Dead Dancing Women by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page A

in checking on you, haven’t I? I mean, up there in the wilds, alone, the way you are. I’m really very sorry I haven’t been in touch. I was in England for most of the summer. You recall I wrote you I was going? Went with two friends. Do you remember Wilfred and Margaret Fletcher? I don’t think you knew them. They came after the divorce. Anyway, Will and Margaret and I traveled together …”
    I knew of the Fletchers, all right. He in psychology and she in history. A kind of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf couple. I couldn’t have wished Jackson better traveling companions. Oh, what a fun trio , was all I could think.
    Jackson went on about his trip to England and I zoned out, watching the trees outside my window do a kind of tethered dance when the wind sprang up after the quiet time. Leaves blew around in manic dances. The voice at the other end became a kind of wire-buzz, something beyond the scope of human hearing. Instead, I heard Nina Simone singing that Bob Dylan song about breaking like a little girl. What a haunting voice that woman had. Like a saw against my skin, along my nerves, diving into memory.
    â€œKeats country, of course,” Jackson went on. “‘ When I have fears that I may cease to be; Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain; Before high piled books, in charact’ry; Hold like rich garters the full-ripen’d grain … ’”
    â€œThat’s ‘garners,’ Jackson. Not ‘garters,’” I corrected him, and heard myself sigh.
    â€œOf course. Of course. Misspoke myself.” He gave a strained laugh. “And how’s your writing going? Still working on one of your little books?”
    You know how sometimes your back teeth can ache? Like you’re getting a long needle into your gums? That’s how Jackson’s condescension got to me. I knew better than to call him on it or we’d be on the phone for hours with him apologizing and going on about his own work on Chaucer and “Of course the world needs lighter work, too, Emily. Like yours. I didn’t mean …”
    Some circles are worn so deep into the mud you only hit bedrock. I’d struck bedrock a long time ago with Jackson.
    â€œAnyway,” he nervously covered my long silence, “I was wondering if you might be up to a little company next weekend?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œ Emily .” He sounded hurt. “Me, of course.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’ve missed you. Because it’s about time …”
    â€œAnd?” I demanded, knowing we hadn’t gotten anywhere near his real reason as yet.
    â€œWell, I’m taking a sabbatical and thought of locating up there. You always seemed to think it the best writing territory. I mean, look at Jim Harrison, after all.”
    The tendency was to snap, You’re no Jim Harrison. But I didn’t.
    â€œI’ll be doing my Chaucer book and will definitely need a place where nothing goes on.”
    Hmmm, I thought. This might not be that place …
    â€œMaybe you can help me find a cottage to rent. I mean—six months or so.”
    â€œYou don’t mean close to me!”
    â€œI wouldn’t camp on your doorstep, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He sounded deeply hurt. My female guilt stirred.
    â€œI’ll call Saturday, from Grayling, for directions. Two-ish, OK?”
    I agreed, hung up, and thought: OK, Saturday. Two-ish.
    I got down to writing but found I was doing some very nasty things to Martin Gorman. In fact, I had him falling off the wagon so hard he was out for a couple of days and when he awoke, His head feels like a pumpkin the day after Halloween; like somebody’s been carving on it, making a jack-o’-lantern out of him.
    And I thought, Yes, oh yes . That’s exactly how Mr. Gorman should be feeling. And then I wondered if I should let him live at the end of the book. Hmm. Or maybe