Driving to Skowhegan, through the swirling snow, at no more than ten miles an hour, her rescuer identified himself as Burt Proctor — did she remember him? Feebly she nodded, yes. Yes, she did. He told her that he was living on his father’s farm, though not farming, working in Skowhegan, he had a small construction firm, they’d gone to school together, he was two or three years ahead of her, he was sorry to hear of her mother’s death, he’d heard in fact that she was back visiting, dealing with her mother’s estate, he’d drive her to the Skowhegan hospital, she’d be all right. Maybe she’d broken something? Her collarbone, ribs. Fingers. And her face — her face was lacerated, a little. They’d fix her up in emergency just fine. She tried to respond, would have liked to laugh with relief, instead of crying with relief, she wasn’t a weak woman, and how grateful she was, and what did it mean that Burt Proctor of all people had rescued her, saved her from death on the Cuttler’s Mill Road where their families had long lived, only a few miles apart. Burt Proctor was bearded now, his coarse black beard short-trimmed and threaded with gray; his eyebrows too were coarse, nearly meeting at the bridge of his nose in a way she didn’t remember from when he’d been a boy; there was a distracting, hooklike scar on his upper lip. He wore a practical winter hat, not very clean, with prominent ear flaps and a strap that buckled beneath his chin, and a dull-red sheepskin jacket. His face that was no longer a boy’s smooth good-looking face but the face of an adult man who’d suffered losses. For the elder Proctors, too, had surely passed away, she believed she’d heard this, so much time had passed in her absence. Burt Proctor was telling her he’d been making improvements on the old place since moving back, he’d lived in town while married, had two kids, teenagers now, but his family was broke-up and he didn’t get to see the boys very often now, they were living with their mother and stepfather in Portland. The odd words broke-up were poignant in her ears, she blinked back tears, felt a trickle of moisture running down her face, and Burt Proctor smiled at her and wiped her face with the back of his hand, gently, as you might wipe a child’s runny nose, and now she was embarrassed for it was blood he’d wiped away, blood smeared on his right hand, this was an intimacy she hadn’t been prepared for, and didn’t know how to assess.
In Skowhegan there was the Sunoco station: bright-lit, busy, a tow truck steaming exhaust near the road. And there were vehicles on Main Street, not many, slow-moving and ponderous as ancient beasts, and a county snowplow spewing snow at the curb, red light winking on top of the cab. What relief: here in Skowhegan things were under control, the storm had been expected, emergency vehicles were in readiness, no one would perish in the cold, in drifting snow. She was in pain by now, considerable pain, now the numbness had passed from her, but she drew breath in relief seeing so much activity, lighted buildings and houses and the Skowhegan hospital (where her mother had died at 4:20 A.M. when she’d been out at the house, unable to be with her) lighted and bustling with activity. As Burt Proctor in his red sheepskin jacket like a tall huntsman carried her in his strong arms into the emergency room yet strangely asking her what had become of her pony? that beautiful little Shetland? and she smiled in confusion for she hadn’t owned a pony — had she? She’d yearned for one, she’d begged her parents for years, but nothing had come of it; yet now Burt Proctor seemed to be remembering her pony fondly, describing it as pebble-gray with a finespun silver mane and flowing silver tail; a prancing Shetland upon which she’d ridden proudly as Little Snow-Drop in one of the books her grandmother had given her. If I had no pony in my life it’s only fair that I be given my pony now. For it turned out that she’d been injured more seriously in the accident on the Cuttler’s Mill Road than she would have liked to think. Lifted by emergency room attendants from her rescuer’s arms, she looked back at him seeing to her horror a mask-sized imprint of blood soaked into the man’s sheepskin jacket. And his bare hands, too, were bloody. He called after her words of encouragement and affection as they bore her away to save her life.
Because he waited for her, never ceased thinking of her, through the next several hours, her life was saved. She would tell him, “Somehow, I knew this. I knew you were there, and would have been at my side if they’d allowed it.”
There was the confusion of the emergency room that was so brightly lit, frantic with activity, not quiet as you’d expect a hospital; winking lights like swirling, furious snowflakes cascading out of the sky. Yet the snowflakes had been so strangely faded. Like the discolored, faintly cracked keys of Grandma’s upright piano. Grandma had paid for her piano lessons when her father didn’t think they could afford it, and it was at Grandma’s house, of course, she’d practiced her pieces: “Three Blind Mice,” “A Fox Went Out,” “Hey Diddle-Diddle,” a showy Czerny exercise in which the second and third fingers of both hands buzzed up and down the keyboard as rapidly as you could make them go—”The Two Bees.” She’d loved Grandma’s piano and she’d inherited Grandma’s piano but — where was it now?
At the old house. In the country. In the snow. With the rest of your things.
Her rescuer waited for her at the hospital and at last she was discharged, leaning on his arm, walking with difficulty, tight bands of gauze and adhesive wrapped around her upper chest so that she could scarcely breathe, and flesh-colored bandages on her lacerated face. “Please don’t look at me, I look like a savage,” she said, but Burt Proctor said, “No. You’re beautiful. Come on.” Through the now lightly falling snow they walked. He brought her to a restaurant for a late meal, for they were both famished. She would not have believed she could eat in her exhausted state yet she did eat, trembling with hunger, and happiness. They sat close together on the same side of the booth, nudging shoulders. On the table was a small vase of bright red carnations that, inspected, turned out to be plastic. Dim funky-sweet rock music played, out of the shadows as out of the past. She understood that this was her past, of which she’d been cheated. Burt Proctor was saying, “I didn’t seem to realize how much I loved my parents, while they were alive,” and she was saying, “I didn’t seem to realize how much I loved my parents and my grandmother while I was alive,” then, realizing her mistake, quickly adding, “—I mean, while they were alive.” Burt Proctor laughed at her misspoken words. She saw the love for her in his eyes, and was stricken to the heart and could not speak. Her hair spilled down her back. It had come undone in the emergency room. She hadn’t had the opportunity to brush it and fasten it back up in a crownlike braid around her head like the beautiful golden-haired princess in the tower. And her hair wasn’t golden but merely dark brown. Yet Burt Proctor touched it gently with his roughened fingers. Burt Proctor touched her cheek gently. Never had she been so close to a man with a beard like Burt Proctor’s: wirelike, bristly, a coarse black threaded with coarser gray hairs. And that hooklike scar on his upper lip. He was saying, “I didn’t seem to realize how I loved you, when we were young,” quickly adding, “—I mean, younger.” She was saying, “I didn’t seem to realize, either — how much I loved you. I mean — love you.” It must have been the codeine they’d given her at the hospital — for her to be speaking in such a way. Yet it was the truth, she was a woman who spoke the truth, and Burt Proctor was clearly a man who spoke the truth and would not abide anything less in others. That was the way of men in Maine, men and women both, and she meant to be worthy of that heritage. Burt Proctor framed her face in his hands and kissed her, she wanted only to kiss that scar as if she might heal it, heal any hurt in this good, decent man’s life as she sensed he would wish to heal any hurt in hers. They were breathless, trembling. It was all happening so quickly. Yes, it’s absurd. My heart will be lacerated. There are no fairy tales. He will hurt me simply by touching me. If I love him, I will never be free again. Yet she was laughing like a young girl, and Burt Proctor was laughing, elated and excited, a little frightened at what was happening to them, that seemed to rush at them blurred with speed. When he asked her to come with him, to stay the night with him at a Skowhegan hotel, she said yes, and kissed him again, and walking in the clear, freezing, starlit night, leaning on his arm, she began to cry with happiness, for happiness is so simple, so obvious.