Read Online Spider Season by John Morgan Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Morgan Wilson
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finally agreed, feeling obligated since he’d shown up for my reading and even purchased a book.
Maurice grabbed me and dragged me off to meet friends of his and kept me moving after that, while I tried with great frustration to connect again with Ismael. Fred retired early, to a bedroom down the hall where the cats were hiding. While I circulated, Judith Zeitler chatted up anyone she could find who was connected to writing or the media, handing out business cards. Conroy drank enough whiskey for several people and grabbed smokes in the backyard, flicking the butts rudely onto the lawn. The music played, the drinks flowed, the aroma of marijuana permeated the air, and everyone seemed to have a fine time. Then it was after midnight and people were drifting out. The party was finally over.
Ismael hung by the front door until I spotted him, and I walked him to the street. I told him how great it was to see him again, and that we had to stay in touch. We exchanged phone numbers, and promised to get together for coffee. I wanted desperately to kiss him good night but didn’t; I had no idea what his romantic experience had been after he’d given up celibacy, or even if he’d been with another man, or a woman. But when we hugged, I sensed no awkwardness on his part. Quite the opposite; it felt as warm and natural as embracing an old friend.
As Maurice and I cleaned up the house, listening to a Haydn symphony, he told me how much he liked Ismael, that he had a good feeling about him. We talked about what a fine evening everyone had had and how the reading had gone so well. Candles flickered in the living room, where the cats had curled up on the sofa. A sense of calm and contentment settled over the old house, which had been my sanctuary for so many years, and the same for Jacques in the years before he died.
Maurice paused as he washed glasses in the soapy water.
“Try to enjoy this special moment in your life, Benjamin. You have a tendency to see the glass as half-empty. But you have so much ahead of you, dear one. Try to embrace it, won’t you?”
I was about to tell him I was feeling better about things, more optimistic about the future, when the phone rang. It was nearly one, and I couldn’t imagine who might be calling at this hour, unless it was someone who’d left their keys or cell phone behind. Then it occurred to me that Ismael might be calling to say something more, to put a final cap on the evening, and my heart gladdened at the possibility. In the living room, I turned the music down, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to my ear.
“I’ve killed before, just like you.” The voice sounded vaguely male, but it was barely more than a whisper, so I couldn’t be sure. “So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize. You’ve always loved a good mystery, haven’t you? Sniffing about like a bloodhound, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’ve unraveled a few. So what?”
The caller laughed smugly. “Perhaps, if you’re curious enough, you’ll unravel mine.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
The voice turned petulant but also sounded hurt. “We could be such good friends, if you weren’t such a cold, heartless prick.”
I was about to ask for a name when the caller hung up. I hit the star key on the phone, then a 6 and a 9 to reconnect, but the number was blocked.
“Who was it?” Maurice called out from the kitchen as I hung up.
“Wrong number.”
I’ve killed before, just like you. So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize.
Someone who knew at least a little about me knew enough to call me at this number at this moment. I stood staring out the front window, across the broad porch and small yard to the tree-lined street, studying it for some sign of suspicious movement or prying eyes. All I could see was a mosaic of meaningless shapes and shadows, shifting almost imperceptibly as the air moved slightly or nocturnal rodents crept about.
Maurice grabbed me and dragged me off to meet friends of his and kept me moving after that, while I tried with great frustration to connect again with Ismael. Fred retired early, to a bedroom down the hall where the cats were hiding. While I circulated, Judith Zeitler chatted up anyone she could find who was connected to writing or the media, handing out business cards. Conroy drank enough whiskey for several people and grabbed smokes in the backyard, flicking the butts rudely onto the lawn. The music played, the drinks flowed, the aroma of marijuana permeated the air, and everyone seemed to have a fine time. Then it was after midnight and people were drifting out. The party was finally over.
Ismael hung by the front door until I spotted him, and I walked him to the street. I told him how great it was to see him again, and that we had to stay in touch. We exchanged phone numbers, and promised to get together for coffee. I wanted desperately to kiss him good night but didn’t; I had no idea what his romantic experience had been after he’d given up celibacy, or even if he’d been with another man, or a woman. But when we hugged, I sensed no awkwardness on his part. Quite the opposite; it felt as warm and natural as embracing an old friend.
As Maurice and I cleaned up the house, listening to a Haydn symphony, he told me how much he liked Ismael, that he had a good feeling about him. We talked about what a fine evening everyone had had and how the reading had gone so well. Candles flickered in the living room, where the cats had curled up on the sofa. A sense of calm and contentment settled over the old house, which had been my sanctuary for so many years, and the same for Jacques in the years before he died.
Maurice paused as he washed glasses in the soapy water.
“Try to enjoy this special moment in your life, Benjamin. You have a tendency to see the glass as half-empty. But you have so much ahead of you, dear one. Try to embrace it, won’t you?”
I was about to tell him I was feeling better about things, more optimistic about the future, when the phone rang. It was nearly one, and I couldn’t imagine who might be calling at this hour, unless it was someone who’d left their keys or cell phone behind. Then it occurred to me that Ismael might be calling to say something more, to put a final cap on the evening, and my heart gladdened at the possibility. In the living room, I turned the music down, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to my ear.
“I’ve killed before, just like you.” The voice sounded vaguely male, but it was barely more than a whisper, so I couldn’t be sure. “So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize. You’ve always loved a good mystery, haven’t you? Sniffing about like a bloodhound, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’ve unraveled a few. So what?”
The caller laughed smugly. “Perhaps, if you’re curious enough, you’ll unravel mine.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
The voice turned petulant but also sounded hurt. “We could be such good friends, if you weren’t such a cold, heartless prick.”
I was about to ask for a name when the caller hung up. I hit the star key on the phone, then a 6 and a 9 to reconnect, but the number was blocked.
“Who was it?” Maurice called out from the kitchen as I hung up.
“Wrong number.”
I’ve killed before, just like you. So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize.
Someone who knew at least a little about me knew enough to call me at this number at this moment. I stood staring out the front window, across the broad porch and small yard to the tree-lined street, studying it for some sign of suspicious movement or prying eyes. All I could see was a mosaic of meaningless shapes and shadows, shifting almost imperceptibly as the air moved slightly or nocturnal rodents crept about.
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