Behind her there was a sound. She whirled and tried to see into the darkness of the living room. There was only shadow and deeper shadow, and she felt the old, familiar near-panic of night fear.
“This is my house,” she told herself. She walked carefully, her eyes wide, head not turning but her eyes flicking from side to side. In the darkness, her eyes played tricks, picking up motion at the far edge of her peripheral vision. Her hand was shaking and the cold sweat of fear was back as she stabbed once, twice, three times before finding the light switch and flooding the room with blessed light.
George was hard to arouse. When he could understand, she told him the wind was blowing and the fire was in danger of spreading. He rose, groaning, went with her to the living room, turned out the light so that he could see outside, watched the glow of embers in the wind and shrugged. “It’ll be all right,” he said.
“Shouldn’t we go out and put it out or cover it with dirt or something?”
He groaned, stretching already stiff muscles. “You go if you’re so worried.”
He left her, stumbling back to fall into the bed. She almost ran out of the room, fighting the need to look behind her, although her reason told her that the shadows were nothing more than her familiar furniture. She had difficulty getting back to sleep. She did not dream again, but there was pain in her legs when she awoke, the achy pain of sore muscles. That and nothing more.
George, too, was stiff. He made a great show of it and demanded tender treatment, which he received, with a special breakfast and a rub-down afterwards. Then, in spite of his new blisters on his hands, he was determined to get back to his pioneering operation. “Work the stiffness out,” he said.
It was another lovely day. They began work just before noon that Sunday. They cut and hacked and mowed and sawed and chopped their way into the tangled growth, piling brush high, burning it. It was rewarding work because their progress was so visible. The area in front of the house began to take on a parklike look. They left the larger trees, which were thickly spaced, selected patterns to be left in the smaller growth, left all pines to help form a carpet of mulch with fallen pine needles, and they trimmed holly and yaupon so that they would grow more shapely. The lawnmower mulched leaves and twigs, leaving a carpet of brown behind them.
They had sandwiches on the deck overlooking the clear pond, followed them with cold beer, went back at it and hacked away a swatch of underbrush, which was burned in early evening darkness.
Gwen slept fitfully, with vague dreams. On Monday morning she was sore in every muscle.
Birds and squirrels loved the newly cleared area, scratching and digging happily. The squirrels drove the two outside dogs almost into hysterics. They were brazen little animals, coming to within a few feet of a sleeping dog, chattering, and then beating a hasty retreat when the dog aroused himself and gave chase.
By Wednesday, when George took a half-day off, Gwen was moving with more ease. George was fascinated with the clearing operation. They spent the afternoon cutting and burning, and the view was opening up. George talked about clearing all around the clear pond and then cutting bridle paths through the woods. Gwen said he certainly was ambitious. He said he’d already lost two pounds.
Gwen enjoyed the outside work. It was pleasantly warm, the sun was brilliant. There was enough wind to cool freshly created sweat, and it was sort of nice, at the end of the day, to look back and see where they had cut, the parklike, clear spaces under the trees, the openness in direct contrast to the lush growth of spring in the surrounding woods. She liked the fires, too. A cold beer was fine after hours of hard work bending, stacking, pulling, carrying, and cutting. She was the official tree shaper, armed with a small saw, powerful clippers, and a critical eye. Soft green branches fell as she shaped and patterned. Limbs too low to the ground fell to the saw.
She attributed her restless sleep to the tiredness of her body. The vague dreams were disturbing, but dreams were no new thing to her. As a child, she had always dreamed, in color, in painful vividness, and her dreams had almost always been bad. Child dreams were running in some thickness which slowed her movements to a crawl, while an unseen but terrible something closed in on her. Child dreams were being in a school room, suddenly discovering that she was naked. Her brush-clearing dreams were more vague, forgotten when she awoke save for a faint sense of unease, and were associated, she felt, with her aching muscles. This, she felt, would pass. Exercise never hurt anyone.
The change in her feelings toward the house bothered her more than the fitful sleep and the dreams. The friendly house had become just a house, a space of darkness and shadow. A childish feeling of threat.
In addition, her old hang-ups were making themselves felt. She was unable to achieve the feeling of abandonment, missed it, resorted to faking her climaxes when George wanted to make love during the day or with the lights on. She felt an overwhelming urge to drag the protective covers over her body to hide the shameful act, but fought this urge. She was not going to disappoint George, was determined not to have to hear questions, should she reveal that she was having a relapse into the neuroticism of her younger years.
Days alone in the house were filled with make-do tasks. She was becoming a perfectionist housekeeper. When George complained, she laughed at herself. “Is it that bad?”
“Honey, I can’t even lay down my hat without you hanging it up in the closet, and it’s been so long since I’ve used a dirty ashtray I feel indecently tidy. Do you know that you’re gotten up three times already to empty this one particular ashtray?”
They were watching television. She had, she realized, been more interested in watching George, and leaping up to clean the ashtray after each of his cigarettes, than in watching the program.
“Find something to occupy yourself,” he said. “Take a lover. Get a hobby.”
“Sure,” she said.
She drove the M.G. into town the next day, bought sixty dollars’ worth of art supplies, moved things around in the studio room, and became an artist. George examined her efforts, kept as a surprise, and grinned. “Looks like trees,” he said.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Why in red?”
“Why?” She shrugged. “It’s not really red. Sort of maroon. They look that way in the mornings with the sun on them.”
“Send that gal to an eye doctor,” George said. He hugged her. “Go, girl. I’m pleased to see you interested in something.” He laughed. “Even red trees.”
She’d taken art lessons, knew the basics of composition and the handling of colors, but had, she felt, precious little talent. But she liked the fresh smell of the paints and the ting of turpentine. She spent long hours, while George was working, in the studio. Her subject was almost invariably the view out the windows, toward the marsh. Trees.
“Trees again?” George would ask.
“I’m going to become the definitive painter of twisted oaks,” she said.
“When are you going to clean up this outhouse?” George asked playfully.
“You’re never satisfied. When I was a perfect wife you complained. When I let the work go, being a genius seriously involved in putting every variety of tree onto canvas, you complain.”
“Just as long as you don’t sublimate your sex urge into your work,” he teased.