The hangover did not help Howell’s attempts to make a start on the autobiography of Lurton Pitts. He had followed Scotty’s advice and soaked in a hot tub, but he had gotten through another six ounces of the bourbon in the process and had fallen asleep quite drunk. The dream had come again, most vivid just at the point of awakening, but as soon as he was conscious, it was gone, just as always.
A beer for lunch quelled the hangover enough for him to listen to more of Lurton Pitt’s tapes, but what he heard did not inspire him to write. He was getting the picture, though, getting through the tapes, figuring out what sort of book Pitts wanted. He could blast through it in a hurry when he finally got around to writing, he was sure of it.
He lasted until two o’clock on the tapes, then gave up. He needed air. He drove to town with nothing particular in mind, then, on impulse, pulled into Ed Parker’s service station.
“How you doin‘?” Benny Pope asked, scratching his snow-white head.
“Not bad, Benny. Listen, I want to get Denham White’s outboard out of storage. Is it ready to go?”
“Give it a test run, Benny,” Ed Parker said, coming out of the station’s little office. “It’s been sitting around all summer, John; let’s see if it’s running good.” He sat down on a cane-bottomed chair and pulled up another. “Sit yourself down for a minute. Want a cold drink?”
Howell accepted the chair and a Coke. The two men leaned against the whitewashed station wall and soaked up the afternoon sun.
“Hear you and Bo had yourselves a shoot-out yesterday out to Minnie Wilson’s.”
“Well, sort of, I guess.”
“They ain’t been talking about nothing else over to Bubba’s all day.”
“Wasn’t much to it, really.”
“I hear Minnie put a hole slap through that fellow.”
“She sure did that, Ed. Just about scared me to death.”
Ed laughed. “Yeah, must’ve got pretty noisy around there. What sort of book you working on, John?” Ed hadn’t missed a beat on the change of subject.
“Oh, nothing I can talk about for the moment, Ed.”
“I guess it’s like that if you’re a writer. You get superstitious about talking about it, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess sort of superstitious.”
“A novel, is it?”
“Yeah, a novel.”
“And you plan to be up here just two or three months?”
“About that.”
“I always thought a novel took a long time to get written; maybe years.”
“Well, if you’re Flaubert, maybe. I hope to work faster than that. Anyway, all I want to do is get a start up here. I’ll finish it in Atlanta, I guess.”
“How you like it out at the cove?”
“Pretty good. Got everything I need out there.”
“Pretty place, ain’t it? Prettiest place on the lake.”
“Sure is. Say, Ed, how many lots has Sutherland let out to people over the years?”
“Oh, I don’t know, forty or fifty, I guess.”
“How come nobody else has built out at the Cove except Denham? Like you say, it’s the prettiest place on the lake.”
“I don’t know. I tried to get a lot out there once, myself,” Parker said, “but old man Sutherland wouldn’t lease it to me. I got a place over on the south side of the lake, though.”
“Did he tell you why he wouldn’t let you have a lot in the Cove?”
Parker shook his head. “Wouldn’t even talk to me about it. Just flat refused. I didn’t want to get him riled, so I took the other one.”
Howell heard the outboard start up in the test tank behind the station.
“Sounds pretty good,” Ed Parker said. “Running real smooth.”
Howell got up. “I guess it’ll go in the back of the wagon all right, won’t it?”
“I’ll send it up there in the truck with Benny. You’ll need a hand getting it on the boat; that’s a pretty big hunk of iron. There’s the battery, too. That’s been on a trickle charger.”
“Thanks, Ed; what do I owe you?”
“Oh, Denham paid when he laid it up. You can give Benny five bucks for helping you, if you want to. You headed home now? I can send him right on with it.”
“Yeah, that’ll be great. I’ll go straight there.” He didn’t go quite straight to the cabin, though. He picked up a couple of bottles of bourbon and a bottle of brandy. The booze seemed to be going pretty fast.
Benny was waiting for him, sitting in the truck, when Howell got back to the cabin. The two of them stripped the tarp off the boat and wheeled it from under the house into the water on its trolley. Benny rolled the heavy outboard down to the lake’s edge on a hand cart, set a gas can down next to it, then pulled off his shoes and pants. “Reckon we’ll get our feet wet doing this right,” he said.
Howell shucked off his trousers and shoes, too, and waded into the cold water with Benny, wheeling the outboard. Benny stopped at the right depth, then pulled the boat toward them. In a moment, the motor was fastened securely to the boat’s stern, and Benny was connecting the control cables which led forward to the throttle and steering. He set the battery in its box and hooked it up.
“You like it up here?” Benny asked. He had been very quiet. Howell remembered how chatty he had been at the filling station.
“Yeah, it’s real pretty. Quiet, too; just what I need to work.
Benny straightened from his work and looked out over the little inlet on which the cabin was situated. “You ain’t, uh, seen nothing?”
“Seen what?” Howell asked.
Benny worked his jaw for a minute, but didn’t answer the question. “Get in there and see if she’ll start okay. Battery’s all hooked up.”
Howell climbed over the stern of the boat and tried the starter. The engine roared to life. “Sounds great; want to come for a spin?”
“No, sireee, not me,” Benny said, backing out of the water, his skinny white legs sticking out of his shorts. He got into his trousers and started for the truck, shoes in hand, walking tenderfootedly toward the vehicle.
“Hey, Benny, take five bucks out of my pants for your trouble…” Howell shouted, but Benny didn’t seem to hear. A moment later he was driving away. Howell shrugged; he would drop the money by the station next time he was in town. He looked around him; it was a beautiful, summer day, hot and sunny. The engine idled quietly, waiting his bidding. He sat in the driver’s seat and shoved the throttle down. The boat shot forward, and shortly, he was in the middle of the lake, flying along at what he reckoned was thirty or thirty-five miles an hour. He had flown for not more than five minutes when the engine coughed, then coughed again, then sputtered and died. The boat slowed to a stop, rolling, caught by its own wake.
Howell tried the starter a few times, but nothing happened. Then he remembered the gasoline can sitting ashore. He made his way aft and checked the two fuel tanks which had been in the boat all along. Both empty. Swell. He checked the boat for a paddle, but there were only some life jackets and a couple of old beer cans. He looked around him. He was drifting about equidistant from both shores of the lake. He could see the outline of the town of Sutherland a couple of miles down, the water tower hovering over it, but no boats. He looked toward the other end of the lake. There was a boat coming fast from that direction, perhaps half a mile away. It would pass close to him if it didn’t change course. He started waving.
He could see four people, two couples, in the boat as it grew closer. The driver returned his wave and turned toward him. “Having problems?” he called out as they pulled alongside.
“Yeah, I’m out of fuel, and I’m afraid I’ve left my gas can ashore,” Howell explained.
“That’s not all you left ashore,” the young woman next to the driver laughed.
Howell followed her gaze and found that he was wearing only jockey shorts. “Oh, Christ, you’re right. I was wading…”
“No problem,” the driver said. “Where can we tow you?”
Howell pointed to the cove in the distance. “Over there.”
A few minutes later Howell had safely secured the boat to the little dock in front of the cabin and had his pants on. “I sure appreciate your help. I’m John Howell.”
“I’m Jack Roberts,” the driver said. “This is Helen Smith, here, and in the back are Harry and Joyce Martin. We’re staying at a friend’s place the other side of the lake.”
“Hi,” Howell said, taking them all in.
“Is your boat like ours?” the young woman in the backseat, Joyce, asked. She was blind. Howell reflected that he had met more blind people and dogs in the last week than he had in the last year.
“Pretty much, I guess. Can I offer you folks a drink?” he asked. “Seems the least I can do for being returned to my trousers.”
“We’re just on our way to pick up some things in the town,” Jack explained. “And we’re going home in the morning. Maybe next year.”
“Well, thanks, anyway,” Howell said.
“Don’t mention it,” Jack called back, shoving his boat away from the dock. He gunned the engine. The others waved as they pulled away. Howell saw them off, then emptied the five-gallon gasoline can into one of the out-board’s tanks and made a mental note to fill the other one on his next trip to town.
Scotty arrived at the cabin at seven, freshly scrubbed and squeezed into designer jeans topped with a silk blouse. “I was right,” she said. “You don’t look half bad with a shave and your hair combed over the bald spot.”
“We’re taking the boat down to Taylor’s tonight,” Howell replied, “and if you keep that up, you can swim back.”
She threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, truce. That’s a great shirt, too; you look twenty… well, ten years younger.”
Soon they were skimming down the lake, drinks in hand, through the early evening light. The air was fresh and cool as it whipped past them, and the water had turned a deep blue with the end of day. At Taylor’s they tied up next to the boat that had rescued Howell that afternoon. He told Scotty about the experience.
“Listen, John, you should always wear your pants when you go out. Your mother should have explained that to you. God, I wish I could have seen that – the Pulitzer Prizewinner, bare-assed.”
The two couples were waiting on the front porch for a table, and Howell introduced Scotty. “Jesus,” he said, “I forgot this place was dry. Why don’t you people come back to the cabin for a nightcap after dinner?”
They ate fried chicken and catfish at a long, oilcloth-covered table, and finished up with peach cobbler, washing everything down with iced tea. The room was crowded with couples and families from miles around, all eating with both hands. Howell and Scotty sat across from Joyce, the blind woman, who alternated bursts of talk and laughter with periods of what seemed to be puzzled silence whenever Scotty spoke more than a few words. Her husband, Harry, seemed to notice it, too. “Have we met the two of you before?” he asked Howell and Scotty.
“I don’t think so,” Howell replied. Scotty shook her head.
“I think Joyce finds you… familiar,” Harry said.
“It happens sometimes,” the blind woman chimed in. “Sometimes I think it’s something to do with not being able to see. Maybe there are more similar voices than similar faces, who knows? Tell me, is either of you psychic?”
“Nope,” Scotty said.
Howell did not reply immediately. “Why do you ask?” he asked, finally.
“I think one or both of you probably is,” the woman replied. “I am, and I sometimes get that feeling about other people. If you are, you shouldn’t be afraid of it. It’s a perfectly natural thing.”
“Oh, I’ve had little flashes at times, I think,” Howell said, warily. “It may have been just a fluke.”
“I doubt it,” Joyce said.
After dinner they raced down the windless lake, the two boats abreast, over flat, glassy water, under a rising moon. It had grown chillier with the coming of dark, and Scotty huddled close to Howell for warmth. He put his arm around her and felt the chill bumps through the silk blouse. It had been so warm when they left that neither of them had brought a sweater.
They tied up at the dock in front of the cabin and waited while the other two couples disembarked. Only the crickets broke the silent stillness of the evening. Inside, Howell got a fire together while Scotty made some coffee. “There’s a bottle of brandy in there,” he called to her. “It would improve the coffee.”
Scotty came out of the kitchen with tray of cups and stopped. Howell, busy at the hearth, looked at her and followed her gaze. The blind woman was standing in the middle of the living room, her chin lifted and her head cocked to one side, turning slowly in a circle. “Is something wrong, Joyce?” Scotty asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied, stopping her turning, “I was just getting a feel for the place.” Her husband came and led her to the sofa before the fire.
Scotty set the cups on the coffee table. “You said you were psychic.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman replied.
“She’s sometimes quite remarkable,” her husband chimed in. “Do you feel something, Honey?”
“I’d like some coffee, if it’s ready,” she replied, ignoring his question.
Scotty left and returned with the coffee pot and the brandy and busied herself with serving everyone.
Howell put a roll on the player piano, then switched it on. Errol Garner began to play. Howell got a cup, poured an extra measure of brandy into it, and sank into a chair. “Where are you all from?” he asked.
“Helen and I are from Chattanooga,” Jack replied. “Harry is, too. Joyce is English, though you’d never know it from her accent.”
“Joyce seems to have a good ear,” her husband said. “When we visit London, her accent changes the moment we get of the plane at Heathrow.”
Joyce spoke up. “Would you all like to have a seance?” Everybody turned and looked at her.
Scotty giggled. “A seance? Really talking to the spirits and everything?”
“Perhaps,” Joyce said. “You never know for sure, of course, but I think there might be something here.”
“Joyce has a feeling for all sorts of communication; not just accents,” Harry said.
“I’m game,” Scotty said.
Jack looked at Helen, who nodded. “Sure, why not?” he said.
Only Howell said nothing. He had the odd feeling that things were about to get out of hand.
“John?” Joyce asked. “There’s no point unless we have the cooperation of everyone.”
Howell felt on the spot. He didn’t want to do this, but he would be a poor host if he didn’t go along. “Sure,” he said, unenthusiastically. “How do we go about it?”
“We need a table,” Joyce said, “preferably a round one.”
“We’ve got that,” Howell replied.
“Will you place it at as near the center of the room as you can? And will someone please switch off the piano?”
“Sure.” Howell stopped the piano, and the three men went to the table. “This isn’t going to be all that easy,” Howell said as they gathered around it. “The base of this thing is a section of a tree trunk that’s almost petrified. I don’t know how they managed to saw through it.”
“Oof,” Harry said as he tugged at the table-top. “Maybe we just ought to tilt the thing and roll it on its base. We might pull the top loose trying to lift it.”
The three men, not without difficulty, got the table tilted and, using the tree-trunk base like a wheel, rolled it toward the center of the room. “I think that’s close enough,” Harry said. He seemed to have done this before.
They dragged over the chairs and Joyce indicated where they should each sit, alternating them by sex. “Would someone turn all the lights in the house off, please?” she asked.
“That’s everything,” Scotty said, coming back from the kitchen. It seemed pitch dark for a moment, then their eyes began to become accustomed to it, and they discovered that the moonlight and the fire lit the cabin quite well. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the noisy chatter of the crickets outside. They all sat down and pulled their chairs up to the table.
Joyce placed her hands on the tabletop, her fingers spread, her thumbs touching. “Will everyone please spread your hands like this? Be sure that your own thumbs are touching and that the tips of your little fingers touch the person’s next to you. What we want is an unbroken chain around the table.” They did as instructed. “Please, whatever happens, do not break this chain. It joins our spirits as well as our bodies, and we need the collective help of everyone. We may be at this for some time, so I must ask you to be patient, and if anyone needs to go to the bathroom, please go now.”
No one moved. “I want all of you to relax and be as comfortable as possible. Close your eyes, if you wish. It’s important that you each empty your mind of everything but what is happening here. It will be much easier to establish contact if you can do that.” Joyce settled herself and was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “We are all joined here in God to receive the spirits of those departed. If there is any spirit here, please make your presence known.” She was silent for a moment then began to speak again, rhythmically, swaying slightly as she spoke, her blind eyes wandering aimlessly. “Come to us, spirits, speak to us, communicate with us, hear our call, touch us.”
Howell felt oddly relaxed. He was unconcerned with his work or his wife or the sheriff of the county or his growing attraction to Scotty. He floated on the moment and listened to Joyce. As she continued, he thought that it seemed to grow quieter, but he reflected that there had not been much noise in the first place. Then he realized that the crickets had stopped. The only sound now was the crackling of the fire.
Joyce continued. “Hear us, oh spirits, join with us…” She stopped in mid-sentence.
The room was as before; he wondered why Joyce had stopped. Then the table moved.
“I feel a presence,” Joyce said. There was a slight stirring among the group.
The table moved again, more distinctly this time. Howell tried to figure out what was happening. There was something peculiar in the movement of the table; it seemed to slowly undulate beneath his spread hands; it seemed nearly to breathe.
“Will you identify yourself?” Joyce asked. The table moved again, even more distinctly, seemingly in response to her question.
“Can you speak?” Joyce asked. No one spoke, but the table moved again. “Please move the table once for yes and twice for no. Can you speak?”
The table moved twice, distinctly. There was no mistaking it, Howell thought. The hair on his head nearly stood on end. He could feel his scalp crawl.
“We would like to know your name,” Joyce said. “I will go through the alphabet. Please move the table once when I reach a letter in your name. A,” she said. “B… C… D…” she continued, with no response. Then, on R, the table moved. Joyce continued and reached Z with no further response. She began again. On A the table moved, then again on B. Joyce finished the alphabet again with no further response, then started over. “B… ” The table moved, then was still as she chanted the letters. “I… ” Movement. “T.” “Rabbit,” Joyce said, excitedly, “Your name is Rabbit.” The table moved once, for yes.
“Do you wish to contact someone at this table?” Joyce asked.
Yes, the table said.
“Who…? I’m sorry, is it me?”
The table moved twice; no.
Joyce continued around the table. “Is it Jack?”
No.
“Is it Helen?”
No.
“Is it John?”
Howell tensed, resisting the urge to take his hands from the table. The table moved. No. He slumped in relief. Then he felt angry with himself. This was some sort of parlor trick, and he was getting sucked into it like a tourist.
“Is it Scotty?”
The table moved once, then stopped. There was a little gasp from Scotty. Then there was a gasp from everyone. The table had left the floor and was moving slightly up and down at about chest level.
Howell felt near to panic. He was hallucinating, he was sure of it. He felt the same way he had on the appearance of the young girl in the cabin the night of the storm. Think reality, he kept saying to himself. It wasn’t working.
“Don’t move, anybody,” Joyce said firmly, “It’s all right; just relax. It’s all right, Scotty.”
Howell looked at Scotty. She was sitting rigid, wide-eyed, staring straight ahead. Then he saw something else. He was sitting facing the lake, and across the room, standing, looking out the window, her back nearly to him, stood the girl of the thunderstorm.
“Why do you wish to contact Scotty?” Joyce asked, then quickly corrected herself. “I’m sorry… ah, are you happy or unhappy? Once for happy, twice for unhappy.”
Howell looked down at the table, a few inches below his nose; he wanted to hear this. It moved twice. Then everything stopped. Howell thought it was like when there was a refrigerator running in the next room, and it went off. You weren’t aware of it until it stopped. The table was back on the floor. A moment later, the crickets resumed. He looked back toward where the girl had stood. She was no longer there.
“It’s over,” Joyce said. “I don’t think we’ll get it back.”
Later, when everyone had gone, Howell and Scotty sat in front of the fire. “You know anybody named Rabbit?” he asked her. He had to try to figure this out.
“Nope, I didn’t even know there was anybody named Rabbit.”
“Maybe it’s a nickname, or something. You know anybody around here? Have you spent any time in the area? I mean, before you came to work for Bo.”
“Nope. I grew up in Atlanta – in Decatur, really. My dad’s a surgeon at Emory Hospital.
I’d never even seen the lake until a month ago.“
“Were you frightened when it picked you out?” he asked.
“No, oddly enough. I suppose I should have been, but I just wasn’t. Funny.”
“I was scared shitless there for a minute,” he said, “when the table came off the floor, but I’m not scared now. I mean, I don’t want to flee the cabin or anything.” He didn’t want to mention the girl at the window. Apparently, nobody else had seen her. “I don’t feel uncomfortable here, do you?”
“Not in the least,” she said, and kissed him.
“Good, stick around,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said back, then kissed him again. Howell forgot about seances and hallucinations and gave himself to the moment.