Under the Lake by Stuart Woods

that—the Pulitzer Prize winner in his little Jockeys.”
    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,” Joyce 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,” Joyce 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, thetwo 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 two other couples disembarked. Only the crickets broke the silent stillness of the evening. Inside, Howell got a fire going 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 a 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. “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,” Joyce replied.
    “She’s sometimes quite remarkable,” her husband said. “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 coffeepot and the brandy and busied herself with serving everyone.
    Howell put an Errol Garner roll on the player piano, then switched it on. He got a cup, poured an extra measureof 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 off the plane at Heathrow.”
    Joyce spoke up. “Would you all like to have a séance?” Everybody turned and looked at her.
    Scotty giggled. “A séance? 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