There are a number of large and fine houses in this neck of the woods, outside the state park. Top's cabin was an exception; but on the other hand it was an improvement. It was not a violation of Nature, like the big residences are, rather a sort of mutant growth, a thing that seemed to have sprung up among the trees, not something hauled in and put together by what didn't understand the natural habitat. The cabin was slowly rotting away like a hoary old birch, but while it still lasted it was comfortably uncomfortable, as any offshoot of the earth should be.
Even the cement-slab porch looked like a levelled outcrop of granite; the steeply slanting awning of lashed branches surfaced with thick grainy tar-paper. The A frame roof was shingled with slate and the squat chimney made of grey and yellow brick.
The cramped front room doubled as a kitchen. The dining table necessarily stood a little too close to the beat-up furniture, pieces that didn't match; standing there like an uninvited guest that the two scruffy couches tried to ignore.
A brick oven was built into the fireplace. Above the fire itself hung an iron kettle on a rod that could be swiveled outward. On the counter next to the fireplace were modern conveniences, such as a toaster, blender, and microwave. In one corner a stairway led up to the attic where there were two bedrooms. In the back wall were the sinks and faucets. Behind that, the bathroom. And that was it, except for the back door.
I have bothered to describe this because my impression of the place that day was of simple and relaxed camaraderie; a Lodge Hall in miniature, where old friends meet to talk old times and play dominoes or checkers. There was no hint of anything eerie or cold-blooded, unless you put it there in your imagination. Of course I did, but it was incongruous, having just one feeble toe-hold: the dining table where the seance would take place, when only the snickering logs in the fireplace and a candle on the mantle would resist the darkness.
Moira and I went upstairs and chose the attic bedroom that faced the back of the property. There was some idea of maybe spending the night. Looking out the window I saw that a new picnic table had been brought out. Moira, I suppose mindful of what might happen in the night, changed into faded blue jeans and her grey hooded sweatshirt.
I wanted nothing to do with Neal, so when Edna and Stella gave us our metal trays of noodles and toasted garlic bread, I carried the trays outside to the picnic table, Moira following with a beer for me and a ginger ale for herself. We sat down across from each other.
"Wouldn't it be fun to live here," she said and blew on her forkful of steaming egg noodles. "William, do you like to fish?" I said I found it boring unless I could get my mind involved in something else.
"Well, I know what that would be," she said.
Her smile started out wistful and then became just a shade angry; really more like a sadness that was rankled. "Top had a word with me when you were in the bathroom," she began, whispering at first. "I can't remember exactly how he put it. Big words with strange meanings, I guess strange, I don't know. But he said that if a spirit appeared to me it would probably look like me...or maybe like Josie's mom. Top called her Roberta. It was like he knew her, like he's known her for a long time. Kinda like he knew me too, I mean like he's known me forever."
"Why are you upset about it?"
I wasn't surprised by what Top had told her, I had expected something like it. But Moira's frowning face went against what I believed was festering in her head. She bit down on her slice of garlic bread, tasting it with her tongue, then set it back on her tray. She was trying to formulate an answer. Meanwhile there was no wind. The trees stood like Buckingham Palace guards. The smell of leaves gave a queer taste to the noodles. All was calm and natural.
"She's a bitch but she's Joe's mom. She's Joe's mom." Moira glared at me. She had never looked at me that way before. "I tried to tell Top that I was all right with Roberta. That guy Neal was right behind me, with Stella, so what could I say, 'Kill him instead'? And, you know, its weird, but I had no feelings for anybody except Joe. I didn't feel anything for Neal or for Roberta, except that I hate her, but you know what I mean. I don't want Joe hurt. He loves his mom. Well, maybe not that, but he's close to her, even when he wants to get away from her. I'm not making a lot of sense, am I?"
"This kind of thing doesn't make the sort of sense we're used to. Look, you're going to see some kind of spirit tonight. It may look like someone you know or it may not. We are all going to see what we think we see. If Neal believes that Alicia has come to haunt him, if he fears that it's really her and not a figment dreamed up by Top, then Top just might be able to take advantage of that, and stop the man's heart."
"And then what? Will you do it? Will you drop him in the water? You're not worried about Roberta and Joe seeing you...? and seeing me? You mustn't worry about that. Roberta won't tell, she wouldn't dare tell on me. And Joe won't. And the servants are going home after dinner, right?"
"Goddamn it, Moira. I don't know what the hell I'd do. I'm not one for planning ahead much. Anyway I think Neal would be dead as shit by the time I tossed him in the drink."
"No no no! He's out by the bridge, his heart gives out, and he tumbles into the stream. Unconscious. And drowns. We're not there. We find his body later. That's all. I'm not hungry. Do you want this?"
Did I want this?
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