“Yes?”
“Is everything all right? I hope I haven’t given you some wrong impression.”
“What kind of wrong impression?” I demanded.
She appeared to be about to answer, then let out breath and sank back into her chair.
“Never mind,” she said.
I gazed at her for a long moment, by the end of which, if I was not mistaken, the faintest hint of disquiet had begun to creep into her face. It was then that I left, striding back down the hall the way I had come.
When I reached the exit, I turned for one last look. She was there, standing outside her office door, one hand on the jamb, watching me go.
Before I returned to the house, I stopped at the sporting goods and hardware stores, to replace the items I had lost on the rock. Luckily, the arrogant sporting goods clerk was not there, and I was able to buy a new pack and climbing supplies without another confrontation. But Randall was indeed working at the hardware store, and once again it was his checkout line I found myself in, with my new hatchet and folding saw.
“Well, how are you doing today, Mr. Loesch?”
“Very well, thank you, Randall.” After a moment’s consideration, I added, “You may call me Eric.”
“All right then,” he replied, placing my purchases in a plastic sack. He told me to swipe my credit card, and then he said, “Good thing we’re being so friendly with each other, because there’s something I want to ask you.”
“What’s that?” The cash register printed a receipt, which he added to my bag.
“Your name came up when I was talking to Heph the other day. He was wondering how you were doing out there on the hill. And it occurred to me, maybe you’d want to come down to the Amvets in Milan with us for a drink or three. We have a regular Tuesday-night thing.”
For a moment, I was speechless. “That’s very kind of you,” I said at last.
He handed me my bag. “So we’ll see you tomorrow?”
That was not what I had meant, but I found myself agreeing. As I walked out the door, I wondered why. I did not want to socialize with Randall and Heph. I found Randall to be excessively assertive, even imperious; and Heph, though polite and amiable, hardly seemed interesting enough to be worth spending an evening with. This may sound rather stuck-up, but I am generally more than well enough occupied by my work, and do not require excessive social interaction.
Nevertheless, I had accepted the invitation. My susceptibility to social pressure embarrassed me. I sat behind the wheel for the second time that day, thinking of nothing, and it was only when someone pulled up beside me in the parking lot and peered at me through the window that I returned to myself and pulled away.
It was nearly evening now, so I stopped at a fast food restaurant and ate a cheeseburger in my car. My diet was poor, it was true, and my body was riddled with aches and pains. I had to get back onto a regimen. I wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to be old. Eventually, I supposed, no diet regime, no exercise regimen, would be able to obscure the passage of time. A day would come when I would not be able to repair a roof, or climb up the side of a mountain. And then climbing a ladder would become impossible, and then sanding a floor. And soon I would be helpless, and I would die. I found it difficult, however, to envision the circumstances of my death. Somehow, I could not imagine myself experiencing the kind every American hopes for — lying in bed, surrounded by family and friends, and slowly fading away into eternal rest. Indeed, the prospect seemed singularly depressing. Perhaps, if it ever became obvious that my death was imminent, and I still possessed the strength to control it, I should end my own life.
The cheeseburger sat uneasily in my gut, and I scolded myself for my indiscretion. What on earth was the matter with me?
By the time I reached the house, the sun was going down and cold had returned. I parked, climbed the front steps, and walked through the door into the darkness of the front room. I had set my bags of supplies down on the floor and was reaching for the thermostat when I experienced the same creeping unease of the night before, prompted by some faint noise from upstairs. I was convinced that someone was inside my house.
I didn’t hesitate and allow fear to take root. Instead I sprang into action, climbing the steps two at a time, flipping the light switches as I went. The hallway exploded into light, and I ran from room to room, illuminating everything and throwing open the closet doors. But, as before, there was nothing. The closets were empty of all but my possessions. Beneath my bed was only dust. I did discover that I had left my bedroom window open an inch or so — perhaps a draft had been causing the door to bang against its frame while I was out.
Frustrated and exhausted, my body throbbing from my injuries, my mind racing with the day’s uncharacteristic social interaction, I stumbled into the bath and, soon after, fell into bed. I dreamt with unusual intensity. A girl appeared in the bedroom doorway, long black hair framing a pale thin face. She was illuminated by a cold light without any clear source, and wore a thin nightgown of plain cotton. She could not be more than twelve years old, and I understood her to be Rachel, Avery Stiles’s daughter, who had been mentioned in his wife’s obituary. When she turned to leave, I followed her down the stairs and into the yard: she crossed the threshold of the woods and disappeared. Realizing that she was in danger, I gave chase. The nightgown flashed between the trees. I was quite naked; branches scratched and gouged my bare skin. I heard the girl scream, and came at last to a hole, a pit like the one I had fallen into — but it was far deeper, too deep to see into. I began to climb down, calling the girl’s name, as I groped with my toes for footholds in the crumbling dirt.
At last I fell, tumbling some great distance before striking the ground flat on my back. I looked down and saw the sharpened branches jutting up through my ruined body, slick with blood, and when my head fell back I found Rachel standing above, on the edge of the pit, gazing at me with empty eyes. I woke on the bedroom floor, my head throbbing, a scream curled in my throat.
It was still night. I lay, naked on the cold wood, until my heart and breath had slowed. I felt as though I hadn’t slept at all. With effort I hauled myself to my feet. Through the window came the glow of the moon behind the house; the landscape was edged with silver, the trees and rock etched against the starry sky. I am not deeply moved by beauty, and in fact may even be incapable of appreciating or even recognizing it. But there was a profound rightness to the scene outside, a natural order that the unseen moon seemed to emphasize with its clinical light. I could admire this, the ability of nature to create order out of chaos, and I stood in the window, coexisting with it, feeling some small part of it, for long minutes. Not a thought was in my head, and my dream was already half-forgotten.
But it came back to me with terrifying force when I looked down into the yard and noticed a white shape lying curled in the grass.
It was hard to make out, there at the edge of the woods, in the shadow of the house; but it had the appearance of a twisted white sheet. Could it be her? I wondered. Could the girl, the dream, have been real? I ran down the stairs, out the door, across the parking lot. The gravel scoured my bare feet and the cold air shocked my bare skin, and I made my way across the yard, the white blur looming closer.
Even when I was upon it, I couldn’t tell what I was looking at. I crouched down and reached forward, expecting to feel the soft cotton of the girl’s gown, her lifeless body beneath it. Instead, what I felt was bristly, coarse, like a woolen rug, and still warm, though no life was evident. In a moment, I understood. I jerked my hand away, stood, stepped back.