Sirens rose in the distance.
Sixty-nine
Henry Rouvroy could do nothing to keep Jim out of the house, because the poet would come in through the attic if he wasn’t able to enter through a door, because next he would walk through a wall, with no regard for the opinions of the enlightened professors and elite power brokers who would dismiss the idea of ghosts with a sneer or a laugh. He was in control now, the dead brother, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Consequently, because a grenade would be useless against a man who was already dead, Henry put it in the refrigerator. The choice of the refrigerator puzzled him for a moment, but then he decided he must be reacting to a subconscious awareness that the hand grenade resembled a pineapple.
In a despairing mood of resignation, he removed all the bracing chairs from the doors and returned them to the dinette table. When he opened the cellar door, he stood at the head of the stairs, peering down into the lower room, where the lights had been on for more than twenty-four hours. He heard nothing down there, but he said, “Jim?” When he received no reply, he said, “I shouldn’t have killed you myself, not my own brother. I should have hired someone to kill you and then killed him.”
He went from window to window, opening the draperies and raising the blinds. He was finished hiding. He couldn’t endure another night of waiting for retribution.
At one of the front windows, he saw a woman on the porch. At first he assumed that she must be Nora, joining Jim for the next phase of the haunting, but when she became aware of him and turned, she proved to be a stranger. And an attractive one.
If an attractive woman came to him, rather than Henry having to go stalk and capture her, perhaps his fate wasn’t sealed, after all. Perhaps this was a sign that the Hour of Dead Jim was over, that the worst of the haunting lay behind him, that he had passed this initiation rite into the pagan reality of rural life, had won the approval of the earth spirits and fertility gods that ruled this world of farms and logging operations. If so, he could now establish his retreat and dig in to ride out the chaos that the senator and his friends were engineering.
He opened the door to her and smiled.
She frowned and said, “Jim?”
“I’ve tried to be,” he said.
“What did you say?”
“A little joke. It’s been a long day.” Evidently she knew the Carlyles, which encouraged him to step back from the threshold and say, “Nora and I were just going to start dinner. Can you join us?”
After a hesitation, she stepped inside. “I can’t, Jim. The most incredible wonderful thing has happened.”
Closing the door, he said, “I sure could use a wonderful thing. A day like this, I need a lift. Come tell me and Nora about it.”
“It’s going to be better to show than tell,” she said, following him toward the kitchen.
“Nora’s in the potato cellar. I’m supposed to go down and help her carry up some spuds.”
The door stood open. The light glowed below. He was pleased at how plausible the story sounded.
“The thing is, Jim, I really need to borrow your Mountaineer.”
“Sure. No problem. How about helping Nora bring up some baskets of potatoes, and I’ll get my car-insurance card for you just in case there might be an accident or something.”
“I don’t need the card,” she said.
“Oh, I know, I know. But the law does say you have to carry proof of insurance, and you know how I am, living by the law.”
In fact, Jim had written a poem titled “Living by the Law,” about the beauty of law, though it was about natural law, not the laws written by men.
The reference to the poem worked. The woman bought it and smiled. “All right, sure, get the insurance card. Straight-arrow Jim. I’ll help Nora.”
He watched her descend the stairs, and when she reached the bottom, he called out, “I just had a senior moment way before my time.” He hurried down after her, adding, “Forgot the insurance card is right here in my wallet.”
As Henry reached the lower room, the woman arrived at the potato-cellar door, which stood ajar. The light was on in there.
A pang of terror pierced Henry, and for a moment, he did not know why—and then he knew.
The woman opened the door and stepped inside, and on the floor lay Nora, the first woman in his planned harem.
“I was being Jim, after all,” Henry said.
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself wearing Jim’s gloves, moving Nora from the barn in the wheelbarrow. After dinner the previous night. Being Jim. Really into the role. Well, he had taken some drama classes at Harvard.
His visitor, the nameless woman, turned to stare at him from the trap of the potato cellar, her eyes wide.
As he moved to the doorway, Henry said, “And Jim. Jim’s in the chicken house. Stripped and thrown in the chicken house. I didn’t have time to feed them. Let them peck the meat off his bones. A smaller grave to dig.”
“Jim, what’s the matter with you?”
He looked at his hands, at his clean nails, remembering the grime, the filth, the gummy blood under his fingernails from wearing the gloves and being Jim.
“Henry,” came the dreaded whisper, “Henry … Henry,” and he dared not look to see what stood behind him.
The woman, who could see what stood behind him, only said, “Who is Henry?”
“Henry,” Henry said, and knew chicken-pecked Jim did not stand behind him, after all.
“Jim,” the woman said, “back away from the door, I’m coming out of here, Jim.”
He had worn the gloves to copy the poem from the book, and then had to wash his hands again.
