The Second Coming

the stairwell, and fetched up comfortably at the bottom of the steps. If he had been knocked out, he must have come to instantly, in decent time to collect himself, not get up but arrange himself in a sitting-lying position on the bottom step.
    There was a sound. Someone had entered the garage.
    The narrow stairwell was dark. The bright cloud seemed to fill the garage. He could see the three cars and most of the floor without being seen.
    Methodically he felt his arms and legs and clenched his fists. Had he had a stroke? Would he have to carry one fisted hand in the other like a baby? No, his hands worked. Something wet and warm ran into the orbit of one eye. He touched his cheek. It was blood. Above, at his temple, rose a clotted swelling. Though it seemed to be growing larger, it didn’t hurt.
    The cat sat in its usual place under the Rolls. Tendrils of fog drifted across the clean floor. The light from the cloud struck the concrete at such an angle that he could make out the faint arcs of the mason’s trowel. The fog crept under the Mercedes, where it vaporized and disappeared. Perhaps there was a faint warmth in the motor.
    He noted with curiosity that there seemed to be no hurry, that there was all the time in the world, time to take account of small events in the garage. More important, it had become possible to take stock of himself, assess the extent of his injuries, and make his plans accordingly. Curious! Suddenly he had come into himself like the cat, got rid of the ghost which stood aside from himself, forever rushing ahead or hanging back. Here he was in the real world of cats and concrete! He smiled. Perhaps something had been knocked loose in his head. Or perhaps something loose had been knocked together.
    Someone had come from behind the Rolls and was standing over him. Leaning on one elbow, he cocked his head to look up.
    â€œLawyer Barrett?”
    â€œYes?”
    It was Ewell McBee.
    â€œLawyer Barrett, I needed to tell you something.”
    â€œYou already told me. You apologized for the shot. Don’t worry about it,” he said dreamily. Ewell loomed against the white cloud. As he shaded his eyes with one hand to see him better, he noticed that Ewell’s head silhouetted against the whiteness showed a slight hollowing at the temple oddly like his own. And when he turned his head, there was a familiar snoutishness about the nose.
    â€œI needed to ask you something.”
    Ewell did not seem to find it remarkable that he was lounging in the dark stairwell.
    In his strange new mood he made the following observation: people notice very little indeed, ghost-ridden as they are by themselves. You have to be bleeding from the mouth or throwing a fit for them to take notice. Otherwise, anything you do is no more or less than another part of the world they have to deal with, poor souls.
    You worry about what you are supposed to do. The funny thing is, no matter what you do, people believe it is no more or less than what you are supposed to do.
    â€œI’m going to make you a proposition you can’t turn down, haw haw,” said Ewell. He hawked, spat, hiked a foot up on the Mercedes bumper, settled his crotch.
    â€œYour video-cassette company? How much do you want me to invest?” He seemed to understand everything Ewell said before he said it. He tried to stand but something was wrong with his left leg; it gave way. It was possible to resume his lounging position in such a casual way that Ewell did not seem to notice.
    â€œI want you to hear about it from my potner,” said Ewell, placing one hand softly on the Mercedes hood. “We going to have us a little party tonight. At my villa. A private screening of her latest film. It’s called Foxy Frolics and it’s a winner, I guarantee. Just me and my potner and you and her leading lady. She’s actually a wonderful girl named Cheryl Lee from Chapel Hill and she’s as smart as she can be. What she really wants to do is play the violin for the Appalachian symphony. She’s into erotic movies for the money. What she really is a musician. What talent! The party is her idea. She wants to meet you. For some reason she thinks you’re the smartest and sexiest man she ever saw. I told her you were as dumb as me, just richer, har har.”
    A rushing black tide seemed to be filling one end of the garage. When he closed one eye, then the other, it did not go away. But when he turned his head a little