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husband’s favorite chair,” she said. “Night after night.”
    â€œDid he ever get any manifestations, sitting there?”
    â€œNot that he thought it worthwhile mentioning. But it’s a good chair. I don’t much care for it myself, but I could sell it for money.”
    It was a good chair. It had a back higher than my head, and the arms were solid, and altogether it looked something like a throne of which the seat had been amply seasoned by Mr. Faun’s bottom. Whenever the door of the little parlor was open I sneaked in and sat down for a minute; I liked that chair.
    â€œAre you sure,” Mrs. Faun asked me, “that you are not tampering with things better left alone? Are you sure that you know what you are doing? Are you sure, Mrs. Motorman, that you are not stirring up some kind of trouble that will hang around my house?”
    â€œIt’s exactly like taking a long-distance call,” I told her. “Once you hang up, it’s over.”
    â€œI never knew a long-distance call didn’t mean trouble for someone.”
    The little parlor had drapes, which Mrs. Faun never closed, which is why the dust rose when I closed them, which is why I sneezed and Mrs. Faun scowled; she kept a clean house, generally. I moved the fine chair into the center of the room, and we put a few dining-room chairs around, not too many because I wasn’t sure how many would come and I didn’t want to look anxious, but enough so no one would stand; no one stood around in Mrs. Faun’s house; perhaps because Tom was always sitting down she thought people standing were uncomfortable. Although I have plenty of money I put a large orange bowl, in which Mrs. Faun usually kept apples, on a low table moved just enough out from the wall to be noticeable. “People expect this,” I told Mrs. Faun.
    â€œI’ll bring the sherry and the glasses,” she said, “and you can pay me out of the pot.”
    â€œIt’s really a hobby of mine, mostly. But if it does people good, why keep it to myself?”
    â€œIf more people kept more things to themselves this world would be a better place.” Mrs. Faun gave the curtain a little shake. “How you can find dust beats me,” she said.
    I don’t know what the bookstore lady could have said around the bookstore, or even what Mrs. Faun might have said around the neighborhood, because when I came to give my seance there were eight people, which made us nine altogether, which is good. I had decided to wear my long dark-blue dress. It doesn’t fit as well as it used to, but who says a psychic has to be smart? It has these long sleeves, and I wore my pearls; I will say that for Hughie, he didn’t stint me.
    All right, I thought, I’ll try it once anyway. They all sat there watching me as though they dared me to put something over on them, the watchful, the eager, the perceptive. I realized I was stalling; there were a number of things I wanted to do right now a lot more than lean back and close my eyes in the face of those watching people; I knew they would keep on staring at me after I was gone, and I hated that. I could have said right then that it was a joke, but they would have believed me. “I don’t know anything about all this,” came to my mind, “please, all of you, go away and don’t try to make me do something I hate.” But of course I didn’t; I looked each of them right in the eye, thinking I hate you I hate you I hope you are brutally disappointed, and I nodded at Mrs. Faun, who at least was almost snarling out loud, and I leaned back and felt the worn velvet of the chair against the back of my neck and wondered who was clamoring around just inside waiting to come around asking, and I closed my eyes. I could hear them breathing. Easy, slow, contemptuous, that would be Mrs. Faun, waiting to be shown. Then the others, quick and eager, a little woman watching, the men aware,