Free October by Al Sarrantonio Page B

change the ribbons herself.
    "I used to write on a legal pad, in longhand," she told him, opening their conversation by noting his inspection of the typewriter. "That was when my husband was still here. Even though I had saved the money for a typewriter, he wouldn't allow me to have one. So I wrote on ruled yellow legal paper. For a time, I even used a fountain pen." Eileen smiled, a small blossom, coming, perhaps, from that secret little room where he had hoped to break the lock. "Don't look so shocked, Kevin," she added. "I never used a quill pen, for God's sake, or had to dip into a bottle of ink."
    She turned her chair partway toward him, splitting her attention between him and her desk. As always, she refused to acknowledge the running tape recorder that lay at Kevin's feet. The chair was straight backed, severe, with a doilied blue pad on the seat. She wore a loose white sweater, what looked to be gardening pants—tan, large fitting—white socks, and loafers. So unlike Lydia. Her face was lined, full, the eyes tired, but when they concentrated on Kevin or on a question, filled with sharp focus. They were dark, slate-gray, speckled with green. When reading, she wore glasses, tortoiseshell, which magnified the tiredness in her eyes.
    "What else do you want to know about my habits, Kevin?" She smiled, and for a moment he thought she was mocking him, but was, he realized, mocking herself. The walls were lined with books, carefully tended, dusted, green, blue, brown spines. Keeping her thoughts, Kevin imagined, from the outside world. Over her desk was a small, narrow shelf enameled white, supported by two cast-iron brackets sculpted in vines. The shelf held all six of her novels.
    "How do you correct?" Kevin asked.
    "With a pencil." She added almost petulantly, "I'm not a goddess."
    "I'm sorry—"
    She regarded him directly, and he felt now like a baby, uninitiated.
    She said, quietly, turning in her chair to lean slightly toward him, both hands on her knees, "It's a mysterious process, Kevin. But it’s not magic. It's a craft, like learning to carve, or make cabinets. When I started, I scribbled, like a toddler. The words, the tools, I fumbled them, didn't know how to hold them or point the blades. I got better as I worked. I wanted to work, which was the important thing. After a while, I found the handles of the tools, held them fast, made nice cuts with them." She leaned back, her hands moving with her up her thighs. "That's all there is to it." She stared at him for a moment, then put a hand to her forehead.   "I think you'd better go, Kevin."
    "Please—"
    She seemed distracted "I'm . . . sorry. I just think we should end this. I have nothing more to say to you."
    A desperation, of which he was not even aware, rose in him.
    "You have to—"
    "No, Kevin."
    " You have to tell me what you know !" The hand holding his microphone was shaking. He felt hysteria overtaking him, heard what sounded like another man's voice, frightened, obsessed, speak his words.
    "Kevin—"
    "You know! It's in your work, it overwhelms everyone around you, your children, it helped destroy your marriage—you know! It's like a secret knowledge, you're so sure of your- self so strong—tell me!"
    He stood up, clutching his hands like fists at his sides. He felt on the verge of tears.
    Eileen Connel rose and came to him. "Kevin," she said. She put her arms around him, held him, put his head to her breast. Remarkably, he felt her trembling against him.
    "Oh, Kevin," she said. "If there's a secret, I don't know what it is. Something happened to me when I was a little girl that changed me. You already know the story." She hesitated, took a deep breath. "But I don't remember what happened to me. I remember the fire, I remember being helped from the cellar, I remember Jerry Martin's face. But I don't remember anything else." Her grip on Kevin tightened. "I can't help what I am. Believe me, Kevin, I'm still human."
    Kevin