Free Name Games by Michael Craft Page B

visit for some planned purpose. Trying to fathom what fish they meant to fry, I let our conversation lapse again.
    Reaching the two-story garage at the end of the driveway, I led them around to the side of the building, where the stairs rose to the covered porch of the coach house. Climbing the first few of the green-painted treads, I looked out upon the vast, shade-dappled lawn. In a flash, I saw the same serene scene that had been captured in the framed photo of Grace’s nephew, Ward Lord, whipping a Frisbee to his dog. The memory (which was not a direct recollection, but merely a visual impression of a years-old occurrence, preserved in a snapshot) gave me a perturbing sense of déjà vu, raising a mind-loop question: Did the scene there before me truly resemble the scene I recalled, or was my memory being rewritten by what I now saw? It was impossible to draw the distinction—even the trees looked the same to me, which I knew, intellectually if not in my gut, to be impossible. Continuing up the stairs, I searched for some small detail, any overlooked clue, that would prove a discrepancy between past and present. And I saw it. While making a turn at the landing, I noticed, tucked under a tree near the far end of the lawn, a garden ornament, a small stone obelisk that I had not seen before, either in the photo or in life. Though I should have been relieved by this discovery—it ratified my grip on reality—the effect of the obelisk was anything but heartening. No, the limestone monolith looked for all the world like a grave marker. This, combined with the uneasy stillness (even that morning’s gusty wind had now died, as if holding its breath), created a mood of intense foreboding, and I suddenly dreaded what I might find at the top of the stairs.
    Carrol Cantrell’s scream shattered the silence, nipping my thoughts, confirming my fears—or so I assumed. Miriam, Kaiser, and I froze, unsure, in that first instant, how to react. During this moment of suspended animation, Miriam lost her footing. One of her lumpish clogs slipped from the tread where she stood, knocking a potted geranium over the edge. Just as it hit ground, the crash was drowned out by another shriek from Carrol’s quarters.
    Through the screen door, we realized, he was talking on the phone, now howling breathlessly—the waning aftermath of his explosive look-at-me laughter. I chided myself for indulging in morbid premonitions, inspired by a harmless garden accessory, and reminded myself that the success of my career stemmed in part from a ruthless objectivity that allowed no faith in superstition. Glad to be in touch again with the here and now, I focused my attention on Carrol’s phone call. “Gawd, she’s a fright! ” he dished with abandon between gulps of air. “A total, fucking ditz! ” Then he yelped with delight at whatever was said on the phone.
    Miriam and Kaiser exchanged a disgusted look, rolling their eyes in disapproval. In truth, I didn’t much approve of Carrol’s performance either. His words, though, were not meant for our ears. He had no idea an audience was now on his porch, and if we were to let him continue unaware, we’d be guilty of eavesdropping, one-upping his bad manners.
    So I approached the door, preparing to rap on it. Just prior to my knock, we heard one last comment, delivered in a far more sober tone: “What about the Miller standard?”
    Caught unprepared for this question and confused by its meaning, I paused before knocking, mulling Carrol’s words. Was he talking about…beer? Surely not. Was he referring to the work of some noted miniatures artisan named Miller? Possibly. Glancing back toward Miriam and Kaiser, I noted that Miriam seemed oblivious to Carrol’s question. She was squatting to adjust her clog, which was quite a sight—she looked as if she were being eaten by her cape. Kaiser, on the other hand, seemed focused and intent, as if he understood Carrol’s reference to the “Miller