The hot spell was going to hang around for a few days, according to our stalwart weathermen, who took particular glee in announcing bad weather: big storm coming; eighteen inches of snow or more by morning; conditions ripe for a tornado so stay tuned; thunder storm coming out of the west; sleet tonight; icy roads by morning.

In the north country it wasn’t like Florida where the weather, except in hurricane season, was bland. Our guys got to use their weather maps and projections and plots of fronts coming down from the north since Canada seemed to be at fault for almost all the bad weather we got.

The temperature didn’t fall below seventy-five that night. My sheets felt like wet winding rags. I couldn’t get them off my legs when I turned. Kicking and peeling them from my skin brought me wide awake. Sorrow was in bed with me, his large, warm, furry body laid out alongside mine. I gave him a push and he rolled to the floor with a huge complaint. So like Jackson in the latter days of our marriage, it made me wonder again why I’d ever thought a mangled-fur, ugly dog was the answer to all my problems.

I got out of bed at four a.m., got a cold diet Coke from the refrigerator, took a shower, and went to sit on the deck with my feet propped on the railing, praying I wasn’t sitting atop a tent worm cocoon. Since I was naked, I was truly happy I didn’t have any near neighbors. I figured any bear, or coyote, or fox who might be watching had nothing to compare me to and I wouldn’t be judged. Skunks didn’t care what we looked like. Raccoons had better things to think about. And chipmunks—well—they were probably still sleeping.

The sun wasn’t up yet so the stars were a long, still curtain against the deep black night. Millions and millions of stars in shapes and forms I didn’t have names for. One shot from east to west over the lake. Were you supposed to make a wish on a shooting star? I didn’t know so figured I’d do it anyway—just in case. No sense missing a chance to have all my dreams come true. I threw my arms back, welcoming the earth dampness coming up between the floor boards. I yawned and thought again what a lucky woman I was. Maybe not forever. Maybe not even tomorrow. But right now, in this place where I so wanted to stay—I was the most fortunate of humans.

On the next shooting star I wished that Madeleine Clark would sell my book. Then I wished people would like it. Then I wished I would make tons of money. Then I wished that maybe, someday in the future, I’d find a wonderful, and funny, interesting and devoted, self-contained and humble guy who was into me, and Sorrow, and tent worms, and gardens, and finding dead bodies …

I had to go back and erase the last wishes. I was beyond my allotted one wish so I sat for the next hour hunting for shooting stars to carry all my dreams. No more shooting stars, and then the sun came up. I sat until I had deep ridges in my butt from the chair and my cheeks were almost numb. I sat until the eastern sky and the lake turned red, until the bare tree trunks were on fire. I sat until the cool damp disappeared and wet heat came from the lake; until the slightly moving ferns dripped a heavy dew.

No more shooting stars.

No more wishes.

I was tired. I went back into the house, drank another diet Coke, and lay down on my sofa with a fan trained directly on my body.

It was even hotter after the sun rose up. No sleeping. I took another shower, then faced the work I had waiting. Which manuscript should I start with? Cecil Hawke’s in one hand, Jackson’s in the other. Crass soul that I’d become, I weighed them both: Canterbury Tales? Noel Coward? Tales? Coward? Hmmm … Tales? Coward?

Who was paying best for my attention?

I picked up Cecil Hawke’s large manila envelope, went back out to the shady side of the deck—this time with clothes on—and sat in a half-reclined lounge chair. I unsealed the envelope, and prepared to be entertained with sparkling wit and light repartee.

I read:

The little boy crawled along the walls of the basement room where he was confined in the dark, small hands feeling their way across the rough cinder blocks, then over the wall where the peeling paint came off like dried skin. He moved his hands up the wall, hunting for the shelf where he’d seen her put a biscuit. In the dark he was disoriented, unsure of where he was in the room, he’d been around the walls so many times. If only the light beyond the door would come on. He sat on the rough cement floor and made a plan, the way he always did, eventually. What he would do was keep crawling and stand every few feet. He would search the walls with his hands until he found the shelf, and the biscuit. He was hungry. It was the only way he had of figuring how long he’d been locked in here and how much longer he’d have to wait until she let him out. If he was hungry it was past his lunch time. Once she’d left him until dinner time was over. He’d been very hungry then and cried. That was why she left him the biscuit on the shelf now. “Occupy yourself,” she’d said. “Play find the biscuit. And I’ll be back before you notice.”

But he always noticed, because it was so dark. No light, she said, because he wasn’t supposed to be there. Her new friend didn’t know she was old enough to have a growing boy. And so—here she would laugh and put a finger to her dark lips—you must not ‘be’ for just a little while.

The boy was used to the dark. He would think about the biscuit and time would pass. When the man was gone, she would come and open the door. First he would see the light under the door and then hear the key in the lock and she would hug him and beg him to forgive her and cover his face with kisses as he pulled away from her and the smell of animals she would have on her. Not the smell of the man’s dog. He’d heard the click, click of the dog’s nails on the floor above his head. He’d heard the man calling to his dog. “Freddy. Freddy, ya little bastard, ya peed on Freda’s rug.” The animal smell went deeper than that, all the way into her clothes, and on her skin so that when she pulled him close, he had to turn away from her or gag, and be smacked for gagging.

I set the pages aside and picked up the envelope they’d come in to see if there was any identification, title, something, there. Nothing. I looked at the manuscript. No title page. No title on each sheet, as there should have been. Nothing to indicate that this was what it was supposed to be.

Obviously Lila gave me the wrong manuscript. But what was this? Something else he was working on? Certainly fiction. And very dark fiction. A completely different side of Cecil Hawke. Or maybe it wasn’t his at all. Something he’d agree to look at for a friend. Or written years ago. It could even be one of Lila’s little jokes. From a book of short stories. Stolen from the Internet. Certainly not light and funny. Certainly not Noel Coward.

I set the manuscript aside and went into the house to make a tuna sandwich and open a diet Coke. It was clear I’d have to call Cecil, tell him I’d been given the wrong work, and get it back to him. A lot of hassle when I least felt like facing chaos.

I went out to my dock to eat because the sun had disappeared behind a high bank of clouds and the water gave off little eddies of coolness. I set the sandwich and plate and Coke beside me and put my feet into the cool water.

I couldn’t shake what I’d read. The ring of truth was there, almost of biography. I could feel what that boy was feeling, but even more, sensed something terrible to come.

Too much imagination, I chided myself, finished my sandwich, called to Sorrow who was busy chasing loons out in the lake, and went back to the house, glancing down at the manuscript as I passed the chair where I’d been sitting.

It was a thing calling to me. I should alert Cecil, but not until I found out if the boy got out of the locked room, and what happened to him after that. I was drawn back to my deck chair and the manuscript.

Eating the biscuit took as long as he could nibble, taking only tiny bites, then licking crumbs from his other hand, and chewing so slowly he fell asleep with the biscuit in his mouth and woke up, startled, with bits falling from his hand and on to the floor.

After the biscuit and the nap, he occupied himself by rocking back and forth and humming lullabies. He slept again and woke to noises overhead. There were heavy footfalls, and the scratching of the dog’s nails against the bare floor. Words were spoken but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He lay back against the wall, rested his head, forgot the dirty floor and bugs and things and played word games in his mind. The first was thinking up as many words as he could to fill blanks he left in sentences:

‘The little boy … going to see his … and receive a very nice … He came up with ‘was’ ‘grandmother’ and ‘present.’

Constructing sentences in his head impressed him. He could make pictures that way, make up nice things to do and nice places to go. If he kept his eyes shut against the dark and his ears closed against creaks and whispers he could be happy all by himself.

He fell asleep again, after making sentences that took him out into a green field where there were giraffes and rhinoceroses and they all came to him and though he really didn’t want to, he yelled and ran at them with the big knife he held in his hand.

When he woke he didn’t like that he’d dreamed of those dead giraffes and rhinoceroses and that he’d been stabbing them again and again and feeling happy about seeing them dead.

It was a very long time before a thin crack of light came on beneath the door. He crawled to it and lay flat on his stomach to fit his eye to the crack so he could see her shoes on the other side. Her shoes weren’t there. He saw large paws instead; the big wide feet of a dog. Before he could remember a dog couldn’t turn on lights, he stuck his fingers under the door, at least as far as his chubby hand could go. He wiggled his fingers to touch the dog, cooing nicely to it even as the dog stepped back and growled.

“Don’t be afraid, Freddy,” he soothed as the frightened animal licked the last of the biscuit crumbs from his fingers. “I won’t hurt you.”

There was another growl, and then pain that lasted as his hand was pulled and pulled and someone beyond the door laughed, and his mother’s voice chided, “That’s a mean joke, Murray. Ya didn’t have to do that to the boy.”

“What boy, Emily? Thought ya had no kids. Serves ya right for telling me lies.”

The boy knew there was blood when he pulled his hand back from beneath the door. He tasted the blood when he stuck his fingers into his mouth. His middle finger was shorter than it should have been. He began to cry when he realized he’d never get that last knuckle back, that the dog on the other side of the door had bitten it off and was probably eating his finger right then because the dog was hungry, too.

What was I reading? I hoped not autobiography. Cecil Hawke had lost the knuckle of one finger—I couldn’t remember which—the hand he’d put on my knee again and again. He hadn’t hidden the fact that his hand was maimed. But what was this? And the dog … Freddy? I thought hard back to meeting Cecil and his dog. Wasn’t that dog’s name Freddy too?

Writers had every right to use their own lives for material, I kept telling myself. But this wasn’t supposed to be fiction and not supposed to be horror. I’d expected Noel Coward. Been led to believe I would be reading a life story of a very different sort.

There had to be a mistake. I had to call. We’d laugh and clear things up.

I’d have been more sure of a mistake if it hadn’t been for that missing knuckle and ‘Freddy.’

_____

A woman answered the phone.

“Hawke residence.” Not Lila but maybe that mysterious maid Cecil’d referred to.

I identified myself and asked to speak to Mr. Hawke.

The maid came back to tell me Mr. Hawke would be with me momentarily. As she said “momentarily” I got a hint of something, in the lift of that one word, that made me think I was talking to Lila, after all. Lila, the actress, playing so many roles in that house. There couldn’t be a shortage of money—I’d seen the farm and the house and the furnishings. Though all that badly chosen art made me wonder. Probably a game she liked to play, like the other games they played: loving each other, making guests uncomfortable for their own amusement, using people.

“Hello.” It was Cecil, hale and happy and not suspecting I’d been reading the wrong material, maybe very secret material. “Ah, yes, Emily. And have you made any headway with my book yet?”

I took a deep breath. It was like knowing something about somebody you shouldn’t know and then having to face them. Maybe it was by phone, but still I felt that I’d been prying into his life.

“In a way.”

“How on earth could you be reading my material ‘in a way’? Either you’re reading it or you’re not.”

“Yes, that’s true, but …”

“My God, Emily! Spit it out. Do you find my writing so bad you can’t speak its name aloud?”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Then, for heaven’s sakes, my dear woman, would you please say whatever you’ve called to say.”

“Lila gave me the wrong book. This isn’t about Noel Coward. Not even a biography … well … I’m just guessing …”

“Oh, that.” He covered the phone and had a conversation with someone nearby. I could hear laughter, a few more words, and then he was back. “But Emily. That was the point of our contract. You aren’t to tell anyone, certainly not Jackson, what you’re editing. Let him believe what he wants to believe. What I’ve really written is fiction, you see. That was one of the reasons I agreed to have you do the edit. Jack said you wrote fiction. For a biography I would have had someone who was at least slightly familiar with Noel Coward. I should have thought you’d figure that out by yourself.”

“This is fiction?”

“What on earth did you think you were reading? My life story?”

“No … but …”

“Oh, I see. You poor thing. It’s because of my hand. You think I wrote about my own traumatic knuckle loss, don’t you?” He laughed. Laughter came from behind him. “But let me tell you the banal story of my knuckle debacle, dear.”

I settled back into my desk chair, feeling not stupid but angry, as if I’d been had by that pair—yet again. Oh, let’s shock the rube … They’d been waiting for my call: expecting me to be upset, to feel sorry for Cecil. All a big joke.

“It happened when I was seven,” he went on, a touch of boredom in his voice. “My father bought a new car and I was eager to be taken for a ride. My mother was as excited as I. She pushed me into the car but closed the door too soon. The door took the end of my finger off, making it very difficult to impress people when I expose my middle digit.”

He laughed. I was supposed to but didn’t.

“So, is this what you want me to edit?” I kept my voice cool and business-like. “Is it a mystery? If so, I’ll edit it with an eye to the conventions of the genre. If not, and you intend it to be something else, I’ve got to know before I continue.”

“Oh, a horror novel, of course. And now that we’ve gotten all of that out of the way, what do you think of my effort so far?”

I hesitated. My first inclination was to tell him his writing stunk and his way of doing business stunk even worse.

“I haven’t really read enough,” I said. “Since you weren’t honest with me, I stopped in the first chapter. I thought I had the wrong manuscript and that I had no business going any farther.”

“Oh, no …” He chuckled again. “But that proves you’re a person to be trusted. I don’t want word of this novel getting out until it’s ready to see the light of day. That’s why the subterfuge. Now we’ll be on solid ground. Please, continue to read my poor effort at fiction. Edit as you see fit. But you must not, under any circumstances, reveal the true nature of my work to anyone. Back in England, well, I do have a certain kind of reputation to protect. I have enemies who would love to get their hands on the manuscript, thinking it something they could use against me. A man as wealthy as I, Emily, doesn’t get to where I’ve gotten without a few malcontents left along the road. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s all part of a huge game, Emily. Certainly you know that by now. I play my game. You play yours. My enemies play theirs. And in the end, it comes to nothing but death. A game. You do see that, don’t you?”

“I see fine,” I said, still seething.

“Then you’ll edit my novel.”

I hesitated. The money was in my bank and I’d written a couple of checks on the account. I wasn’t in a position to give him his fifteen hundred dollars back. And anyway—now that things were cleared up—what did it hurt me to finish the job? Maybe I’d have to tell a few lies to Jackson. Or I could simply say I couldn’t discuss the project, he’d seen me sign the non-disclosure contract. What I was finding was that the poor didn’t have room for a whole lot of moral reservations.

“Yes, I’ll work with you. I should have these five done this afternoon. Could we meet tomorrow morning? You have more chapters for me?”

“Oh, my dear, not tomorrow morning. We have some very important guests here. I wouldn’t be able to sit down for minute. How are you Sunday morning? About nine? I’ll have another check ready.”

Nine was fine. I’d get it out of the way early.

“And don’t forget our party a week from tomorrow. Bring anyone you’d like to bring. Lila and I are so looking forward to it.”

I promised I’d be there and that I was—at that very moment—choosing between costumes, and hung up.

By four, I was dripping sweat from the still heat. Sorrow sat beside me as I read and marked the manuscript. He leaped up at every move I made, hoping it was time to get on to something more interesting. Hot, feeling tired and dirty, and suffering from eye strain, I agreed with him. A short walk. Move the hose in the garden. A swim before dinner. Later, I’d call Dolly. See what happened to her. She was supposed to let me know about the dead woman out on Old Farm Road. But first there was doggy business to attend to.

_____

The water was unruffled. Not a breeze. The willows along the shore hung unmoving, branches touching the surface of the lake. Mosquitoes didn’t come to the middle of the lake where I floated, only a skating bug or two, and two curious crows overhead, looking down at me, commenting to each other. The beaver didn’t bother to raise his head to see who disturbed his quiet. He swam in slow circles around his stick hut, ignoring me and ignoring Sorrow, who usually infuriated him.

I’d slipped on an old pink bikini, much washed out, maybe a little too small but Sorrow made no comment so I figured I was fine. I flipped over and out of the bra a few times, tucked myself back where I belonged, and took long slow strokes, stopping to drip cool water on my warm face. I put my tongue out and lapped at some of the drops. I asked myself, not for the first time, how had I ever lived anywhere but here? I was developing the contempt Henry David Thoreau had felt for civilization: for any occasion requiring new clothes. I could find my own food. I could live in solitude without ever feeling alone.

Maybe I wasn’t like Thoreau. I had running water, an inside toilet, a writing studio, a fridge, a stove, a supermarket not too far away, and I wasn’t planting acres of beans. Who cared? I rolled over, looked my wet and happy dog in the eye, and laughed.

“Hey!” A call came from the shore.

Dolly Wakowski, with a man beside her, stood on the end of my dock. She waved me in, an arm making frantic circles. I narrowed my eyes and wiped away the lake water so I could see. The guy was about my age. Taller than Dolly—but who wasn’t? He stood with his hands in the pockets of his light summer slacks. Pretty good looking. Black hair. Trim, maybe even muscular. I turned around a time or two, paddling, then struck out for the dock. There was a towel there, at their feet; a raggedy old towel I used for swimming since I would never put it out for company. I felt around under the water, making sure the bikini covered all it was meant to cover, then relaxed, thinking, oh well, if it didn’t, this guy was going to get a good look at what most men never got to see.