Caitlin R. Kiernan - The Red Tree

She took a last puff from her Camel, then crushed the butt out in the ashtray. “No shit? I thought that was maybe something you were writing. It just got left here, after he died?”

“That would seem to be the case, though I’ve talked with someone at the university who’s taking it off my hands next week. Someone who used to work with him, I think. He has a daughter, but she doesn’t seem to want anything to do with him.”

“Didn’t know that, either,” Constance said. “In school, we always assumed he was gay.”

“Maybe he was. He was certainly divorced.”

“Weird shit,” she sighed, and sipped at her beer. “So, Sarah Crowe, tell me. Are you the sort who believes in ghosts and cursed trees and the like?” she asked. “Does it make you nervous, all these skeletons in the closet?”

“No, I do not believe in ghosts,” I replied. “ Or Rhode Island vampires, or swamp monsters. I’d be lying, though, if I said learning about Harvey’s suicide didn’t. ” and I trailed off, searching for words that wouldn’t be taken the wrong way, because suddenly I found myself caring about this stranger’s opinion of me. “It was unsettling,” I said. “And then, finding that manuscript, hidden away down in the basement. ”

“You think Blanchard intentionally hid the manuscript?”

“Sorry, no,” I said, shaking my head. “Just a figure of speech,” and see there what I mean about being careful of the words I choose, because I hadn’t meant that at all.

“Don’t you wonder, though, why he didn’t just toss it out, burn it or something?” Constance Hopkins asked, and now there was a faintly mischievous glint in her lazy eyes. “I mean, why save it? Why go to the trouble to stash it away in the basement?”

“You got me,” I said. “I don’t write mystery novels.”

“No, that’s right. You don’t, do you?” And as quickly as it had appeared, the glint faded from her rusty eyes. She lit another cigarette, and offered another to me, but I declined.

“How about you?” I asked, and, with hindsight, I see that the question was not merely an act of reciprocal curiousity, but a response to what had felt like a challenge or taunt from a woman almost fifteen years my junior.

“What about me what ?”

“Are you, Constance Hopkins, the sort who believes in ghosts. or cursed trees, for that matter? Are you the sort who goes in for all this Fortean nonsense?”

She peered back at me through a thick cloud of smoke, looking confused. “Fortean? You just lost me.”

“You mean to say, you’ve never read Charles Fort, king of the cranks, archenemy of all that is rational, self-professed defender of so-called damned phenomena excluded by orthodox science? Rains of blood, fish and frogs falling from the sky, unexplained disappearances, mystery animals, and what have you?”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “Not ringing any bells.”

“No problem,” I replied. “It’s probably for the best. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

“Do I believe in ghosts?” she smiled.

“Yes. That’s the one.”

She continued to smile, and I did my best not to stare at that chipped tooth while she seemed to gaze through me, at least through the surface of me. Finally she nodded, very slightly, her smile widening just a bit, and shrugged.

“It’s complicated. Maybe we should come back to that question another time,” she said. “I expect I ought to wander upstairs and see just what I’ve gotten myself into,” and she looked at the ceiling.

“Sure,” I replied. “No hurry,” but there was an odd and unmistakable pang of disappointment, that she hadn’t answered the question. For a moment, I thought she was going to leave the table, but then she started talking again, and the conversation turned to more mundane affairs — just how much she dreaded going up those stairs to the attic, because she knew what a dump it would be. How there was a sleeping bag and an air mattress out in the car that would have to do, as far as bedding was concerned. How she hoped we didn’t both freeze to death when winter came around.

“I try not to think about the winter,” I said, truthfully. “I’ve never lived anywhere cold in my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she said, “it’s not so bad. Though it tends to get colder here than it does nearer to the sea. Sometimes, we get mild winters.”

“Other times?”

She winked, and then blew a series of perfect concentric smoke rings before replying. “Well, I was born during the Blizzard of 1978. It snowed for thirty-three hours straight, drifts fifteen feet high some places. Hurricane-force winds all across Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Massachusetts, but the worst of it was right here in Providence County. It was a hell of a mess, and a lot of people died. My mother used to say, ‘You came in like a lion, Connie, riding on that wind.’ ” She laughed then, and I think I laughed, too. I know I was regretting not having accepted that second cigarette.

“People still call you Connie?” I asked, preferring not to contemplate all the many ways a person can die in a blizzard.

“Only once,” she said and winked again. “And now, if you will excuse me, I really should get off my ass and meet my garret. I assume we share the kitchen?”

“Looks that way,” I said, and then I offered to help with the stuff we’d left sitting at the foot of the attic stairs. She shook her head and told me it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle on her own. She thanked me for the beer and promised to exchange the favor soon, then glanced down at the box containing Dr. Harvey’s manuscript.

“Before you unload that thing, could I maybe have a look at it?” she asked.

“Sure, though I’m planning on having it photocopied at the library, so it’s not like there’s a rush.”

She chewed at her lower lip a moment, then said, “Sarah, if you don’t mind, I’d sort of like to read the original. You know, the actual artifact. Reading a copy wouldn’t be the same, somehow.”

“Of course,” I replied, because, after all, I haven’t actually worked out when and where I’m supposed to meet the woman from URI to hand it over. “Truthfully, I’ve only read about half of it myself. But yeah, no problem. You can take it now, if you’d like.”

“Later will be fine,” she said, then thanked me again for the beer, and for helping her carry the stuff up from the car. After she left, I sat here, wondering how long it would take me to get used to the sound of footsteps overhead. And now it’s almost four o’clock in the morning, and the birds are yelling their heads off, and it just occurred to me that the clack from these noisy goddamn typewriter keys might be keeping her awake.

Not much to report, really. I thought of taking the car and driving somewhere there would be fireworks — Foster, or all the way down to Westerly or Watch Hill, maybe even Mystic — not so much because I give two hoots for Independence Day, but just to mark the passage of time, to stay oriented (or reorient myself) to some sort of calendar beyond my own reclusive rhythms and the inevitable progress of the summer towards autumn. I even went so far as to look online for potential destinations, places where fireworks displays were scheduled and so forth. But then Constance asked me to help her with the last few boxes from the rental car, and she started telling horror stories about traffic and drunken tourists and asshole college students, and I dropped the idea. Earlier, just after dark, I did hear some distant concussions, from the south, I think, so I’m afraid that’s it for my Fourth of July this year.