Seduction of a Wanton Dreamer: A Fable in Three Parts

By Richard Beeson

For Fans of Kafka, Calvino, Rushdie, and Coelho. Seduction of a Wanton Dreamer, a fable in three parts,  is a mythic tale that blends tongue-in-cheek humor with a serious exploration of our place in the multiverse. 

When an ancient Celtic god, Lugh of the Long Hand, decides to recapture his earthly power, he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Beeson
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998579849

Richard Beeson

Richard Beeson graduated from the Lakeside School in Seattle (where the young Bill Gates and Paul Allen first encountered computers),before attending Columbia University and the Juilliard School of Music. After graduating from Juilliard he enjoyed a successful career as anorchestral musician at Lincoln Center, performing alongside Beverly Sills, Luciano Pavarotti, and Placido Domingo, among others.In 1987 Beverly Sills appointed him to the position of Orchestra Manager at the New York City Opera. In the year 2000, he left the performing arts so he could return to an earlier passion: writing fiction. He lives in New York City with his wife, the songwriter Elli Frye.

Book preview

Preface to the Tenth Anniversary Edition

The image on the cover is a modern carving of the Mayan goddess Ix Chel. To quote a passage from this book, She is goddess of the moon, childbirth, death, the endless cycle…The rattlesnakes stand for nobility, reincarnation, and eternity. Nobility, because they are polite: they warn you with their rattles when you get too close. Reincarnation, because they shed their skins and grow new ones; eternity, because birth, death, the shedding of skin, go on for all time. Ix Chel is goddess of the moon, because the cycles of the moon are the cycles of fertility, the cycles that create our crops and our children. She is the goddess of death, because death is the other side of birth. There can be no birth without death.

I purchased the carving in the photograph from the man who carved it, a Mayan guard outside Loltun cave, in Yucatán, in May 1980. He spoke no English, but I managed to carry on a conversation with him using my rudimentary Spanish (with the help of a pocket dictionary) for several hours. Now, almost forty years later, I have come to realize how deeply what he told me informed my subsequent thinking, and that Ix Chel represents the spirit of magic and mystery that I wanted to convey. I have therefore put her on the cover.

Richard Beeson

April, 2019

Preface to the Original Edition

This novel is a testament to pioneers who were in touch with the roar of the universe: people such as Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung, whose views on the power of myth and the omnipresence of the Collective Unconscious have continually influenced my thought.

Although these books are not autobiographical, they could not have been written without the experiences of a lifetime, including a brush with a near-fatal cancer in 2004.

The hallucinations and dreams brought on by the cancer and its radical treatment made me realize that, even though I had been striving to achieve a mythic catharsis in my writing, I was being too tame in expressing the view that existence—if not life, then at least some form of consciousness—continues after death.

Following my recovery, I returned to the project with renewed vigor and revised the story. Now it is my hope that this series of books truly succeeds in portraying the roar of the universe.

§§

I am dedicating Seduction of a Wanton Dreamer to my army of healers, including Drs. Frances Goodwin and Michael Preston, and in particular the team of Dr. Mark Persky, Dr. Bruce Culliney, and Dr. Kenneth Hu. A special nod goes to Elli Frye, who is my advocate, my wife, and my evil step-editor.

Richard Beeson

April 2009

§§

For Elli

My own personal Ix Chel

Part I: Learning to Dream

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

–Albert Einstein

I: ONE

Tony, wake up. My wife’s voice.

Ignore her, the dinosaur said. You may return to her when I’m through with you.

As Vega tried unsuccessfully to break through to my consciousness, I remained corralled by a dream in which I stood before a kangaroo-sized dinosaur, a flight helmet in my hand, my head bowed, as I awaited news of my fate. I had just failed to deliver a poison pill to an evil plant monster. The monster, a giant Mum, defended itself fiercely against the ladybug-sized space fighter on which I served as weapons officer, knocking us out of the air with a mighty whack, hurling me from the cockpit. I landed near the flower’s mouth and felt a convulsive spasm as it spat out the pill; then, slowly but surely, it swallowed me.

I passed through its stalk into a long transparent tube below ground, outside of which I saw gelatinous fragments of life-form debris suspended in the earth: bodies of men, women, and children, followed by whales, fish, lizards, dragonflies, bees, ants, and moths, and finally, blobs that might have been amoebas. I had entered a stalk that carried me down a schematic tree of evolution, ultimately depositing me at the base of the root system near the beginning of time, where the dinosaur had his quarters.

§§

Tony, wake up. Vega’s voice, a sonic quark, flashed through the cloud chamber of my dream.

I repeat, ignore her, the dinosaur said with the authority of a drill sergeant. He sat behind a desk, smoking a cigarette and studying me. I did not notice the anomaly of the cigarette until he inhaled deeply of it and blew smoke out his ears. We have business to conduct. I have a mission for you.

What is the mission? For some reason I accepted his statements at face value, without even questioning why he and I happened to be appearing together in this improbable dream.

I need a messenger.

I looked at him dumbly, like a schoolchild who has forgotten the answer to an important question.

I see you don’t recognize me, he continued. My name is Lugh—Lugh of the Long Hand. I am your spiritual ancestor. The god of knowledge and the arts in certain parts of the world, in long-ago times, so long ago that everyone nowadays seems to have forgotten me. Yet forgotten is not gone. I’m still here, and I need you to make a connection between me and your folks on the surface. I want you to be Lugh’s Messenger.

How? I stammered. How do I do that?

Retrieve some ancient knowledge that has been lost. It is based on numbers as they appear in a set of dominoes. You have to rediscover that knowledge, so I can regain my place in the pantheon.

You’re speaking gibberish, I said, finding my voice at last. And this is a dream. I want out.

Not so fast. He dragged on his cigarette again and blew smoke out his ears. I’ve been watching you. I think you must be tired by now of wasting your talent working as a glorified clerk for an opera company.

How do you know? How do you know anything about me?

I scoured millions of dreams, looking for a candidate to be my messenger. A tedious process, as you can imagine. Once I found you, I studied you for a while to be sure I had the right person, then sent the ladybug to capture one of your dreams.

But I don’t have many dreams. This is the first one I’ve had in months.

Oh come, now. He blew a flawless smoke ring and flicked his lizard tongue through the hole in the ring. You know how dreams are. They’re like that smoke ring. The cigarette doesn’t know it’s making a smoke ring, but I know. And I can penetrate the ring without the cigarette knowing.

If you sent for me, why did the flower fight so hard to keep me away?

It is my guard squad. It keeps out false messengers.

So those bodies I saw on the way down belonged to candidates who failed?

Some of them. Most I hadn’t sent for. They wandered in from other dreams.

The dinosaur took one last drag of his cigarette, exhaled, and vanished in a cloud of thick smoke.

§§

Tony, will you please wake up?

Mumbling and snorting, I ascended bit by bit into the real world, trying to focus on the image of Vega’s face hovering over me.

My god, she said, where were you?

Dream, I mumbled. Weird. I’ll tell you over breakfast.

First, I have a couple of things to tell you. Are you awake enough to hear what I’m saying? Or should I wait?

Her voice had a peculiar, urgent tone. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and looked at her: my once-upon-a-time bride, the woman who had saved me from the horror of my first marriage. Beautiful but practical, with a ready smile, a no-fuss, no-muss bob haircut, the essence of theater techie. Comfortable, loving, caring, low maintenance. But now, this morning, in place of her ready smile, I saw a look of concern—almost, for Vega, a frown.

What’s wrong? I said. Something happening at the Opera? The Opera was the New York City Opera at Lincoln Center, where I worked on staff, and it was undergoing one of its periodic crises.

That’s the first thing. Terry called a few minutes ago and said the stage crew has gone out on strike. The Fall season is cancelled until further notice.

I don’t believe it. I jumped out of bed and began pacing. Not the crew. They never strike.

Well, this time they have. But Tony—she paused, searching for words—that’s not what I really want to talk about.

I noticed a stack of suitcases piled in the hallway outside the bedroom. What are those for? Are we going somewhere?

I am. Tony—again the uncertain pause; she averted her eyes, and I thought I detected a slight sniffle coming from my indomitable stage techie—Tony, I’m leaving you.

I tried desperately to clear the dream from my head and comprehend this new reality, but comprehension would not present itself. Vega, what is this? I asked you to give it some time. I told you I’m willing to see a counselor.

I just need to get away, Tone, sort out my thoughts. I stayed awake all night thinking about it. I’m not saying it’s permanent. I’m sorry about the timing. I know it seems callous, hitting you with this on the same day the Opera is closing shop, but I had made up my mind before Terry called. And I’m not going to let the strike change my decision. I still love you, Tone, I really do. I want to be with you, but the only way for us to have a future is for me to be alone for a while.

I sat on the bed, stunned. True, our marriage had been in trouble lately. The tension at my job was carrying over at home, turning me into a pretty ugly partner, someone who snarled and growled constantly. For months Vega had begged me to lighten up, but I couldn’t bring myself to change what was rapidly becoming an ingrained habit. To me everything looked dark, gloomy, end of the world. Vega’s sunny disposition, ultimately, couldn’t withstand the unrelenting pressure of a grousing, unhappy Tony.

Vega, let’s sit down and talk, take a little time to discuss this. Everything has changed with that phone call. Maybe the situation at work is a godsend. Maybe I’ll be able to relax a bit, hook up with the old me, the man you married. Can’t you put this off, give things a chance?

She appeared to waver for a minute, but then hardened. What’s the point? Tony, we’ve talked, and talked, and talked, and gotten nowhere. The strike is all the more reason for me to stick to my course. We’ll both have some time alone to think things through.

Where are you going? Where will you stay?

I’m going to stay at Devona’s place for a while. She’s leaving on a bus-and-truck for the winter, so I’m subletting her place while she’s gone.

Just like that, you make up your mind to walk out, end of discussion?

It’s not ‘just like that,’ and you know it. Hearing the harsh tone in her own voice, she softened somewhat. Tony, I’m sorry, really I am. I promise you, it’s not forever. This will help us, you’ll see.

She picked up her bags and ricocheted through the living room, then out the door. I followed her into the hallway and stood at the door in shock, unable to move, as she plummeted down the stairs with a great clatter. After years of having things bubble along in their routine fashion, here I was without work, without wife, dreaming of dinosaurs—all on the same morning.

The phone rang: Vega, calling from her cell phone. I forgot to tell you that I fixed coffee and made some oatmeal. They’re on the stove.

Oh…thanks. Vega, are you…

And I left a note for you on the table with Devona’s address. If you need to reach me, please write, don’t call. If I hear your voice I’ll crumble. I love you, Tone, really I do. It’ll work out, you’ll see.

Click. End of conversation.

§§

Vega. What had come over her? Our relationship had been a typical one for a theatrical couple. We were often separated for months while she served as stage manager on various bus-and-truck tours of Broadway shows. Sometimes she did an off-off-Broadway show or a nightclub act in town. Although we both had occasional romantic flings outside the marriage, our protocol dictated that we never discuss them. Such things stayed on the road.

This Devona. I had heard of her, but never met her. An old friend of Vega’s, she was another stage manager. Had Vega decided to break our rule, become involved with someone in town? But she said Devona was going on a bus-and-truck tour. Did that mean they were actually hitting the road together as a couple? Had Vega been serious about getting back with me, or was that a smokescreen?

Perhaps the strike offered me an unexpected opportunity. Part of my ill humor in recent months had been a result of the unrelenting demands of a job that required my full attention day and night. With the fall season cancelled, there’d be no work until the spring. I’d been given a gift, a period of months during which I could set my own agenda—but what would that be? What could I possibly do that would fill in the hours I customarily spent doing paperwork for the Opera? Go back to being a musician, take up the bass again? Impossible. I hadn’t played in years, didn’t even own an instrument anymore. Get work as a waiter or bartender? I had worked at such jobs when I was first starting out. Restaurants could be active, exciting places, similar to theater. But people from the orchestra might wander in. Having them see their boss work in a restaurant would be too humiliating. Might as well stand on the sidewalk in front of Zabar’s and sing karaoke with a tin cup in my hand.

After hours of agonizing, I realized there could only be one answer: get back in touch with my writing, and the seeking of insight that went with it. During the early years of my musical career I had maintained parallel lives, one as a performing musician, the other as a writer, mostly for my own enjoyment. When I took the staff job at the Opera, I foolishly assumed I could continue thinking my own thoughts and writing them down. Fifteen years later I hadn’t written a word, and could think of nothing but payroll numbers. Here was a chance to jump-start the old right brain and get busy on a project.

But how to effect that jump start? I didn’t relish the thought of working in the apartment, where Vega and I had lived together for twenty-five years. Her persona, by its very absence, would drive me crazy. I could go to a library, but they were noisy these days, and their hours too restrictive. I wanted someplace where I could work at any hour, and where quiet was the rule, not the exception.

A plan began to form. Many times in the past, Vega and I had gone to eastern Long Island for short vacations. I loved the coast, the salt air, being able to walk on a beach and kick pebbles. This was now October, the off season for resort areas. It would be ideal. I’d go to Sag Harbor and find a room to rent for the duration of the strike.

Now it was my turn to pack. In a state of feverish excitement, I threw a few changes of clothes into a bag, dug out my trench coat and some other cold-weather duds, stowed my laptop computer in its case, and went to bed for one last time in our old bedroom.

The next morning I called Terry and told him my plans, promising to be in touch; arranged for a neighbor to pick up the mail, left the appropriate message on my answering machine, and switched my telephone ringer off.

This final act of disconnection exhilarated but also saddened me. Not only did it signal the end of my old life, it also meant real voices would be cut off. Vega wanted me to write, not call. What if I did that with everyone? Give up the cell phone, stop using email. The only communication would be through letters—actual letters, on paper. I would write my inner circle at least weekly. See if any of them, forcibly separated from email, ever wrote back.

Who would be my inner circle? Vega, of course. Even though she had bailed out, we’d still need to communicate with each other. I had an older sister and brother, both of whom lived in the Pacific Northwest, leading normal married lives. A few good friends at the Opera. Maybe eight or ten people altogether. A good-sized experiment, one that would test my observational skills, force me to think of new things to write each week.

Satisfied that I had taken care of everything, I picked up my bags and went down to the car, an unfashionable Ford Taurus station wagon that I parked on the street, only to discover that, after years of beating the odds, I had entered the no radio zone: where there had once been a passenger window, thousands of glass shards now covered the seat and the sidewalk outside, and in the center of the dash, torn wires protruded from a gaping hole.

Luckily it was a warm autumn day. I could drive to Sag Harbor and have the window fixed there.

I got in the car and started it up. Just before I pulled out I noticed a tiny speck of shiny red and black material on the passenger seat, and picked it up to inspect it. It was the body of a ladybug.

§§§

I: TWO

In what turned out to be the first of many unexpected events, I found a place to stay almost by accident. I had gone into the Sag Harbor Pharmacy, a narrow city-like stall on Main Street, to buy some toiletries and writing materials, and joined the checkout line with my items. The cash register was manned by a talkative good-fellow in his 70s who wore tortoise-shell glasses. He lingered over every transaction interminably, asking for some local news from each customer and giving some back in exchange.

I began to feel impatient. I recognized the old New Yorker disease, the hurry-up-to-get-nowhere feeling, rising up in me. After an eternity of nanoseconds, the woman in front of me stepped forward to pay for her goods. She had done her silver-gray hair in tight waves, and wore a cotton flower-print dress, a gray wool coat—both clean and in good condition—and black sensible shoes of the type women wore in the Thirties, with laces and thick heels. I guessed she was in her mid-70s, but her face and skin were surprisingly young and unwrinkled. She had an aura of beauty about her that belied the frumpish clothing.

Hello, Robley, she said to the gossip-monger at the cash register. Her voice had a ring of gentle authority to it, not the quivering of age I expected—husky, even a little sexy.

Hello, Mrs. Whidby, said Robley.

I don’t know why what I said next popped out of my mouth. I guess my impatience got the better of me.

Do you know where I can find a paper with ads of rooms to rent for the winter? I blurted to Robley.

His friendly local smile gradually turned into an assessing-the-outsider squint.

Might, he said. If you’ll just let me finish with Mrs. Whidby here.

While he rang up her items, Mrs. Whidby opened and closed the hasp of her handbag. It made a loud click each time she worked it. She tried her best not to seem too curious about me, but succumbed at last and gave me a quick look over her shoulder. I knew instantly that I was being sized up by an expert. Her eyes started at my belt, zipped to the floor, then rebounded to my face, where they locked on my own eyes briefly—all this in a fraction of a second, like a handball shot. She flashed me a little smile—nervous, tentative, a hint of friendliness in it—and continued to snap her bag open and shut. I wasn’t sure if I had passed or failed.

That’ll be thirteen dollars and twelve cents, Robley said when he had finished his addition.

Here’s one, Mrs. Whidby said, after fishing in the depths of her handbag. She dropped a rumpled dollar bill on the counter and dove back into the bag with renewed enthusiasm.

While she rooted for change, Robley jumped in, trying to fill the vacuum. What do you think, Mrs. Whidby? This fella behind you is looking for a place for the winter. Should I tell him?

Mrs. Whidby immediately lost interest in her bag and gave me another once-over, only much more deliberately, now that Robley had given her the excuse. I felt myself beginning to squirm.

Might do. I’ll have to think about it, she said, as she returned to digging in her bag.

I couldn’t help noticing that she had an American Express Gold card sticking out of a Gucci wallet; but she ignored the wallet, preferring to root around in the handbag.

Here’s two fives and another single, she said, triumphantly producing three more crumpled bills.

That’s wonderful, Mrs. Whidby. Now we just need one more, and twelve cents.

Robley, I can’t find the dollar. You’ll have to take four quarters and change.

Four quarters and change will be fine, Mrs. Whidby. Robley waited patiently while she searched the bottom of the handbag.

I only have three quarters. And some nickels and pennies.

"Three quarters, some nickels and pennies, would also be fine, Mrs. Whidby. Of course, four quarters make a more weighty dollar, don’t they? More substantial. Then again, three quarters with nickels and pennies added is a more musical dollar, more jingle for the buck. But I can tell you, Mrs. Whidby, that any dollar from you, no matter what it’s made of, is an occasion for joy around here."

Oh, Robley, said Mrs. Whidby as she trickled the change onto the counter, you know I hate dealing with cash money. You always poke fun at me.

Not fun, Mrs. Whidby, he said, separating the coins from the little pieces of lint that had traveled with them on the journey from her handbag to the countertop. I never poke fun at people. I am sincere in my wish to see more of you, with or without money, but of course I do appreciate the money. It helps us stay in business. He counted out the money. Thirteen dollars and thirteen cents. Here’s one penny back.

Mrs. Whidby picked up her bag of purchases and walked at a leisurely pace toward the door, as if she was waiting for me to make some move.

Now my turn came, at last, to get an answer to my question.

You can buy papers down the block, at the Ideal, Robley said as he added up my items. What kind of place you looking for?

A writer’s retreat, I said, giving him a twenty-dollar bill. Walking distance. Good light. Quiet so I can concentrate.

Why, I think I know such a place, Robley said, grinning, as he gave me change and handed over the bag of goods. He tossed a glance toward the exit. You might want to catch up with Mrs. Whidby and talk to her about it, since she owns it.

His eyes sparkled with self-congratulatory pleasure as he welcomed the next customer, and I turned to catch up with Mrs. Whidby, who had not quite reached the door. Her slowness had, indeed, been premeditated.

§§

So I introduced myself to Mrs. Whidby. Since my car was parked right at the curb, I offered her a lift to her place.

Broke a window, I see, she said.

My goodbye card from the city, I said. They got my radio.

Too bad about the window, she said, as she waited for me to open the car door for her.

While we drove the few blocks from the pharmacy to her house, she filled me in on the rules.

Rent is six hundred a month, she said. That includes linen and towels but you change the bed yourself. No meals, you’re on your own for that, there’s a kitchenette, and you’re only a few blocks from the IGA here on Main Street, and the Cove Deli is around the corner, across from Canio’s book store. And Mr. Fellows—she turned sideways on the car seat to get a better look at me—there’s one thing I insist on. I can see you’re the type that moves around. I heard you tell Robley you wanted a place that’s quiet, so you can concentrate. I take you at your word on that. I’d appreciate it if you keep the love stuff quiet and discreet.

I felt my heart lurch—I hadn’t given the idea of love stuff the least bit of thought.

You don’t need to worry, I said. I’m married. My wife is staying in New York while I spend the winter out here to write a novel. I didn’t see any point in sharing the truth with a new landlady: I had just been dumped by my wife, and who knew what mood I’d be in once I’d rebounded from the shock?

Her face fell for a moment, as if I had given her some bad news instead of good news; but then she smiled, a pixyish smile, and pointed ahead.

Turn left at the light, then go to Joels Lane, just past the pond.

Joels Lane was a narrow road that ran between a dilapidated concrete building and a genuine Charles Addams Victorian Gothic house. Adjacent to the far side of the Charles Addams house was an equally Gothic-looking cemetery.

This is it, she said, pointing to the house. Pull in the dirt driveway in back.

I did as she said and turned off the motor. I felt a sudden pounding of heart-in-throat. Told myself to cut it out—this is Sag Harbor, not a movie set for a Stephen King piece. The house had a pin-striped appearance, sporting yellowish vertical battens on a dark brown background. Unlike most Victorian houses, it had a generally boxy look with a flattened mansard roof; but it reverted to style with an arch-windowed turret, complete with a cast-iron weather vane.

That’ll be your room, up in the turret, she said. She fumbled with her keys to open the back door. You have your own entrance, here through the kitchen. I followed her up an enclosed staircase to the turret. The staircase had no windows, and no light except the little that came through the door above. What kind of novel are you writing? she asked. Thriller? Romance? Historical?

I don’t know yet. I have some notes for something contemporary, but I’m not sure that’s what I’ll be working on.

We entered the room at last; and although I should have been prepared for what I saw, I was not. The Charles Addams architecture of the house, juxtaposed with the ancient graveyard, had led me to expect cobwebs, Victoriana, perhaps even a torture chamber, but instead I was standing in a large, clean, modern room with nothing in it but a bed, a night stand with a lamp on top and a few books on the bottom shelf, a couple of captain’s chairs, a large table, a bridge lamp, and a small throw rug. Mrs. Whidby had even installed a kitchenette in one corner: two-burner electric hot plate, small sink, tiny office-sized refrigerator.

The thing I was least prepared for was the view. To the north, the room looked directly over the pond we had passed coming from downtown Sag Harbor; the harbor itself, sprinkled with all kinds of boats; a long wharf; and a graceful arched bridge. To the east, the cemetery next door, and beyond it, shingled Currier-and-Ives houses, then a glimpse of more water in the distance. To the west, more of Sag Harbor, and again, water in the distance. To the south, mostly woods, but with the glint of yet another pond visible through the trees. Light poured in from all sides. By being impatient and blurting out my question at the cash register, I had found my writer’s retreat.

This is perfect. I pulled out my checkbook and started to write a check.

One month deposit plus the first month’s rent, she said. That’ll be twelve hundred dollars.

How do I make it out?

As I said, twelve hundred dollars.

No, I mean your name—it’s Mrs. Whidby, isn’t it? Do I just make it out to Mrs. Whidby, or do you want your full name?

"Oh. Oh, of course. Loretta. Make it out to Loretta Whidby. That’s b-y at the end, not b-e-y." She watched intently as I wrote the check.

When I handed it to her she examined it. Anthony Fellows, she said thoughtfully, reading from the check. And Vega Samuels. Guess that’s your wife. Wouldn’t even take your name, I see. Well, I’ll get a Blumberg lease at the stationery and fill it out. How long will you be staying?

Let’s make it ninety days, option to renew.

You don’t want until Memorial Day? That’s the standard.

If that’s what you require, fine, but I probably won’t be able to use the full term.

Hmm, she said. Odd way to go about a writing project. She was quiet for a moment, taking her own counsel. I’ll make it until Memorial Day, but give you a sixty-day escape clause. Is that agreeable?

Fine.

Wonderful. We’re all settled, then. When will you be moving in?

Now. I already packed everything I need. I’ll go unload it from the car.

Excuse me if I’m being nosey, she said on the way down the stairs, but how is it your wife doesn’t mind your being out here without her?

She’s a theatrical stage manager. She’s on tour right now, I lied. And when she’s in town, she’ll be too busy to stay out here. This woman was displaying an inordinate interest in my domestic situation, I thought. I, for my part, was dying to ask how old she was. Something about her belied her apparent age.

Before I unpacked the car, she showed me some of the other rooms in the house. Sliding mahogany doors separated the kitchen from her living quarters. She opened one and led me through to a large, old-fashioned parlor, replete with Oriental rugs and Victorian antiques, including overstuffed chairs and couches, which had been capped with starched lace antimacassars. A brick fireplace, adorned with a large mahogany mantel, dominated the far wall; upon the mantel sat some ceramic urns or vases, and an eight-day clock, which ticked loudly and happily as it surveyed its domain. Another, smaller room was located off the parlor to the right, containing some music stands and a small grand piano. To the left I saw a staircase leading to the second floor, which was bordered by a meticulously turned and polished wooden balustrade.

You do seem to love your antiques, I said. They remind me of my mother’s collection.

All inherited. I can’t bear to part with them.

She walked me to the car and watched for a minute as I set about emptying the luggage compartment. This should be interesting, she said, on her way back to the house. I’ve never had a writer before—staying here, I mean.

§§

Mrs. Whidby remained in her part of the house while I unloaded the car and took things upstairs. Once I had finished, I was in the mood to take a drive, reacquaint myself with the area. I meant to scout the village center, but then changed my mind and drove to the cemetery, which was calling to me in some uncanny way.

I drove in the main entrance, found a trail, almost a wagon track, down one side of the lot, and let the car take me where it would. About a hundred yards in, the car coughed and stopped. I got out. To my left stood a large marble monument consisting of a plinth and a tall vertical shaft that resembled a tree trunk shattered by a high wind. I walked over to take a closer look, and sure enough, it was a marble version of a broken mast. The plinth below the mast had an artfully crafted frieze of a whaling scene on one side, and commemorative messages on the other three sides. Nearby I also discovered a headstone for George Balanchine, the great ballet master. Finding his grave here gave me a bit of a jolt. We had worked in the same theater, but for different companies, and even though I hadn’t known him personally, this reminder of my theatrical roots, so soon after leaving the city, had an eerie tinge to it.

I wandered through the graveyard for a while, looking at headstones of local families, all of them strangers to me, people with tales to tell that I would never hear, and I let myself tune into the natural beauty of the place: it looked artfully disheveled, as if a giant hand had swept through the neighborhood rumpling hair. Ancient oak and maple trees dwarfed the gravestones. Tree roots protruded from the earth throughout the place, and the falling autumn leaves created a multicolored shifting ocean of leaf matter. I imagined the roots as land cousins of the Loch Ness serpent rising from the earth and swimming through this ocean of leaves.

Dead hollyhocks clung to the picket fence of one house whose backyard abutted the cemetery. I had always loved hollyhocks as a toddler—my older sister had regularly set me down next to the neighbor’s hollyhock-festooned fence and made dolls out of the blossoms, much to my delight—and this whole picture of shingled houses next to the cemetery, picket and iron fences, giant trees, Loch Ness serpent roots, the ocean of leaves, and dead hollyhocks gave me a paroxysm of nostalgia.

I filled my lungs with the clean East End air, crunched through the dirt of the cemetery wagon tracks, and realized I had made, for all its uncertainties, a gloriously right decision. I had indeed found the perfect place to hunker down and get my act together. I could no longer use lack of time or a noisy environment as excuses for not tapping into my inner thoughts. Now I had to focus—concentrate and meditate. Take advantage of the quiet: no honking horns, no low-flying helicopters, no subways, no phone calls about Opera business. Fresh air at my beck and call whenever I needed a stroll to clear my thoughts.

When I pulled out of the cemetery to continue scouting the area, I noticed Mrs. Whidby standing in a parlor window, watching me. I also noticed something peculiar in front of the house: a sign that had been put up by the village, which read (or was meant to read): AREA PROTECTED BY NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. But some kids had blacked out the A in watch and whited in an I, so that the sign actually looked like this:

g01_witch_sign.jpg

§§§

I: THREE

When I returned from my drive an hour later, Mrs. Whidby was nowhere to be seen. I went upstairs and unpacked, putting shirts, underwear, sweaters and socks in drawers, pants and jackets in the closet, new toiletries in the bathroom.

The new writing materials were the last to come out—yellow pads and felt-tip pens. It had been so long since I’d shopped for writing supplies that I’d nearly forgotten what to buy. I didn’t care for pencils—lead smudged too much. I preferred ink; mistakes could always be crossed out. I had never written rough drafts on the computer because nothing replaces the old writers’ dodge of sharpening pencils better than the cut-and-paste features of a word-processing program. I could easily write a couple of chapters of a book and after that spend the rest of my life rearranging blocks of text. The machinery created a distraction I had promised myself to do without, except for final editing.

I heard a loud flapping sound in the stairwell, wild-goose-like honks, followed by a tap on the door. I opened it to reveal Mrs. Whidby standing there with an armful of linens. She was accompanied by a Canada goose. I stepped aside to let them in, and caught faint whiffs of tantalizing aromas: wild animal, grasslands, the far north (the goose) and very expensive, musky perfume (Mrs. Whidby). She had remade herself, and was wearing loafers, gray slacks, a white turtleneck, and a green cardigan—everything modern, except the hairdo, which remained the same. Even so, she looked considerably younger than she had a couple of hours earlier.

I have your linens, she said, dropping them on the bed. The goose honked, waddled over to the wastebasket, and stuck its head in, apparently looking for a snack.

Didn’t know they made pets, I said.

Not a pet, really. This one is Aïda. Amneris and Radames are down in the kitchen. They live with a small flock that winters on Otter Pond down the street. They come by every once in a while for a handout.

How can you say they’re not pets when they’re this tame?

Just because they come in the house and can manage the staircase doesn’t make them pets. Does putting a suit on a man make him a gentleman?

I decided not to follow up her lead about gentlemen and went back to the geese. Aïda was in fact at this very moment waddling back out to the stairs, finding my fare insufficient, so she provided a handy diversion.

You’ve named them all for characters in an opera, I said. "You didn’t tell me that you’re an opera lover.

Oh, yes. Opera, dance, jazz, I love it all.

I guess I didn’t tell you that I’m a professional musician—have been for thirty years.

No, you didn’t. You said you came out here to write a book. Suddenly: My god! You’re not going to be practicing right over my head, are you? You don’t play drums, do you? I haven’t given you the lease yet!

I calmed her down and explained my situation. She was greatly relieved. As much as she loved music, she didn’t care for it in her own house unless she had control of the program.

I assured her that I hadn’t played in years, since I had taken the staff job, and even if I’d wanted to, practice was out of the question, because I hadn’t brought an instrument, in fact didn’t own one anymore; and in any case, as everybody in the world of music knew, bass players never practiced anyway. This little jibe at my own profession made her laugh, as it was meant to.

Aïda came back in and hissed at me, then headed straight for the wastebasket.

She already looked there, I said. Why is she so persistent?

That’s not Aïda, it’s Amneris.

How can you tell?

Her chin strap looks different.

I couldn’t see any difference between this bird’s chin strap and the other’s, but I didn’t want to waste time on the subject, so I put that line of questioning in my back pocket, along with her earlier remark about gentlemen. We stood there for an awkward moment, watching the goose indulge in her hunt for goodies.

Well, Mrs. Whidby said at length, I’ll leave you to your unpacking. She shooed Amneris ahead of her out the door. And I’m putting ‘no practicing’ in the lease.

§§

The day was still warm enough to leave the windows open, and I could hear Canada geese honking as they flew overhead, traveling between Otter pond and the fields where they fed. I fell asleep on the bed listening to the honking, remembering the last time I had fallen asleep to that sound. I had been lying on a couch on the front porch of my parents’ house by the Columbia River. The moon had just risen, full, yellow, and bloated, like a Japanese lantern at a garden party. The geese, who used an island directly in front of our house as a rest station on their migratory route, came in from the fields all tuckered out, ready to turn in for the night, raising their yells of Whose spot is this? and Where’s my baby? Silhouetted against the rising moon, they resembled moths swarming around a porch light. After families found each other the members of the flock gradually settled down, giving only an occasional isolated squawk when some disturbance at one location woke the neighbors. They lulled me to sleep with their calls when I was fourteen and now again, years later, in Sag Harbor.

§§

I woke up near sunset. Since I hadn’t bought any groceries, I decided to find a place in the Village to eat dinner. This would be my celebration tonight.

I realized that I missed Vega. I wanted to share this with her. Only a few hours ago she had been standing by our bed, pulling me out of that weird dream. And now she was gone, transformed into a puff of stage fog, floating off to someplace unknown to me, unknown and unknowable. Why had she been so precipitous? I knew we were having trouble. It was no secret. Why couldn’t she stay for a while longer and try to work things out? What demons had overtaken her, moved her to make such a decision?

Unanswerable questions. I banished the thoughts from my mind, put on my jacket, and went out. Leaves poured from the tree outside the door as if some magnetic force, not just gravity, was yanking them off the branches and smashing them into the ground. I walked past Otter Pond with its crew of domestic ducks, wild ducks, Canada geese, and other unfamiliar water birds, and turned down Main Street toward the Village. I couldn’t get over the beauty of this place, especially on an off-season week night when the party people had gone back to the city.

When I passed Canio’s book store, I made a mental note to visit it soon; and then I reached the main downtown area, a block of New England village-type stores—jewelers, hardware, art galleries, pizza parlors, the Ideal, the IGA—and finally Long Wharf, which thrust northward over the water toward North Haven and Shelter Island. I could see an old lighthouse in the distance on a spit of land at the harbor entrance, sailboats bobbing at their moorings inside the breakwater; and, near me on the wharf, people sitting in cars watching the sunset. Geese and cormorants flew by, zeroing in on their nighttime berths. Nature at work, I thought, as a sense of real peace came over me.

With the onset of darkness I started to feel hungry, so I headed back up Main Street to find an open restaurant. I heard boisterous laughter coming from a place called Spinnaker’s, and went in. It had been trimmed with teak panels and wooden posts to emulate ships’ decking and masts, and appeared to be a hangout for local chefs and restaurant employees. One after another they came in, pleased with themselves that they had gotten off work early on a slow night, and now they could relax a bit. There was a lot of good-natured banter between them and the bartender, a stranded sailing bum scraping together the cash to head south for the winter.

I had a couple of Bass ales on draft and lingered over a small steak before sauntering out into the evening, refreshed for the walk home. There was a bright crescent moon, brilliant stars. A few cars going by. The whisper of leaves falling.

§§

Have a nice dinner? Mrs. Whidby said as I entered. She was sitting at the kitchen table, a book in her hands.

Fine. Ate at Spinnaker’s.

Not a bad place. I know the owner. I’ll introduce you sometime.

That would be nice.

Well, goodnight, she said, giving me a warm smile, then added, Sleep well. She returned to her book.

Thanks. I climbed the stairs slowly, wondering if I should turn around and say anything more, but I resisted the urge. Although she had said or done nothing out of the ordinary, there was now, even more than earlier, an aura of the mysterious about her. She exuded Mother-Earth sexiness in a way I couldn’t readily define.

After I reached the top of the stairs and turned on the light in my room, the light in the kitchen went out, and before long I could hear her climbing the front staircase to her own bedroom.

§§

I tossed and turned in bed, unable to get to sleep. My thoughts alternated between replaying the scene that morning with Vega, and wondering about the real story with Mrs. Whidby. Two women, each exhibiting behavior that simultaneously baffled and intrigued me. One well known, a life partner who had jumped ship without warning, and the other brand new, no known history, yet vaguely tantalizing. My efforts to decipher their various hidden signals had the potential to derail my agenda. If I spent my time attempting to figure out the women in my life, how would I ever be able to settle down and focus on the job I had assigned myself? A calming voice told me to relax, let matters take their course. Don’t rush things, I heard it say as I dropped off to sleep. The path will reveal itself to you in time. I recognized the voice: it belonged to Lugh of the Long Hand. He chuckled and blew smoke my way. Or so I imagined. Probably, I was already dreaming.

§§§

I: FOUR

A commotion in the stairwell jolted me awake the next morning. I got up and opened the door to a whirlwind of three Canada geese and Mrs. Whidby coming up the stairs. The geese flapped their wings and snapped at the sleeves of her sweater with their bills, trying to get her to drop whatever she was carrying.

I trust that you slept well, she said when she entered. The geese squirted into the room between my legs. I brought you some coffee and fresh donuts from the deli.

I thought you didn’t provide meals.

I don’t, but this is a special occasion, your first morning in civilization, and I thought you’d enjoy a treat.

I could hardly say no—not that I was inclined to. She looked around the room, seemed to approve of my arrangement, and put the deli bag on the table. All three geese stood at the wastebasket expectantly.

Why do they always go for that wastebasket? I asked.

The tenant before you developed a special fondness for them. He left food for them in that basket.

What did he do?

He left food for them in that basket.

No—I meant his reason for staying here for the winter. Was he a painter, a writer, a professor on sabbatical?

Oh, a painter. A local artist. I doubt you’d have heard of him. She squirmed a bit, as if the question had made her uncomfortable.

Prompted by an impatient goose, she opened the bag and pulled out two containers of coffee, followed by assorted donuts that had the aroma of being fresh-made about them. Mingled with the odor of coffee and donuts was the musk of her perfume. This was definitely not an antiseptic old-lady perfume.

I’m addicted to these donuts, she said. I have to force myself to pass them by. Whenever there’s a special occasion, I allow myself to indulge.

She handed me one—cinnamon—and I took a bite. I could see that an addiction would be easy to form.

She opened a coffee and passed it to me. I didn’t know how you take it. I got it black, no sugar.

That’s fine.

The geese, tired of waiting for food at the wastebasket, stood around us with intent looks on their faces. I was tempted to give one a piece of donut, but the donut tasted so good that I wanted it for myself.

Oh, I almost forgot, Mrs. Whidby said. I brought your lease. She reached underneath her sweater and deftly extracted a folded piece of paper. It was a standard Blumberg lease, which now had traces of her musky perfume on it. She had filled in our names, the term of the lease, the amount of rent, the deposit, and my share of electricity to be paid, followed by her signature. I signed the tenant line at the bottom.

There’s another copy, she said. One for each of us.

I signed the second copy.

Oh, and there’s a rider.

I leafed through the pages until I found a single page with one handwritten line on it: No practicing of musical instruments allowed, and two lines drawn with a ruler for signatures.

Well, this is interesting, I said.

What is? She smiled sweetly.

I told you I have no intention of practicing an instrument.

And I believe you. But if you really have no intention, why should it bother you to say so in writing?

Mrs. Whidby, you might try to trust me a little bit.

Mr. Fellows. You seem to be an honest enough person. I would love to trust you. Unfortunately, I’ve been around long enough to know that trust is mostly an empty word.

Trust works two ways, Mrs. Whidby. I told you I don’t even own an instrument. I thought you were joking when you said you’d put ‘no practicing’ in the lease. This is not a good way to start off. I don’t think I want to sign this.

She finished her coffee abruptly and tossed her last donut to the geese, who squabbled over it noisily. She scooped the papers out of my hand.

If you don’t want to sign the rider I’ll not force you, but this makes me very cross with you. She headed for the door. Come, children, she said. The geese followed her. One of them let loose a huge dropping on the hardwood floor. You’ll have to clean that up right away, she said to me just before she closed the door. I don’t want it dripping through the ceiling downstairs.

I was left behind, stunned. First of all, what had the coffee and donuts been about? Had she been softening me up for the lease signing and the rider? And the goose dropping—I was supposed to clean up after her geese?

Perhaps, I thought, I should look for another place. Yet this one was really well located, and it had the light I needed. The only thing better would have been to rent an entire house in Montauk, near Hither Hills Park, high above the beach, looking out over the ocean—better, and completely unaffordable.

Somehow I would have to arrive at an accommodation with Mrs. Whidby. I didn’t want my energy taken up scurrying around in search of a new place to stay.

I finished the coffee and donuts, cleaned up the goose dropping, and sat down to write some letters. My first one was to Vega.

Dear Vega, it began. I told her of my decision to move to Sag Harbor, gave her my new address; said I wouldn’t be using email or the cell phone; told her of Mrs. Whidby’s geese, the tiff over the lease. I added that she was now free to move back into the apartment if she wished. Rereading the letter, I thought the writing uninspired and banal, basically a list of happenings and facts, lacking insight or any memorable phrases. If I couldn’t even write an interesting letter, what made me think I’d be able to do a book?

I told myself to be more forgiving. After all, Vega had just walked out on me, and this wasn’t the easiest way to launch a new exercise. How could I wax poetic if I doubted she would read the letter? Even so, I tried rewriting it to put in some more inspiring language.

I had nearly finished when Mrs. Whidby came back without the geese and tapped timidly at the door.

I’ll take your word, she said when I opened it. I’ve torn up the rider.

Well, that’s great. Thank you.

She stepped into the room. Now, have you finished your donuts?

Yes.

Like them?

Yes.

A lot?

Well—yes.

Good. They’re fattening, you know, but so good. If you hadn’t cared for them, I don’t know what I would have done. Maybe sicced Radames on you. He’s the one who nips. The girls are all honk, no bite.

She sat on the other chair. Well, she said. What are we going to do today?

Do—but I—I’m going to do some writing. And I have to get the car window fixed. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with anyone.

Mr. Fellows, you may think I’m an eccentric nuisance, but what you don’t realize is that I have been around many artists. You may be my first writer, but I’m sure writers are no different. One doesn’t move to a strange place and create new work at the drop of a hat. You have to get out a bit, roam about the place, let it soak into you.

When did I say I planned to write about Sag Harbor?

Doesn’t matter if you are. Sag Harbor will still work its magic on you so that you can write about whatever else it is you care to. You can’t just get in a car, drive out here from the city, plunk yourself down, and expect inspiration to fly through the window like a migrating bird. Not if you want to write anything good. Why, the minute you came in the door I saw the crowd of unsettled city spirits who had followed you. They’re surrounding you, but you can’t see them. They’ll be sitting on your shoulders while you try to write. They fill the room, I can feel them. You have to move around, lose them a few at a time. They hate fresh air, for one thing. They’ll drop off bit by bit, you’ll see, and when they’re gone you’ll be able to write. If you don’t take a little time first you might as well have stayed in the city and tried to write standing up in an elevator.

Mrs. Whidby—you may be right. In fact, I thought I’d do exactly that—take walks on the beach, all that…

Yes, but that’s simply you and your city spirits taking a walk together. You need to meet some local people, local artists who are struggling to express themselves just as you are. That’s why you picked this place, isn’t it? It has scenery, but it also has artists, writers, doers. If all you wanted was scenery you could have rented a cabin in the mountains for half the price. I know your type. You want to be alone two hours a day with absolutely no interruptions. The rest of the time you want someone to entertain you, you want to be surrounded by intelligent people, do exciting things.

What makes you think so?

Why, it’s obvious: first you’ve been a musician, one of the most social arts, and now you want to write. You’ve gone to the trouble of coming out here so you could be alone to create. You’re obviously an explorer. You’re not comfortable staying in one place—in your mind, I mean. You want to stretch yourself, but you also need people. You’re not a hermit, or you wouldn’t have come to Sag Harbor. At the very least you would have gone to Montauk. No one out there in the winter, I can assure you. Now, how about it? You want to meet some people? I have a friend who’s an artist, he lives over on Lion Head. I’m sure he’d be pleased to meet you.

Well…I guess…maybe…

Don’t you see, Mr. Fellows? Fate put you behind me in that line at the pharmacy. I am the one who can open this new world for you. I can be your muse, a Beatrice to your Dante, and inspire you to let the trapped poetry of your soul out, if only you let me.

At this point I didn’t know if I should run screaming to the car and drive back to New York, tell her to get out, or simply go with her. The letter I had written to Vega shimmered on the table, demanding my attention. I gave it a quick scan and noticed that the flaws were still painfully evident despite my edits, and now they bothered me even more: pure statement of facts, nothing special to say. In other words, a recitation, almost like a daily schedule book, not worthy of being called a letter. Had I become soul-dead, unable to communicate any of my innermost thoughts or feelings to the woman who had been my close and loving companion for over twenty years?

But how would going on trips to local artists guided by this eccentric nuisance make my soul come alive again? What was she really looking for? Romance? Or did she belong to some cult? I flashed back to the street sign I had seen coming out of the cemetery. Why had the kids changed the sign in front of her house? What trap was I about to step into? My imagination raced out of control, jumping hurdles that weren’t even on the track. I conjured images of myself tied to a tree, part of some witchcraft ceremony.

She cleared her throat. Mr. Fellows?

I’ll go. Just let me finish this letter. I’ll come by for you in half an hour.

Fine. I’ll change into something presentable for an outing.

And Mrs. Whidby. Do you have any sheets of plastic around, some duct tape?

I might. Why?

It’s clouding up. I think it might rain. I’m never going to get that window fixed today, so I should tape it closed.

I’ll see what I can find.

§§

I rewrote my letter to Vega, putting in my questions about Mrs. Whidby’s peculiar behavior—the granny costume she was wearing when we first met, her invitation to serve as Beatrice to my Dante, her idea of taking a trip to see an artist friend of hers, and her reasons for suggesting it. I mentioned my concern that I might be hooking up with a local nut, somebody the neighborhood kids obviously thought qualified as a witch. Might as well lay it on thick, I thought.

I ended with a final question: Vega, I asked, have you ever seen city spirits sitting on my shoulder?

And with that, the letter was done. I signed it, sealed and stamped it, and put on my jacket. I could see Mrs. Whidby down in the driveway, dressed as she had been at the pharmacy, struggling to tape a plastic dry cleaner’s bag over the broken car window. Suppressing a disquieting sense of anxiety, I left the turret to join her on our excursion, which now included a slight detour by the Post Office so I could mail the letter.

§§§

I: FIVE

Mrs. Whidby’s artist friend lived on a bluff above Lion Head Beach, with a view of Gardiner’s Bay and