Chapter II

James pointed to a chart depicting an abstract representation of the Material and Astral Planes, letting the tip of the ruler rest on a spot within an overlap of the two graphics. He stoically ignored the amused snickering which emenated from the room behind him. "You," he began, "are here - "

An enormous ectoplasm-covered spitball composed of the contents of an entire loose-leaf notebook splattered right in the middle of the Material Plane. The snickering grew in intensity.

James lowered his ruler and looked over his shoulder to regard the unruly Trio, who quieted immediately and presented him with angelic smiles all around. "Now," he said, gingerly removing the Planes chart from its rack and placing it on the floor, "moving on."

The last chart was a dot-and-line type graph. "This," James explained, "shows the distribution of the Astral and Material Planes present in people: from life, to existance as a ghost, to after they have crossed over. That last one," he added, "was born of my own speculation, of course."

He looked again over his shoulder at the Trio, who stared dumbly back at him. "You may want to take notes on this part," he said helpfully.

Fatso raised his hand and began waving it like a checkered flag at the Indy 500. "Ooo! Ooo!" he cried urgently.

James slumped. He felt like Mr. Kotter. "Yes?"

The big ghost opened his notebook to reveal that it was empty, save for a few shreds of binder paper, the sort that gets left behind when one hastily rips the stuff out without bothering to open the rings first. "I'm outta paper."

This caused Stretch and Stinkie to start snickering all over again. Fatso forced himself to remain as impassive as the therapist, which made the other two snicker even harder.

James straightened up and turned back to his chart. "Borrow some from one of the others," he said quickly, and without further comment from anyone, he resumed the lesson.

"Here," said the psychiatrist, indicating the first dot with his ruler, "is Life. The person is mostly Material, although I theorize that even during life we all have a bit of Astral present in our physical beings. I believe this explains the so-called sixth sense."

Stinkie belched rudely. Fatso passed a note on a piece of paper he had borrowed from Stretch.

James slid his ruler to the second dot. "Ghosts are more or less comprised of an equal mixture of the Material and Astral Planes, which is why you can fly through walls and everything, but can still exist here on the Material Plane. In fact, you can probably exist on either plane, as opposed to a being which is more than half Astral - they wouldn't be able to exist here at all."

Stinkie made armpit noises. Fatso passed another note.

"After the soul has crossed over," James concluded, his ruler indicating the final dot, "they are mostly Astral, but I am of the assumption that they have as much of the Material Plane in them at this point as they had of the Astral in life. I believe that someone who has crossed over can reverse the entire process, making reincarnation possible - "

"Hey Doc," interrupted Stretch, without bothering to raise his hand first. "Is there gonna be a test on this or something?"

James gripped the ruler in both hands. "No."

"How do you know all this stuff, Doc?" Fatso wanted to know.

"I've been studying parapsychology for a long time," was the doctor's answer. I've always been interested in it." He didn't bother to mention to add that in this case, 'always' meant following his wife's death.

Stinkie cupped his chin in his hand, leaning on the table. "Jeez," he commented, "didn't you have any friends when you were a kid?"

James smiled wanly and crossed over to his chair. He sat down and folded his arms on the desk. "Only a few," he said truthfully.

"So being a spaz is kinda like a family thing then."

James looked directly at Stretch. "Kat is not a 'spaz'," he clarified. "She's just having difficulty...adjusting to her new school."

"It's been two months."

"A lot of difficulty."

Stretch raised an eyebrow.

"You know," Fatso announced to his two buddies, "I for one am proud that the Doc decided to waste all his ghostly knowledge on us."

Stinkie bobbed his head in affirmation.

"Well, I didn't, really - " Here James stopped upon noticing the Trio glaring at him. "That is, I'm taking notes on everything I'm learning about ghost therapy from working with you three. I hope to put out a publication on the subject."

Stinkie stared at the psychiatrist with wide eyes. "Have you learned very much from us yet, Doc?" he probed.

James smiled again. "A little," he said, with emphasis on the word 'little'. He looked at his watch. "Well, that's your hour," he said, getting up.

The Trio grumbled their disappointment.

"You don't really like going over to that screechy Laslowe gal's place, do ya Doc?" Stretch demanded.

James paused in putting on his coat to ponder. Finally he looked straight at his three patients and said:

"Well, for one thing, she's very friendly."

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Viola Laslowe opened the door and leaned in the archway of her oceanview home, smiling provocatively at her visitor. She was wearing a short tigerprint dress, which rather clashed with her unrealistically red hair job. She rapped her crimson-laquered press-on nails on the heavy oak door, her other hand busy gripping a sweating glass of an unidentifiable alcoholic substance.

"I've been waiting for you, Doctor," Viola purred (or rather, rasped). "I've missed you since your last visit."

James wondered briefly why he was so popular all of a sudden. "I saw you yesterday, Mrs. Laslowe."

Viola forced down a big swallow of her drink. "Please," she insisted, wiping her lips with the back of her glass-clutching hand, "Call me Viola...James." She seized James by the lapels and hauled him inside, shoving him behind her into the foyer. After a hasty glance around outside, she slammed the door shut and bolted it.

"I apologize for the way the house looks today," Viola babbled, leading James (who really knew the way by now) towards the sitting-room, "but that damn foreign cleaning woman went and got herself deported. Here we are." She took a seat on the couch, inviting James to join her. He sat in a tapestry chair opposite her instead.

"I'm just sorry we can't hold these sessions in my own office," said James, opening his portfolio to rifle through his charts.

Viola laughed violently, losing some of her drink onto the couch. She waved James off with her free hand. "Don't be silly, dear," she told him bemusedly. "I don't care what your reasons are - besides, it's much more cozy here, don't you think?" She swung both legs up onto the couch and reclined, still clutching her drink. She leered at the therapist seductively.

James was much too busy searching through his portfolio to notice. He pulled a leather-bound notebook out to get it out of the way and set it on the coffee table, then started searching again.

Viola quickly sat back up. She eyed the notebook greedily, but said nothing.

James sighed helplessly. "I can't seem to be able to find the notes for your session..."

"That's all right," Viola interrupted him, then looked at her glass, which was still a good third full. She gulped it all down, much to James' surprise (after all, who knew exactly just what was in that), and put the glass heavily on the table next to the notebook. "Would you be a dear, James, and fill that back up for me, hmmm?" She looked at James expectantly.

James slowly got up and took the glass, then paused. "...What exactly...what was in that?"

Viola shrugged widely. "I don't remember," she told him. "Just put any old thing." She smiled broadly at him.

James paused again, looking in the glass, then wandered off to the bar in the other room (he knew exactly where that was too).

Viola waited for him to leave, then pounced on the notebook. She flipped though it eagerly, stopping near the end without actually reading it, and laid it across her lap. She reached under the couch cushions and came up with a tiny spy's camera. The widow then proceeded to snap pictures of the notebook's pages - and stopped suddenly. This wasn't what she wanted. She only had a few seconds to glare at the strange notes in frustration before having to quickly slam the notebook back down on the coffee table upon hearing a fierce canine yapping from the bar.

James walked in with the fresh drink, a small lap dog of indeterminate breed latched onto his ankle. The animal was drooling profusely, and had already suceeded in soaking the cuff of the psychiatrist's trousers.

"Pavlov!" chided Viola in fiegned anger, stuffing the camera back into the couch. "Stop that! Right now!" She clapped her hands sharply. The dog detatched itself and ran to its mistress, canine saliva making a trail in the plush carpeting. It looked over its shoulder at James and growled.

"I don't think he likes me much," James commented, setting the drink down before Viola.

"Oh pooh," said Viola, patting Pavlov on the head and picking up the glass. "Pavlov wuves you. We both do." She took a long, slow sip of the transparent, bubbling liquid, then pulled the glass away and stared at it. "Oh, James!" she cried. "This is absolutely the most fabulous drink I've ever had! What's in it?"

"Plain soda water. I'd rather you didn't drink during our sessions." James sat back down and put his notebook away. "Well, I'll have to do this without any notes - "

"James," Viola interrupted him urgently, "how has your book been coming?" She leaned forward, listening with rapt interest.

"Oh." James scratched the back of his neck. He had been finding himself in the past openly discussing his work with Viola. Oh well, he thought, what did it matter? Viola wasn't involved in the psychology field.

"I wrote a new chapter last night," he answered. "Ghostly Insecurities. Now," he resumed, not noticing the light that came into the widow's eyes, "let's just pick up exactly where we left off yesterday. You were telling me about your husband. Again."

"Oh yes. Charles." Viola set both Pavlov and the glass down and began to rub her knees with her palms. "He was such a stingy man..."

James sat and listened to the same thing he had sat and listened to nearly every day for the past month or so. He heard about Charles Laslowe's booming used car industry, his fortune, his marriage to Viola, and finally his mysterious death six years ago. Apparently, his heart had just failed in the middle of the night - at least that's what the police file said. Viola Laslowe had inherited everything.

When the widow was finished, James took his glasses off and stared at them for a moment before he spoke. "Mrs. Laslowe," he said at length, "I don't think you need therapy."

"Yes I do!" Viola insisted, sitting up straight. "I feel so empty without my husband!"

"Mrs. Laslowe, I don't think you even miss your husband."

The widow opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

"I don't believe there is anything else I can help you with." James got up and, after putting his glasses back on, retrieved his portfolio. "I'm going to make this our last session."

Viola, standing, grabbed up the glass and went to take a drink, then remembered it was nonalcoholic and lowered it to waist level. "All right," she said slowly, "if that's the way you want it." She looked longingly after her therapist.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Laslowe." James headed for the door. "Have a Merry Christmas," he called over his shoulder from the foyer.

Viola just stood silently by the couch, her free hand on her hip. She listened for the sound of the front door closing as James let himself out, then looked over at Pavlov. The dog was snoring, its head lying in a big damp spot in the carpet. She looked back at the hallway.

"Dammit," she said sourly. "Now what am I supposed to do?" Then she exhaled loudly. "I've got to get that chapter!"

The widow crossed to a bronze lion statue that stood by the bookcase as if guarding it and tugged its ear. The bookcase swung open to reveal a dark passageway.

"Pavlov, come," Viola called over her shoulder as she took a fancy lighter shaped like a dragon from the bookcase and flicked it on. With a snort, Pavlov roused itself and sauntered down the passage after its mistress.

Viola opened the door at the end of the hallway and entered the small room beyond. Now, this room could have been described as some sort of wizard's lab, if it weren't for the fact that there was only one bunsen burner and one beaker on the rickety little table, not to mention that there were only two items in the room that could be considered even remotely arcane: a full-length mirror with a handcarved frame leaning against the wall, and an overly ornamental gold amulet hanging over the mirror's corner. On the floor was drawn a crude, unfinished chalk circle.

Viola set her glass of soda water down on the table next to the beaker. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if to clear her mind, then leaned over the table. She passed one open palm over the glass, then the other. "Whipstaff...Whipstaff..." she murmered as a picture of the mansion slowly began to appear in the surface of the soda water. Viola squinted at it. "Damn carbonation," she muttered disgustedly, then brightened a bit as the picture came into better focus and began to zoom around the interior of the house.

"Good," she smirked at length. "Nobody home."