Howell pointed to the cove in the distance. “Over there.”

A few minutes later Howell had safely secured the boat to the little dock in front of the cabin and had his pants on. “I sure appreciate your help. I’m John Howell.”

“I’m Jack Roberts,” the driver said. “This is Helen Smith, here, and in the back are Harry and Joyce Martin. We’re staying at a friend’s place the other side of the lake.”

“Hi,” Howell said, taking them all in.

“Is your boat like ours?” the young woman in the backseat, Joyce, asked. She was blind. Howell reflected that he had met more blind people and dogs in the last week than he had in the last year.

“Pretty much, I guess. Can I offer you folks a drink?” he asked. “Seems the least I can do for being returned to my trousers.”

“We’re just on our way to pick up some things in the town,” Jack explained. “And we’re going home in the morning. Maybe next year.”

“Well, thanks, anyway,” Howell said.

“Don’t mention it,” Jack called back, shoving his boat away from the dock. He gunned the engine. The others waved as they pulled away. Howell saw them off, then emptied the five-gallon gasoline can into one of the out-board’s tanks and made a mental note to fill the other one on his next trip to town.

Scotty arrived at the cabin at seven, freshly scrubbed and squeezed into designer jeans topped with a silk blouse. “I was right,” she said. “You don’t look half bad with a shave and your hair combed over the bald spot.”

“We’re taking the boat down to Taylor’s tonight,” Howell replied, “and if you keep that up, you can swim back.”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, truce. That’s a great shirt, too; you look twenty… well, ten years younger.”

Soon they were skimming down the lake, drinks in hand, through the early evening light. The air was fresh and cool as it whipped past them, and the water had turned a deep blue with the end of day. At Taylor’s they tied up next to the boat that had rescued Howell that afternoon. He told Scotty about the experience.

“Listen, John, you should always wear your pants when you go out. Your mother should have explained that to you. God, I wish I could have seen that – the Pulitzer Prizewinner, bare-assed.”

The two couples were waiting on the front porch for a table, and Howell introduced Scotty. “Jesus,” he said, “I forgot this place was dry. Why don’t you people come back to the cabin for a nightcap after dinner?”

They ate fried chicken and catfish at a long, oilcloth-covered table, and finished up with peach cobbler, washing everything down with iced tea. The room was crowded with couples and families from miles around, all eating with both hands. Howell and Scotty sat across from Joyce, the blind woman, who alternated bursts of talk and laughter with periods of what seemed to be puzzled silence whenever Scotty spoke more than a few words. Her husband, Harry, seemed to notice it, too. “Have we met the two of you before?” he asked Howell and Scotty.

“I don’t think so,” Howell replied. Scotty shook her head.

“I think Joyce finds you… familiar,” Harry said.

“It happens sometimes,” the blind woman chimed in. “Sometimes I think it’s something to do with not being able to see. Maybe there are more similar voices than similar faces, who knows? Tell me, is either of you psychic?”

“Nope,” Scotty said.

Howell did not reply immediately. “Why do you ask?” he asked, finally.

“I think one or both of you probably is,” the woman replied. “I am, and I sometimes get that feeling about other people. If you are, you shouldn’t be afraid of it. It’s a perfectly natural thing.”

“Oh, I’ve had little flashes at times, I think,” Howell said, warily. “It may have been just a fluke.”

“I doubt it,” Joyce said.

After dinner they raced down the windless lake, the two boats abreast, over flat, glassy water, under a rising moon. It had grown chillier with the coming of dark, and Scotty huddled close to Howell for warmth. He put his arm around her and felt the chill bumps through the silk blouse. It had been so warm when they left that neither of them had brought a sweater.

They tied up at the dock in front of the cabin and waited while the other two couples disembarked. Only the crickets broke the silent stillness of the evening. Inside, Howell got a fire together while Scotty made some coffee. “There’s a bottle of brandy in there,” he called to her. “It would improve the coffee.”

Scotty came out of the kitchen with tray of cups and stopped. Howell, busy at the hearth, looked at her and followed her gaze. The blind woman was standing in the middle of the living room, her chin lifted and her head cocked to one side, turning slowly in a circle. “Is something wrong, Joyce?” Scotty asked.

“Oh, no,” she replied, stopping her turning, “I was just getting a feel for the place.” Her husband came and led her to the sofa before the fire.

Scotty set the cups on the coffee table. “You said you were psychic.”

“Oh, yes,” the woman replied.

“She’s sometimes quite remarkable,” her husband chimed in. “Do you feel something, Honey?”

“I’d like some coffee, if it’s ready,” she replied, ignoring his question.

Scotty left and returned with the coffee pot and the brandy and busied herself with serving everyone.

Howell put a roll on the player piano, then switched it on. Errol Garner began to play. Howell got a cup, poured an extra measure of brandy into it, and sank into a chair. “Where are you all from?” he asked.

“Helen and I are from Chattanooga,” Jack replied. “Harry is, too. Joyce is English, though you’d never know it from her accent.”

“Joyce seems to have a good ear,” her husband said. “When we visit London, her accent changes the moment we get of the plane at Heathrow.”

Joyce spoke up. “Would you all like to have a seance?” Everybody turned and looked at her.

Scotty giggled. “A seance? Really talking to the spirits and everything?”

“Perhaps,” Joyce said. “You never know for sure, of course, but I think there might be something here.”

“Joyce has a feeling for all sorts of communication; not just accents,” Harry said.

“I’m game,” Scotty said.

Jack looked at Helen, who nodded. “Sure, why not?” he said.

Only Howell said nothing. He had the odd feeling that things were about to get out of hand.

“John?” Joyce asked. “There’s no point unless we have the cooperation of everyone.”

Howell felt on the spot. He didn’t want to do this, but he would be a poor host if he didn’t go along. “Sure,” he said, unenthusiastically. “How do we go about it?”

“We need a table,” Joyce said, “preferably a round one.”

“We’ve got that,” Howell replied.

“Will you place it at as near the center of the room as you can? And will someone please switch off the piano?”

“Sure.” Howell stopped the piano, and the three men went to the table. “This isn’t going to be all that easy,” Howell said as they gathered around it. “The base of this thing is a section of a tree trunk that’s almost petrified. I don’t know how they managed to saw through it.”

“Oof,” Harry said as he tugged at the table-top. “Maybe we just ought to tilt the thing and roll it on its base. We might pull the top loose trying to lift it.”

The three men, not without difficulty, got the table tilted and, using the tree-trunk base like a wheel, rolled it toward the center of the room. “I think that’s close enough,” Harry said. He seemed to have done this before.

They dragged over the chairs and Joyce indicated where they should each sit, alternating them by sex. “Would someone turn all the lights in the house off, please?” she asked.

“That’s everything,” Scotty said, coming back from the kitchen. It seemed pitch dark for a moment, then their eyes began to become accustomed to it, and they discovered that the moonlight and the fire lit the cabin quite well. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the noisy chatter of the crickets outside. They all sat down and pulled their chairs up to the table.