“Of course, sir.” He hesitated.

  “I don’t think I’ll require a guide, but you might tell my wife I’ll be with her in ten minutes or so.”

  Bateman repeated his, “Of course, sir,” and went out. The truth was that I wanted to assure myself that everything I had carried in the pockets of my old suit—car keys, wallet, and so on—had been transferred to the new one he had laid out for me; and I did not want to insult him, if I could prevent it, by doing it in front of him.

  Everything was where it should be, and I had a clean handkerchief in place of my own only slightly soiled one. I pulled it out to look at (Irish linen) and a flutter of green came with it—two bills, both fifties.

  Over eggs Benedict I complimented Marcella on her new dress and asked if she had noticed where it had been made.

  “Rowe’s. It’s a little shop on Fifth Avenue.”

  “You know it, then. Nothing unusual?”

  She answered, “No, nothing unusual,” more quickly than she should have, and I knew that there had been money in her new clothes too, and that she did not intend to tell me about it.

  “We’ll be going home after this. I wonder if they’ll want me to give this jacket back.”

  “Going home?” She did not look up from her plate. “Why? And who are ‘they’?”

  “Whoever owns this house.”

  “Yesterday you called him he. You said Priest talked about the master, so that seemed logical enough. Today you’re afraid to deal with even presumptive masculinity.”

  I said nothing.

  “You think he spent the night in my room, they separated us and you thought that was why, and you just waited there—was it under a sheet?—for me to scream or something. And I didn’t.”

  “I was hoping you had and I hadn’t heard you.”

  “Nothing happened, dammit! I went to bed and went to sleep, but as for going home, you’re out of your mind. Can’t you see we’ve got the job? Whoever he is—wherever he is—he likes us. We’re going to stay here and live like human beings, at least for a while.”

  · · · ·

  And so we did. That day we stayed on from hour to hour. After that, from day to day, and at last from week to week. I felt like Klipspringer, the man who was Jay Gatsby’s guest for so long that he had no other home—except that Klipspringer, presumably, saw Gatsby from time to time, and no doubt made agreeable conversation, and perhaps even played the piano for him. Our Gatsby was absent. I do not mean that we avoided him, or that he avoided us; there were no rooms we were forbidden to enter, and no times when the servants seemed eager that we should play golf or swim or go riding. Before the good weather ended, we had two couples up for a weekend; and when Bette Windgassen asked if Marcella had inherited the place, and then if we were renting it, Marcella said, “Oh, do you like it?” in such a way that they left, I think, convinced that it was ours, or as good as ours.

  And so it was. We went away when we chose, which was seldom, and returned when we chose, quickly. We ate on the various terraces and balconies, and in the big, formal dining room, and in our own bedrooms. We rode the horses and drove the Mercedes and the cranky, appealing old Jaguar as though they were our own. We did everything, in fact, except buy the groceries and pay the taxes and the servants, but someone else was doing that, and every morning I found one hundred dollars in the pockets of my clean clothes. If summer had lasted forever, perhaps I would still be there.

  · · · ·

  The poplars lost their leaves in one October week; at the end of it I fell asleep listening to the hum of the pump that emptied the swimming pool. When the rain came, Marcella turned sour and drank too much. One evening I made the mistake of putting my arm about her shoulders as we sat before the fire in the trophy room.

  “Get your filthy hands off me,” she said. “I don’t belong to you.”

  “Priest, look here. He hasn’t said an intelligent word to me all day or done a decent thing, and now he wants to paw me all night.”

  Priest pretended, of course, that he had not heard her.

  “Look over here! Damn it, you’re a human being, aren’t you?”

  He did not ignore that. “Yes, madame, I am a human being.”

  “I’ll say you are. You’re more of a man than he is. This is your place, and you’re keeping us for pets—is it me you want? Or him? You sent us the ad, didn’t you? He thinks you go into my room at night, or he says he does. Maybe you really come to his—is that it?”

  Priest did not answer. I said, “For God’s sake, Marcella.”

  “Even if you’re old, Priest, I think you’re too much of a man for that.” She stood up, tottering on her long legs and holding on to the stonework of the fireplace. “If you want me, take me. If this house is yours, you can have me. We’ll send him to Vegas—or throw him on the dump.”

  In a much softer tone than he usually used, Priest said, “I don’t want either of you, madame.”

  I stood up then, and caught him by the shoulders. I had been drinking too, though only half or a quarter as much as Marcella, but I think it was more than that—it was the accumulated frustration of all the days since Jim Bruce told me I was finished. I outweighed Priest by at least forty pounds, and I was twenty years younger. I said, “I want to know.”

  “Release me, sir, please.”

  “I want to know who it is; I want to know now. Do you see that fire? Tell me, Priest, or I swear I’ll throw you in it.”

  His face tightened at that. “Yes,” he whispered, and I let go of his shoulders. “It was not the lady, sir. It was you. I want that understood this time.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m not doing this because of what she said.”

  “You aren’t the master, are you? For God’s sake tell the truth.”

  “I have always told the truth, sir. No, I am not the master. Do you remember the picture I gave you?”

  I nodded.

  “You discarded it. I took the liberty, sir, of rescuing it from the waste can in your bathroom. I have it here.” He reached into his coat and pulled it out, just as he had on the first day, and handed it to me.

  “It’s one of these? One of the servants?”

  Priest nodded and pointed with an impeccably manicured forefinger to the figure at the extreme right of the second row. The name beneath it was Kevin Malone.

  “Him?”

  Silently, Priest nodded again.

  I had examined the picture on the night he had given it to me, but I had never paid special attention to that particular half-inch-high image. The person it represented might have been a gardener, a man of middle age, short and perhaps stocky. A soft, sweat-stained hat cast a shadow on his face.

  “I want to see him.” I looked toward Marcella, still leaning against the stonework of the mantel. “We want to see him.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “Damn you, get him!”

  Priest remained where he was, staring at me; I was so furious that I think I might have seized him as I had threatened and pushed him into the fire.

  Then the French windows opened, and there came a gust of wind. For an instant I think I expected a ghost, or some turbulent elemental spirit. I felt that pricking at the neck that comes when one reads Poe alone at night.

  The man I had seen in the picture stepped into the room. He was a small and very ordinary man in worn khaki, but he left the windows wide behind him, so that the night entered with him, and remained in the room for as long as we talked.

  “You own this house,” I said. “You’re Kevin Malone.”

  He shook his head. “I am Kevin Malone—this house owns me.”

  Marcella was standing straighter now, drunk, yet still at that stage of drunkenness in which she was conscious of her condition and could compensate for it. “It owns me too,” she said, and walking almost normally she crossed the room to the baronial chair Malone had chosen, and managed to sit down at his feet.

  “My father was the man-of-all-work here. My mother was the parlor maid. I grew up here, washing the cars and raking leaves out of the fountains. Do you follow me? Where did you grow up?”

  I shrugged. “Various places. Richmond, New York, three years in Paris. Until I was sent off to school we lived in hotels, mostly.”

  “You see, then. You can understand.” Malone smiled for a moment. “You’re still re-creating the life you had as a child, or trying to. Isn’t that right? None of us can be happy any other way, and few of us even want to try.”

  “Thomas Wolfe said you can’t go home again,” I ventured.

  “That’s right; you can’t go home. There’s one place where we can never go—haven’t you thought of that? We can dive to the bottom of the sea and someday NASA will fly us to the stars, and I have known men to plunge into the past—or the future—and drown. But there’s one place where we can’t go. We can’t go where we are already. We can’t go home, because our minds, and our hearts, and our immortal souls are already there.”

  Not knowing what to say, I nodded, and that seemed to satisfy him. Priest looked as calm as ever, but he made no move to shut the windows, and I sensed that he was somehow afraid.

  “I was put into an orphanage when I was twelve, but I never forgot The Pines. I used to tell the other kids about it, and it got bigger and better every year, but I knew what I said could never equal the reality.”

  He shifted in his seat, and the slight movement of his legs sent Marcella sprawling, passed out. She retained a certain grace still; I have always understood that it is the reward of studying ballet as a child.

  Malone continued to talk. “They’ll tell you it’s no longer possible for a poor boy with a second-rate education to make a fortune. Well, it takes luck, but I had it. It also takes the willingness to risk it all. I had that too, because I knew that for me anything under a fortune was nothing. I had to be able to buy this place—to come back and buy The Pines, and staff it and maintain it. That’s what I wanted, and nothing less would make any difference.”

  “You’re to be congratulated,” I said. “But why…”

  He laughed. It was a deep laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Why don’t I wear a tie and eat my supper at the end of the big table? I tried it. I tried it for nearly a year, and every night I dreamed of home. That wasn’t home, you see, wasn’t The Pines. Home is three rooms above the stables. I live there now. I live at home, as a man should.”

  “It seems to me that it would have been a great deal simpler for you to have applied for the job you fill now.”

  Malone shook his head impatiently. “That wouldn’t have done it at all. I had to have control. That’s something I learned in business—to have control. Another owner would have wanted to change things, and maybe he would even have sold out to a subdivider. No. Besides, when I was a boy this estate belonged to a fashionable young couple. Suppose a man of my age had bought it? Or a young woman, some whore.” His mouth tightened, then relaxed. “You and your wife were ideal. Now I’ll have to get somebody else, that’s all. You can stay the night, if you like. I’ll have you driven into the city tomorrow morning.”

  I ventured, “You needed us as stage properties, then. I’d be willing to stay on those terms.”

  Malone shook his head again. “That’s out of the question. I don’t need props; I need actors. In business I’ve put on little shows for the competition, if you know what I mean, and sometimes even for my own people. And I’ve learned that the only actors who can really do justice to their parts are the ones who don’t know what they are.”

  “Really—,” I began.

  He cut me off with a look, and for a few seconds we stared at one another. Something terrible lived behind those eyes.

  Frightened despite all reason could tell me, I said, “I understand,” and stood up. There seemed to be nothing else to do. “I’m glad, at least, that you don’t hate us. With your childhood it would be quite natural if you did. Will you explain things to Marcella in the morning? She’ll throw herself at you, no matter what I say.”

  He nodded absently.

  “May I ask one question more? I wondered why you had to leave and go into the orphanage. Did your parents die or lose their places?”

  Malone said, “Didn’t you tell him, Priest? It’s the local legend. I thought everyone knew.”

  The butler cleared his throat. “The elder Mr. Malone—he was the stableman here, sir, though it was before my time. He murdered Betty Malone, who was one of the maids. Or at least he was thought to have, sir. They never found the body, and it’s possible he was accused falsely.”

  “Buried her on the estate,” Malone said. “They found bloody rags and the hammer, and he hanged himself in the stable.”

  “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to pry.”

  The wind whipped the drapes like wine-red flags. They knocked over a vase and Priest winced, but Malone did not seem to notice. “She was twenty years younger and a tramp,” he said. “Those things happen.”

  I said, “Yes, I know they do,” and went up to bed.

  · · · ·

  I do not know where Marcella slept. Perhaps there on the carpet, perhaps in the room that had been hers, perhaps even in Malone’s servants’ flat over the stables. I breakfasted alone on the terrace, then—without Bateman’s assistance—packed my bags.

  I saw her only once more. She was wearing a black silk dress; there were circles under her eyes and her head must have been throbbing, but her hand was steady. As I walked out of the house, she was going over the Sèvres with a peacock-feather duster. We did not speak.

  I have sometimes wondered if I were wholly wrong in anticipating a ghost when the French windows opened. How did Malone know the time had come for him to appear?

  Of course I have looked up the newspaper reports of the murder. All the old papers are on microfilm at the library, and I have a great deal of time.

  There is no mention of a child. In fact, I get the impression that the identical surnames of the murderer and his victim were coincidental. Malone is a common enough one, and there were a good many Irish servants then.

  Sometimes I wonder if it is possible for a man—even a rich man—to be possessed, and not to know it.

  The Dark of the June

  Untouched by any change of the last twenty-five years, the Nailer living room continued to reflect (like a lost photograph unexpectedly found between the pages of a book) the tastes of Henry’s late wife, May Nailer. Those tastes had been simple but not good, and save for Henry’s old trophies and some tattered physics books, it was just such a room as May might have seen in a newspaper the day she ordered the furniture. To this unpromising setting Henry had added little over the years—though he had collaborated with May, in the year after the room was set up, to produce their daughter June. Except for June and her clothing the nineteen nineties were not so much excluded as denied.

  On this spring evening, June wore a soft gown without visible hem or seam, a gown that fell to her ankles and left her right breast bare. On her right wrist was a bracelet of glo-lite bangles and in her right ear a dangling glo-lite earring. The nails of her left hand were red, and those of her right black; her dramatic lashes were her own now, surgically implanted and gracefully long: she was a beautiful girl, Henry thought, although somewhat too slender to look her best in the current fashions. “They’re here,” she said, and he nodded, pretending he had not been looking at her.

  “They really are here,” his daughter continued as though he had denied it. “A translucent thing like a scarf came out of the bedroom and went into the kitchen a moment ago.”

  “I didn’t notice,” he said.

  “We’re living in a haunted world, Daddy, and it ought to bother you—I know you, and you’re a thoroughgoing materialist whose whole cast of mind was formed before any of this started—but you hardly seem to care.”

  “They’re not dead,” her father said. He was a broad-shouldered, placid man who wore a black patch over the socket of an eye lost years before in a motorcycle accident: his curly, almost-full beard was going grey. “They’re just people.” He went back to his book.

  · · · ·

  At midnight the lights flickered, a sign that the rates had doubled; Henry waved a hand at Bellini’s Portrait of the Doge Loredano above the fireplace; they went out leaving only the night-light gleam of the bank nearest the stair. He used an old leather bookmark imprinted with an unconvincing dragon to record the fact that he had abandoned An Incident at Krechetovka Station before it had had time to make steam, and went up to bed. There was a note on his pillow, and he called the police.

  “She’s over eighteen?”

  Henry nodded.

  “Then there’s nothing we can do.”

  “You could stop her,” Henry said. “You could book her, if that were necessary, on some minor charge, give me time to talk to her, give her time to think.”

  “I could give the city manager a jaywalking ticket too,” the computer-generated police surrogate said. Henry’s old 3V made him look sallow and a trifle unreal, even projecting into the darkened room. “But I’m not going to.”

  A nothing went past, a luminous wisp that might have been steam from a coffee pot if steam were faintly blue. “Look at that,” Henry said, “that might have been her.” He felt as if he were about to weep, but no tears came, only a greater and greater ache in his chest.

  “I didn’t see it,” the police surrogate said, “but anyway it couldn’t have been that quick. How old did you say she was?”

  “Twenty-three. Junie’s twenty-three, I think.”

  “Then it couldn’t be anywhere near that quick; the older they are the longer it takes, and they flash in and out and fade—that’s why they won’t accept anybody over thirty. Did you call the center?”

  Henry looked at him blankly.

  “Didn’t you call the center yet? Call them.”

  “I didn’t think they’d cooperate—they want people to come, don’t they?”

  “They got to tell you for legal purposes—everybody leaves an estate, you know what I mean? I mean she can’t take it with her. Even if it’s just clothes. Turn on your recorder and tell them it’s an official request—they’ll tell you.”