“No. She wasn’t. She was in the house the whole time for…nine months at a time, if you catch my drift.”
“So none of the townspeople would ever know she was pregnant,” Fanshawe reflected. Then the rest kicked in. “Oh, don’t tell me—”
“Right again, Stew. Evanore wasn’t traveling, she was pregnant, with babies sired by her own father, but the babies were never seen by anyone, ever. Not to spoil your night completely but—hey—you asked.”
“That I did.” He knew he had the rest, but he needed to hear her say it. For this, he merely looked at her in morose beseechment.
“It wasn’t cats Jacob was sacrificing for his occult rituals.”
Fanshawe downed his drink as he went pale at the bar. “On that note…could I have another shot, please?”
««—»»
Fanshawe spent the next hour avoiding all conversion relative to Jacob Wraxall, witchcraft, warlocks, and the like. Instead he made small talk, which was much nicer, and unique because only then did it occur to him that he hadn’t sat in a bar in a long time, much less talked to a woman who wasn’t either his wife or someone connected to one of his businesses. He learned that Abbie had grown up in Haver-Towne, had attended a local community college for a certificate in hotel management, and, after spending a year in Nashua—”I thought I’d test the water in a small city before plunging headfirst into a big one, like New York”—she’d opted out of a shot at the glitzy metropolitan hotel bizz and decided to stay right where she was at. “I’ve never been much of a carrot-chaser,” she’d said. “A lot of people spend their whole lives wanting things they don’t need.” Why leave when she was happy here? “Better to help run my father’s place, which he’ll pass on to me some day.” In truth, she’d never even been to New York, and had never felt a desire to see it or any other big metropolis. “Slow-paced, peaceful, no rat-race—I know myself enough to realize that’s the only kind of life I really want to live,” she’d said. “So what if the money’s crummy?” His fetishist’s attraction notwithstanding, Fanshawe discovered that not only did he admire her for her polar-opposite ideals, but he envied her. Look what lots of money and the big city did for me, he thought. I’m a super-rich clinical pervert in recovery. I lost my marriage and even went to jail. What a great guy, huh? What a winner. He knew she’d be disgusted to know the truth. Billionaire or not, her father would throw him out of the hotel.
But he also learned that not only was she unmarried now, she’d never been married. No kids. She’d had a few inert flings in Nashua, but the only serious relationships she’d had had been with local men who’d turned out to be “a bunch of crud-heads and moochers who didn’t want to work a job.” Instead, she’d accepted her slow-paced, simple life in her home town, figuring “whatever happens, happens, and whatever that might be, it’s a great life and a beautiful world.”
Fanshawe could see in her eyes that she meant it. There was something shockingly refreshing about that.
But what am I really thinking?
He didn’t know. He felt weird in a way he couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was the alcohol—he rarely drank, and the only reason he was doing it here was because of the circumstance. This is the first time I’ve been away from people in—damn—I can’t remember when. His professional life involved his being constantly surrounded by underlings or other financial whizzes. His front office bosses had objected to no end when he’d told them he was going off on a long vacation by himself, as though he were some volatile political figure with enemies around every corner waiting to pick him off. His personal manager, Arthur Middoth, had practically had a panic attack. “Stew, please, a guy like you can’t just drop everything and go for a road trip. Lemme get’cha our best driver and a good vehicle,” the man had suggested with some angst in his voice. “I have a car, Artie, a bunch of them, and I don’t need a driver. I want to go by myself—that’s the whole idea.” Artie pushed his fingers worriedly through his hair, even though he didn’t have much. “Well then lemme send a couple of our guys in a second car.” “A couple of our guys?” Fanshawe laughed. “I’m not a mafia don, Artie. I just need to get away for a while, six months, maybe a year,” and then he’d added, “Period.” What could any of them say? Fanshawe owned them in a sense. Nevertheless, he felt skewed now, his insides diced up and shuffled around like something in a wok. First time out of the office and I don’t know which end is up. Then he looked back at Abbie.
He wanted to say something but couldn’t. Their eyes locked, and several moments passed, but those several moments seemed to Fanshawe like full minutes.
Abbie grinned again. The grin couldn’t have been more full of a joy of life. “What?”
Fanshawe felt like someone speaking in a cavern. “Can-can I take you out to dinner when you get off work?”
Her pause seemed like shock. “I can’t. I have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a convention.”
“Oh.” He’d had no previous idea that he was going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I’m fifteen years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I’m the OPPOSITE of her. He struggled for something to say next, but then—
An uproar poured into the bar with no warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired, bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where earlier they’d been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar, ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They’re like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only…old. But one thing he didn’t like was loud groups.
And he was embarrassed. Abbie had turned him down.
Part of himself was oddly impressed, because she already knew he was rich. But still…
It was past ten already, and his fatigue from the long drive was taking its toll. “This is a little rowdy for me,” he tried to tell her.
“Huh?” She was juggling bottles for squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. “Not to be born is best!” someone howled; then someone responded, “Sophocles!”
“I’ve got to go,” he attempted again. “Can you just put my drinks on my room bill?”
“They were on the house,” she raised her voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar taps simultaneously.
Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St. Augustine. “Pardon my Dasein,” the man said, then barked to Abbie. “A Witch’s Moon Lager, please!” Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding customers. “See ya later,” he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of his seat. She hadn’t heard him. I can’t even say goodnight to her it’s so damn crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed two attractive women chatting with some of the professors, long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild buzz. It took a moment to realize he’d seen them before, but in running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and Yale, he recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their breasts visible in their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, “The human self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified!” and someone responded “Bullshit! There is no objective basis for truth!”