They were silent. Barbara said nothing. A few birds came hopping across the lawn, past the garden of flowers, big dark birds, listening for worms. Carl watched them hopping by, cocking their heads, waiting, then going on. The birch trees by the side of the house swayed back and forth with the faint afternoon wind.
“It’s too bad when people don’t take care of their pets,” Barbara said presently.
“Well, perhaps it was a good thing. At least, for me. It had quite an effect on me. I never really got over it. Seeing the cat there, in the wet grass.”
“What kind of an effect?”
“It was the kind of thing that made me begin to lose interest in my hobbies. That made me see that something was wrong. I started moving away from all my hobbies and things. Once in a while I wish I had them back. Once in a while I find myself thinking about them. They filled up so much of my life. I could have gone on. Becoming a biologist. Something to do with microscopes and slides. Perhaps I should have. I dream about it. I dream about some old book store, with old adventure magazines piled up. Or a stamp store with rare stamps still on the old covers. I saved stamps and magazines. I had heaps of dusty things.”
Carl closed his eyes, putting his arm across his face to blot out the sun. He sighed.
“It’s nice,” Barbara said.
“Yes, it’s very warm and comfortable. The grass and the sun. Waiting for the new owners to come. Dozing and lying and waiting. While the grass grows around us. It’s growing right now, while we’re lying here. Up and up. Higher all the time.” Carl’s voice trailed off. “Up around us. Covering us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“As if we had all died. All of us that are still here. The few still left. Stretched out calmly, with our arms folded across our chests. Waiting for the undertakers to come. That’s them—the new owners. Our undertakers. Coming from over the hills. Soon we’ll be able to hear the sound. The rumble of their—of their hearses. The distant rumble, coming closer and closer.”
He yawned and became silent.
Barbara turned her head, gazing at Carl lying beside her, stretched out on the grass, his arm over his eyes, his mouth open. He looked very young. His skin was pale and clear. He was big. Six feet, probably. A lot bigger than most men she had known. But Carl wasn’t a man. He was still a boy. A boy, thinking about his microscope and stamps and books.
But someday he would begin to get old, too. He would dry up and wither away like everyone else. What he said was true. They would all die, and their remains would be turned under the ground, under the damp ground. Under the grass. Where the sun didn’t shine at all. Where it was cold and dark, and things moved around. Blind things, reaching and feeling. Cold clammy things that touched and felt. That oozed along.
Barbara sat up. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. It was hot. A bright, hot day. She took a deep breath of the fresh air. It smelled good. It smelled of all the flowers and the birch trees. And the drying grass around them. She gazed down at the boy. He had taken his arm from his face. His heavy blond hair glistened in the sun. How smooth his skin was! Even his chin and neck. Did he really shave? Probably not very often. Barbara watched him for a long time without moving. He was big and young, very young. Still thinking about his childhood. He was like the day. Like the sunlight and the trees and the garden of flowers. He was blond and glistening and full of life. She could see perspiration glowing on his neck, above his shirt. He was warm from the sun; she was warm, too. She rubbed her arms, yawning sleepily.
Carl opened his eyes. “This is Mark Twain weather,” he said. “Along the Mississippi. Catfish and rafts.”
His eyes were blue. Warm, friendly blue.
“Makes you want to sleep.”
“Then sleep.”
“No.” She drew back suddenly, away from him. “No thanks.” For some reason she had thought of Verne, and the sagging cot in her room. The covers, the clothes. Verne and the cup of lukewarm whisky. “I’ve slept enough, in my time.”
“You know, if a person computed the total hours spent in sleeping during his lifetime—”
“We already discussed that once, today.”
“That’s so. I guess we did. Sorry.”
Barbara nodded.
“It’s interesting, though,” Carl said presently. “Interesting to think about. Sleep involves time. Time is the fundamental problem of philosophy.” He waited hopefully, but Barbara said nothing. She had lit a second cigarette and was staring down at it, deep in meditation.
“What?” she said abruptly.
“I was just talking about time.”
“Oh.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all. Go on with what you were saying.”
“I was just talking. You know, I’ve started an essay about this kind of thing. Time and change. Death, growth. Trying to sum up what I think. A sort of treatise.”
She nodded.
“A summary of what I believe. A philosophical credo. I have it all wrapped up with brown paper and cord, to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Is it finished?”
“Almost. I have to get somebody to type it up for me. It’s in longhand.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Are you going to try to have it published?”
“Well, I could get it published, if I wanted. I know a woman that works for one of the big publishing places. But I don’t think I’ll do that.” Carl plucked vaguely at a stalk of grass. “I think I’ll just keep it around to look at, from time to time. It has no universal value. I may well be the only person who ever reads it.”
“Maybe you could show it to me, sometime.”
Carl brightened. “That’s an interesting idea. I might read you parts of it. Not long parts, of course. A few sections here and there.”
“That would be nice.”
Carl warmed up. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? If it bored you, we could stop instantly. Most of it is pretty dull, but you might be interested in some parts. I’ll go over it and pick out the interesting parts. What do you say? Do you mind listening to some of it?”
“I’d like to.” Barbara studied the boy thoughtfully. He was smiling at her, his eyes large and blue. Again she thought of him, standing timidly outside her door. Standing in the hall, gathering himself together to knock. Trying to get up enough courage to do what he wanted to do. Twice he had done that. The first night, while she was putting all her things away. And then again, while she and Verne were in the room together. Both times he had come, the big tall boy with his honest blue eyes, his blond hair. Siegfried... The innocent youth, come to redeem and save.
Carl’s face was devoid of guile. His smile was warm and open, without secret meaning or intent. Now he wanted to read his essay to her. What did it mean? Anything beyond what he said it meant? No. Carl was as open and guileless as Christ Himself. If it were anybody else asking her— But she could not imagine him telling a lie. She could not imagine the great blond features screwed up into deceit.
“Yes, I’d like to,” she said again.
“Fine.”
Barbara got slowly to her feet, putting out her cigarette.
“Where are you going?”
“It’s getting cold. I’m going in.”
“Is it?” Carl scrambled up. “You’re going inside already?”