by Dianne Day
“Jeremy will be home soon,” Frances whispered. She had been quiet for so long I had almost forgotten she was there. “Please finish, Fremont,” she said without looking my way. She had propped her chin on her hand and was staring out the window. “There is more, I know it, I still have this lingering feeling of terrible urgency and anticipation. I must know what it’s about, and I expect you would like to know, too. Then you’ll have to leave in a hurry.”
I read the last page, which began with another salutation to Frances herself: “ ‘Fair lady, you could do us both a favor if you would be so kind. See, this old reprobate and miscreant—meaning myself—can’t quite get back there or I’d do it alone—
“ ‘Hey!’ ” (This was apparently an aside within the narrative of the automatic writing, set off from the rest by scrawling dashes.) “ ‘Hey you, Bummer! Damn dog. Always nippin’ at the heels of people passin’ by, can’t understand they don’t have heels to nip no more! Still I was mighty glad to find him again Over Here, I certainly was, and Lazarus, too. Who’d have thought. Good dogs, yes, that’s right, you both lie down right there.… Now lessee, where was I?
“ ‘Oh yes, I was about to ask for the favor. See, I had this whatchamacallit, that’s part of the trouble, I can’t remember what it was. It won’t come clear, on account of all them years my mind was in such a fog. Heh heh, mind in a fog, that’s a good ’un for an old fella like me who loved to roam the streets of San Francisco more’n anything. Still and all, it’s better when the fog stays on the outside and doesn’t get in your head, know what I’m sayin’? This whatchamacallit, it was valuable. It meant a lot to me, only when I was alive and in the flesh, what with the fog in my mind, I forgot where I put it. Now I’m Gone Over to the Other Side, I know where it is but I can’t remember what it is. Ain’t that just the damnedest—oops, not such a good idea to say that word Over Here, never can tell who you might be givin’ ideas to—just the most downright frustratin’ thing you ever heard tell? So if you’d care to, you could help me, pretty lady—’ ”
“Stop!” Frances shot up from her chair like an arrow. “I heard Jeremy’s auto outside. He’s home.”
I hadn’t heard anything, but I obeyed. “Let me just scan this quickly, I can’t leave it just yet!” Even as I was saying the words my eyes went flying across the rest of the page. I had barely finished when Frances snatched it from me.
“Go out the way you came in. Thank you, Fremont, thank you so much. I’ll call you, or come by, or, or … I’ll see you somehow!” As she was saying all this she was also bustling me out through the dressing room.
“Wait,” I said, trying to turn around and feeling like a recalcitrant sheep at the mercy of a particularly adhesive Border collie, “I forgot my shawl.”
“Oh, bother!” Frances herself ran back for it, tossed it to me, and pushed me out the door, whispering, “Really, I’ll be in touch with you soon. Be careful, Fremont. I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds you here.” And with that, her door was closed in my face.
I found myself in that oppressive corridor with only a sickly hue of greenish light falling through a section of the stained glass to keep me company. Yet the air now seemed somehow charged. Maybe this was a house in tune with its master, maybe it only came really alive when he crossed the threshold.…
“Really, Fremont, you are too fanciful,” I muttered as I moved quickly toward the back stairs.
But I did not quite make it. There were footsteps coming, suddenly, from both directions. A servant approaching from one; the master, one assumed, from the other. And there I was in the middle, with no place to hide.
11
———
Bargains Are Struck
Being trapped between two undesirable alternatives, I chose to confront the servant rather than the master—even though I had a sneaking suspicion that the servants in this house told the master everything. Thus I passed rapidly by Cora at the top of the back stairs, holding my index finger up to my lips for silence, while at the same time giving her as fierce a stare as I could manage. She seemed surprised but said nothing, and I was down the stairs in a trice, and gone.
The next morning I told Michael I needed to go shopping in preparation for my father’s visit. I expected that the ever restless Wish Stephenson would be out on his own looking for something to do, some trouble to resolve or to get into as the case might be, and that Michael would therefore have to tend the office or else leave it unattended. This didn’t seem like such a bad idea, as it could only contribute to his understanding of why we needed to have a receptionist.
“When will you be back?” he asked, looking up from his task of the moment, which was putting on his socks. His feet were unbelievably white, tender as a babe’s, and there was that one spot inside the arch—
He interrupted my thoughts with more questions, when I had not figured out the answer to the first one yet. “What will you buy? A dress? Shall I come with you?”
Oh Lord! There was a wrinkle I hadn’t thought of. This being half a couple was enjoyable, but complicating when one had things to do. Certainly I couldn’t have him coming with me, yet he did have excellent taste in clothes, and as a matter of fact I did intend to buy a dress. In addition to the other thing I wanted to do.
I said: “I’m just … shopping. What I really need to do is sort out my thoughts about Father’s visit, and I can do that better by myself. I may buy a dress in the process, if I see something I like.” I turned around to face the mirror and began to arrange my hair on top of my head, since I was going downtown. I had already dressed, and over my own shoulder I could see, in reflection, Michael sitting on the edge of the bed.
He put on the other sock. He said, rather gruffly, without looking at me, “Would you like me to leave for a few days? While your father is here, I mean?”
I was so surprised by this offer that I let go the heavy twist of my hair before I’d gotten the pin in, and it came tumbling right down. I spun around. I could not think what to say, for although I certainly didn’t want him to leave, it would be the solution to a very large problem. Yet tears pricked at my eyes, and so I went and sat next to Michael and said softly, “It’s so very unfair.”
“What, my love?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I was going to say the rules of society, but maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the one who’s unfair—” and suddenly I was crying, the tears were trailing down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop them, and Michael was kissing them away while shushing me, as if I were a child.
In that moment I wanted him so much, so very, very much, that I reached out and touched him, felt his hardness, and knew he wanted me, too.
“Oh, sweet!” he said, or something like that, I am never quite sure at such times.
I cried all the while he was making love to me, not great sobs but tears leaking from my eyes; even in the building of that unbearable, delicious tension, and the release of it, I could not let go this strange mixture of joy and anguish.
He stayed above me, stroked my cheeks, kissed them, and whispered, “Tell me, Fremont. Whatever it is, for God’s sake please tell me.”
I was too physically spent to do more than murmur, yet the words did not come easily. “I love you so much, Michael, sometimes it frightens me. I don’t want to be without you, and it used to be … it used to be …”
This was something I had not yet told him, and hadn’t thought I ever would. My mother had taught me a couple of things before she died, even though I was only fourteen, because she knew the day would come when I’d need to know, and she would not be there to tell me. One (for which I’ve blessed her oh, so often!) was that a woman may desire a man as much as he desires her; there is nothing wrong in it, and the sex act itself is not a duty but a great pleasure. The other was that there are some few things a woman may keep to herself, even from her husband, for it does him no good to know, and indeed might harm them both. In other words there are some burdens a woman must carry alone. The tricky part, which she al
so told me—it had been beyond my comprehension then, and very nearly was still—is that there are no hard and fast rules about what to keep and what to tell, you simply have to do the best you can. I based my decision now on the need I saw in Michael’s searching eyes.
“It used to be,” I admitted, “that you would go away, as was your habit, with very little warning, and I was always afraid—that is, I never knew when you were coming back. You haven’t been away since we’ve been together as we are now, but I know the time will come when you’ll have to go, and I won’t like it any better than I used to, in fact I shall like it far, far worse, b—”
He stopped my mouth with a kiss, one of those sweet, prolonged, languorous kisses that come only after, and then he rolled over, taking me with him, still locked to him, lying in his arms. He said, “The great ‘but’ that was hanging in the air between us just now goes like this. Correct me if I’m wrong. But even though most women would assume it to be far more likely that I, or any man, would come back simply because they were married, this is not sufficient reason for you to marry me.”
“Yes,” I said, somewhat miserably. How I could feel at once so resplendent in body yet so miserable in mind was indeed a wonder.
“Fremont, I will always come back to you. Always. Death is the only thing that could prevent me. Whether or not we are married has nothing to do with it. I will always come back for the same reasons I’ve come back before: Because after a certain time passes, no matter what else I may be doing, I want to see you. I want to hear your voice, to know what you have been up to, what kinds of mischief you have caused or cleared up. My darling Fremont, I’ve heard you say more than once that your father is besotted with What’s-her-name—”
“Augusta,” I supplied, beginning to feel much better.
“Augusta. Well, I am even more besotted with you.”
I smiled at him, at that fine, bearded face so near to mine, and I said, “You know, Michael, I do believe you are telling the truth.”
And that was how we decided that this time Michael would go away, not for himself but for me, so that my father would not have to be suspicious of our domestic arrangements. It was not an ideal solution, but in the circumstances I felt much relieved.
———
Mr. Patrick Rule was not hard to find, as it turned out. When I rang the bell at the house Mrs. Locke had occupied on Octavia Street, he opened the door. By the puzzled look on his face, I could see he did not immediately remember me, and I thought I should play upon this advantage as long as possible.
“Mr. Rule, how good to see you!” I deliberately did not supply my name, but advanced as if I had every right to be invited across the threshold and indeed expected it. He stepped back to let me in.
Quickly, so as to keep him off balance, I said, “I was distressed, of course, to see the awful news about Mrs. Locke’s death in the newspaper. But she always did tell me, if ever I were in need of guidance in matters otherworldly, and she were not available, I should come to you.”
At this he smiled a little, his facial lineaments relaxed, and I had cause to silently remark what a classic face—of its type—he had. Its hawklike qualities remained, but at close hand his visage was interestingly able to be both sinister and ascetic, depending how the light struck his features. A mere tip of the head and one’s impression could alter entirely. My Michael had such a face, and so of course Patrick Rule fascinated me. His hair, whose color I hadn’t been able to discern on the night of that fateful séance, was dark auburn, an attractive and unusual color. His eyes were gray, not changeable in the blue-to-gray range like Michael’s, but a pale, clear gray that was curiously flat. I wondered whether those eyes had had depth when he gazed on Abigail Locke, whom he’d seemed to so adore.
“And do you find yourself now in need of such advice, Miss, or Mrs.—?”
“Miss,” I said, and no more, as I moved into the parlor, in spite of the fact that the room looked as if it had not been in use for a very long time. I chose one of the side chairs pulled up to the oval tea table in the window. Following my lead, Patrick joined me and leaned over to turn on the lamp, which was made of glass in the old style but fitted with an electrical cord right up through the middle.
I lowered my voice and leaned forward confidingly when the lamp was lit: “It is not for myself that I’ve come, but for a friend. She cannot come herself, you see.”
He tilted his head. A raised eyebrow and a certain set to his mouth indicated his skepticism, but those flat eyes did not change at all. How strange.
I continued, “She has some talent as a medium, and had been told that your Mrs. Locke could be trusted, that she was honest. My friend requires guidance, a teacher, preferably another medium, and with dear Abigail gone … Well, you do see the problem.”
“And the name of your friend is?” Now the other eyebrow joined the first.
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“I believe you must be inquiring for yourself then, miss. You are familiar to me, you seem to expect me to know who you are by some previous tie of … friendship?” I nodded, thinking so far so good. He was being careful not to offend me. This was all going very much better than I’d thought it might. Patrick went on, “So I must apologize for being unable to recall your name, and I assure you that in the transaction of spiritual matters, anything we say to each other is confidential. You don’t need to hide behind that old, transparent ruse of seeking advice for a friend.”
As I bestowed the smile he expected for his cleverness, I wondered if I dared omit my name once more. No, better not. “My name is Fremont Jones, Mr. Rule, and I really am asking for a friend, whose name I may not reveal. I will of course be willing to pay a consultation fee, if necessary.”
“That will not be necessary. I’ve heard that name before, it’s unusual, but I can’t quite place—”
“Do you yourself have clairvoyant powers, Mr. Rule?”
He preened a little; my question had diverted him, which had been my intent. “I’m a sensitive, I can sense when the spirits are near. With Mrs. Locke I had a close bond, and sometimes felt I was able to receive thought messages from her. However, my contribution to the advancement of Spiritualism has been more in the way of serving those whose talents and abilities rank far above mine.”
Getting comfortable, he leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Now, how exactly may I help you, Miss—it is Miss?”
I nodded.
“Miss … Jones?”
“By giving me the name of another medium who can be trusted, whom I may approach with the object of asking if she will guide and teach my friend.”
This request met with pursed lips, a wrinkled brow, and silence.
I plunged on in what I hoped was my most persuasive manner, putting a note of desperation into my voice. Indeed, when I thought of Frances furiously scribbling at her automatic writing, that was not hard to do. “I know about Ingrid Swann, of course, everyone in these circles does, but from all I know of her she would be far too busy. If there is no one else, perhaps I should go to her. Is she honest, do you think?”
He crossed his arms and looked more like a hawk than ever. What was going on behind those flat gray eyes?
Making the greatest effort, I summoned a smile and cocked my head a bit to one side. “What is it, Mr. Rule? What is holding you back?”
“I’ve remembered who you are. The woman you were with that night is known to me: Frances McFadden, the wife of Jeremy McFadden. She is the friend to whom you refer. Yes?”
Ah well, no ruse is likely to last forever. I nodded. “Yes.”
Patrick Rule rose, and when he had unfolded to his full height and I was looking up at him, he suddenly appeared ten feet tall to me. Yet I would not get up myself, because to do so would have indicated a willingness to leave. I was determined to stand—or sit—my ground. He glared along the sharp planes of that handsome nose. “What is she up to, this Frances McFadden? Tell me and I may help you. But I
’ll give you no further information unless you do.”
For some inexplicable reason, I hadn’t anticipated this question. I wasn’t prepared, and stumbled a bit. He did notice of course; I was sure he noticed everything. “S-she has been taken by surprise in this,” I said, feeling my way along, “and doesn’t know herself what is happening.”
“You’ll have to be more direct than that, Miss Jones.”
“The, ah, terminology doesn’t come easily to me.”
“That’s surprising, isn’t it, since you presented yourself as such a dear friend of Abigail’s. You were not her friend, of course. You breezed your way in here on false pretenses. And if you were not quite so”—the gray eyes swept over me, and now I understood his full attraction, and his power, because as his gaze touched my face, my breasts, sped down the folds of my skirt like lightning, to rest on my barely visible ankles, the gray eyes flashed silver—“so obviously a respectable woman, I would send you on your way.”
Now I did stand. “Perhaps I should be going, at any rate.”
“No. Sit down. I’ll help you.”
I expected him to say, for a price, and was prepared for the price named to be in something other than money, but he did not. So I sat. Patrick Rule remained standing, and crossed his arms, which made him all the more formidable.
“Now,” he said, “you will tell me everything you know about what is going on with your friend, and when you have done so I’ll decide how best to proceed. We should work together on this, Miss Jones.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Simply this: Danger came into that séance where Mrs. McFadden was present and went into a trance of her own. I believe she was the conduit, the open door, to the kind of malevolent energy that resulted in my dear Abigail’s murder. If it had happened only the one time, I might not consider this avenue worth pursuing. But you tell me Mrs. McFadden continues to have … visitations?”
“Yes, she does.”
