “Again?” He folded his arms. “I had a call from the landlord about it. I said I’d turn it down and I did.”

  “Turned it down?” Fanchon forced herself to be calm. “Look, I’m sorry to disturb you this way, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve turned it down to me. I can’t get any work done because of the racket. I can’t sleep. I don’t know what kind of sound system you have, but it’s—”

  Her neighbor scowled at her. “What are you talking about? You’re the one with the system that takes the roof off.” He sizzled with resentment. “You aren’t the only one with work to do.”

  “Mister ...” Fanchon began, forgetting his name.

  “Muir, Doctor, actually,” he corrected her. “Like the woods. No relation.”

  “Okay. Dr. Muir. It might not seem like a lot of noise to you, but maybe the floor does something. In my flat, it’s really awful.”

  Eric Muir rubbed his chin. “What about your system?”

  “I hardly ever play it. Most of what I have is Mozart and Bach. I don’t have any modern music. You and that heavy metal—”

  “You’re kidding, right?” He favored her with a tight, uncordial smile. “You don’t expect me to believe all you ever listen to is Eine Kleine Nacht Musik, do you?”

  “Well, not all. But I don’t play rock, not any kind of rock.” She screwed up her courage. “Maybe you ought to come down right now and listen to what it sounds like.”

  “Now? I don’t have the system on right now.” He braced one arm across the door. “But you tell me you have noise?”

  Fanchon stared at him. He was either the most accomplished liar she had ever met, or he had not been paying attention.

  “Come down and listen,” she said at last. Then she turned on her heel and started down the wooden stairs, hoping he would be curious enough to follow her.

  As they stepped into her kitchen the sound rose up around them, battering them invisibly. Fanchon winced as she held the door for Eric, then put her hands on her hips, watching him.

  “This is incredible.” He had to shout to be heard. “Worse than I’ve had it.”

  “My system’s off. Go into the front room and look,” Fanchon yelled back. She pointed down the hall, although this wasn’t necessary since the floor plan of both flats was the same.

  He lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but did as she told him. When he returned a few minutes later, he was mollified. He started to speak, then motioned her to join him on the back steps. As soon as the door was closed, he said, “God, that’s terrible.”

  “It’s not quite so loud most of the time,” she admitted, wanting to turn him from her side now that he appeared to be on it. “Whatever is doing it, please, you can understand why I need it stopped. I really can’t ignore it.”

  “How long does it go on
?” he asked. “A couple of hours or what?”

  “That’s about all it doesn’t go on.” She heard the exhaustion in her voice and wondered if he did, too. “Sometimes at night it’s worse.”

  “All night?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I never play my system after ten, and I keep the TV down after then.”

  “The TV doesn’t bother me,” she said quickly. “It’s just that awful music.”

  “Well, I don’t play the music,” he said firmly. “And I think if someone else in the building next door were making so much noise, I’d hear it upstairs, and so would the Dovers downstairs. Sometimes I do hear ... but it isn’t your system, and it’s nothing like the noise you have.” He stared hard at the back door of her flat. “This makes me very curious.”

  “Curious?” she repeated. “How can it?”

  “You’re not a theoretical physicist, are you? I am.” His expression just missed being smug. “There’s got to be a reason why this happens. And there’s got to be a reason why it’s loudest in your flat. How long has it been going on?”

  “Since shortly after you moved in, maybe three weeks now. I thought you’d bought new speakers.” She did her best not to sound as irritated as she felt. “I only complained when it had been over a week.”

  “I can’t blame you, not with that going on.” He opened the door and sound rushed out like a tidal bore.

  “What can you do about it?” She hated asking the question, and dreaded the answer.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m up against.” He listened for a moment. “It’s hard to hear if there are any words to it, or just some kind of howling. I’ll want to bring a tape recorder down and hook it up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine with me,” she said wearily. “I tried it once, but all I got was static.”

  “Probably overloaded,” Eric said. “I’ll check this out with acoustics first, so we can make sure we get it all on tape. We’ll be improvising, but there should be an answer somewhere.” He smiled once. “I’m glad you told me about this.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to,” she responded at once. “I hope you do something. I can’t wait around forever, waiting for a lull in the storm.”

  He chuckled because it was expected of him. “I’d feel the same in your position.” With the suggestion of a wave he left her on the back porch and climbed up to his flat.

  Fanchon had a loud evening; by ten she was seriously considering breaking her lease without notice. Sacrificing the various deposits seemed like a small price to pay for sleeping through the night. She set aside her tables of salaries of domestic servants in London in 1870-1880 and turned on her television, hoping to find a late, late movie to distract her. The pounding on her door at last broke through the relentless moaning of the walls.

  “What is it?” she shouted as she fumbled her way to the back door. It was early morning, the sun not strong enough to break through the haze.

  Eric Muir held out a tape recorder as she pulled the door open.

  “Sorry to stop by at this hour, but I thought you’d want this set up as soon as possible.” He strode into her kitchen without invitation. “Where’s the noise the worst? I want to put this as near the epicenter as possible.”

  “In the front. The main room or the bedroom, it’s all about the same.” She rubbed her fingers through her hair.

  “There’s a sound-activated switch on it, and it’s an extended reel of tape. It’ll pick up sound for six hours.” He went about his self-imposed task, ignoring her as he worked.

  “Some coffee?” She had to bellow it twice before he refused.

  “It’s all ready to go,” he told her a little later as she sat in the kitchen, unable to eat the light breakfast she had made for herself. “It ought to pick up all fluctuations pretty well. That thumping part must be the hardest to take.”

  “It’s pretty bad,” she agreed.

  “There’s half a dozen guys in the department who’re interested in what’s going on here. We’ll probably come up with some kind of answer in a day or two.”

  A spattering kind of rattle joined the twanging beat. Fanchon winced. “Any idea what it is?”

  “Perturbed spirits?” Eric ventured enthusiastically. “Demon CBers? Dish antenna misfocus? Underground water carrying sounds through the plumbing? A misfunction of a cable? They’re all possibilities.”

  “How delightful.” Fanchon got up from the table. “What am I supposed to do while you figure it out?”

  “You might want to find somewhere to stay while I work on this,” he said.

  “Any recommendations?” she inquired, knowing already that her sister lived too far away and her stepfather preferred she keep her visits to a minimum.

  “Call a friend. You must know someone who can let you have a spare room for a few days.” He was unconcerned. “Leave me a number where I can reach you.”

  That night the noise was endless, a crooning, moaning, wordless scream over steady banging and deep sobs. Fanchon went to bed at two, trying to recall everything she had read about sleep deprivation and hallucinations. It was disappointing to see the windows lighten with approaching dawn. She dragged herself into the bathroom and dressed for running, selecting her warmest sweats against the gelid fog.

  By the time she got back, the sound was less oppressive. While Fanchon showered and dressed, the noise was no more distressing than recess in a schoolyard might be. She gathered her materials and hiked to campus, doing her best to convince herself that in a day or so her ordeal would be over.

  The plight of working-class women a century ago seemed as remote as the extinction of the dinosaurs. She could not concentrate on her lecture, and when she opened the class to questions, she gave arbitrary answers that left her students more puzzled than before.

  When she got back to her flat she found Eric Muir waiting for her. “How was last night?”

  “Terrible. What about you?”

  “Bearable but not pleasant. If you don’t mind, I want to change tapes.” He let her open the door, then hesitated as a series of deep, clashing chords shook her entry hall. “Nothing that bad, certainly.”

  “Want to trade flats?” she inquired weakly.

  “No,” he answered. He checked the microphone to be certain it was functioning properly, then switched one cassette for another. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  The noise was not as ferocious as it had been, but Fanchon could hardly bear it. She felt as if her skin had been made tender by the noise. When four aspirin made no dent in her headache, she picked up the phone and did what she had vowed not to do.

  “Hello?” she said when Naomi answered the phone.

  “What’s the matter?” Naomi asked, her tone distant.

  “It’s Fanchon. I wondered if I could sleep on your couch a couple of nights?”

  “Your neighbor’s being a prick about the music?”

  “It’s not him. At least, it doesn’t seem to be. He wants to check it out for me.” She let her breath out slowly, hearing Naomi’s hesitation.

  “Does he have to do it now?” Naomi asked.

  “Well, something has to be done, and he’s the only person who’s interested in finding out what it is.” She wanted to bite her tongue.

  “You mean you don’t know if he’s doing it, after all? That sounds a little ooo-eeee-ooooo-eeeeee to me. Maybe we’d better send over some of those flakes from the parapsych division to have a look around.” She tried to laugh. “They really like poltergeists, and this one sure has the polter part down.”

  “Naomi, please,” said Fanchon, doing her best not to beg.

  “Oh, Fanchon, I don’t want to let you down. I know I’m being a pain about this but, it’s just that ... well, the way things are right now with Bill and me, it would be ... touchy to have someone else in the ho
use. You know how it is. Maybe Gail or Phyllis would have room if you asked them.” She paused. “Any other time, I’d love to have you here. I don’t like to say no, but ... Fanchon, it’s important to me not to fuck this up. I’m sorry.”

  Fanchon sighed. “Never mind. I’ll buy some earplugs.”

  “Call Phyllis,” Naomi urged her again.

  “Phyllis doesn’t like history, and we’re not close enough to make up for that.” What was the point in feeling sorry for herself, she wondered. It wouldn’t do her any good.

  “Then take a couple days off. Go somewhere. Tell Bassinton that you have a family emergency, and get away.” Now that she was off the hook, Naomi was doing her best to provide an alternative. “What about your sister?”

  “No chance there. She’s moving to Boston next month. And I’ve got two papers assigned in my classes. I can’t miss them. The students are depending on them for a third of their grades.” She stared at the window, seeing the plants growing on the far side of it. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Go to a hotel,” said Naomi, determined to make some contribution. “There’s places around here that don’t cost an arm and a leg, and they aren’t awful. What about that place down from campus that does bed and breakfast, the old Victorian place? This time of year they must have a lot of space. And it’s a great building, all that gingerbread. And quiet room service, too, so they tell me.” This last was embarrassed.

  “Yeah,” said Fanchon. “Well, thanks anyway.” She was ready to hang up; there was nothing else to say.

  “Give me a call when you decide what you’re going to do, Fanchon, will you? We can get together for coffee or lunch or ... we can talk over everything. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Fanchon, hanging up. So she was trapped in the house, and there was nothing she could do to change it. No matter where she went, the road would bring her back here.

  She found an excuse to go back to campus for a good part of the day and into the evening. So much research, so many appointments with students—it took time, and time was what she wanted to have away from her flat. She hated to think of Eric as an insensitive clod, but she could not avoid such a conclusion, not after everything that had happened to her. He wanted more statistics and he didn’t much care where they came from, except downstairs was convenient. It was easier to resent Muir than to think about what might be happening to her. There was too much mystery, too much of the unknown for her to dismiss it as a freak or an accident. Somehow that made the whole thing worse.