"At first I didn't think anything about it, but by the time I reached the second light, I remembered that a very personal essay I wrote about my husband was in my notebook, in which I'd carefully printed my name, address, and telephone number." I pulled my backpack from under my chair, unzipped it, and turned it inside out. Three ball point pens, a felt-tipped marker, two dimes, and a quarter rolled out, but no notebook.

Keep going, said Peter Canary's eyes. You're on the right track.

"Typical," complained the graduate student sitting next to Peter Canary. The graduate student grabbed the quarter as it traveled toward the edge of the table, and put it in his pocket. I don't think he thought anyone saw him. Peter Canary signalled to me again, Keep going.

"Anyway," I said, "I didn't want anyone to be able to trace me, so I made an illegal U-turn and drove back here as fast as I could. The parking lot was deserted. The floodlights were off. There was no moon. It was really dark. I began to realize, dimly, that trying to find my notebook was a stupid idea, but I was so disturbed at the possibility of someone finding it that I ran down the hill toward our classroom. The spires, turrets, and gargoyles on the main house looked spooky. I went past what I figured was the carriage house. You know, the place the actors practice voice projection. I finally reached our classroom. At least I think it was our classroom. It was very dark. Of course the door was locked. I don't know why I imagined that it would be open. I tried pushing on the window."

The graduate student whispered to Peter Canary, "Is she stalling? Why doesn't she ever do her assignment?" Peter Canary seemed to suppress a smile. What a story! he beamed on the wavelength that only I was receiving. I continued, "I heard a voice from the carriage house behind me, 'Helloooo, helloooo, helloooo.' At first I thought it was the actors, but after the third 'helloooo' I panicked. I ran behind the carriage house through an open door, up some steps, and onto what turned out to be a stage. Did you know there is a theater here at the Center?"

"I became aware of more voices, hushed, an audience waiting for a perfonnance perhaps. Suddenly, a spotlight focused on me. There was clapping, cheering, stomping, and then hissing from a crowd in seats in front of me. I turned and ran as fast as possible from the theater the way I came in. The audience followed me, up and over the stage, down the steps, and out the door.

"I am a jogger. I can run six miles in under 45 minutes, but the group behind me was fast, too. Some of them came so close that I could feel spray on my neck and arms from their hoarse breathing. They followed me past the gardener's cottage, the guest house, the gazebo, and through a door in the stone wall at the edge of the orchard. The door leads to a tunnel that goes all the way to the C & O Canal. The tunnel ended in the woods near the 4-mile marker on the towpath. the group was still following me. I decided to head toward Washington. Even though I was tired, I thought maybe I could run that far. But within minutes it occurred to me that maybe the herd behind me could run that far, too.

"Then I remember the assertiveness training class I took last summer. I turned around and held up my hand like a traffic officer. For the first time I saw my followers. They were short, hairy, and wrinkled. Maybe self-confidence would work. 'Stop,' I ordered. 'I am bothered by your behavior. I do not like being followed. Tell me what you want.

‘‘Sing, sing, sing,' they chanted. 'We want you to sing.' "Sing? I am not musical. I do not know any lyrics. I cannot carry a tune. Instead, I tried to change the subject 'Where are you from,' I asked.

‘‘‘We live under the Randolph Estate,' said an especially wrinkled fellow. 'We paid for a concert there. We want you to sing or we will have to take you with us.' They looked serious. One of them had chains, hammers, nails, and a welding torch. I thought I might be running out of time."

I wondered if anyone in the class still thought I was stalling. No one was whispering. Peter Canary looked impressed. I continued, "'Stories?' I asked the bizarre crowd that was following me. 'Do you like stories?'"

‘‘‘Do we like stories?' they replied. Like obedient children, they sat down and crossed their legs in the middle of the towpath.

"I almost panicked again. I hadn't expected to tell stories right then. 'Wait,' I told them. 'not just yet.' I needed to delay their expectations but keep them reassured or I might never get home alive. 'Next week, ' I told them, 'I know where you can hear lots of stories. I'm taking a creative writing class at the Fine Arts Center on the Randolph Estate. It meets in the gardener's cottage every Wednesday. The teacher assigned us to tell stories out loud next week. There are twelve of us. Some of the students have brilliant imaginations. I'm sure the stories will be good.'

"The smallest one spoke up. 'The gardener's cottage? That's right over our bedroom. It would be wonderful.' the rest of them looked at him, dubious. But clearly they were excited. They conferred among themselves."

I hadn't expected that I could keep my fiction going this long. I guess I figured that someone would unmask me and it would be over. I had no idea how to end this monologue. I looked at Peter Canary . Was he looking at the door? The door? Okay - I continued as fast as I could think, "The tallest one, probably a good 18 inches shorter than I, spoke. 'How will we hear? We don't want anyone to see us.'

‘‘‘Easy, I said. 'I'll be the last one to come to class. I'll leave the door open so you can hear.' Twelve stories all at once. Probably more stories than they had heard in 50 years. I could see that the prospect thrilled them. They conferred again, for a long time. I was nervous. I had nothing more to offer. If twelve stories wouldn't buy my freedom, nothing would. I waited. The spokesman came back to me. 'All right,' he said. 'On one condition. Remember to leave the door open. Now don't forget. If you do ' "The whole group spoke together to finish his sentence, '...we're going to get you after your class,' and they scampered back up the towpath. The one with the gear turned and shook his chains at me. 'Don't forget,' he warned repeatedly, 'Don't forget,' until they were so far away that I couldn't see them any more."

The obnoxious graduate student opened the door. The others got up, too, and looked outside. Moonbottom kept saying, "Terrific action." Peter Canary didn't say a word, but by then I knew I'd see him after class.