Blanche was massaging her toes through thick wool socks.
"The Congregational Church, by any chance?"
"Yes. It was."
"That was my twin sister. Hortense."
She looked up at him and John felt the back of his neck tingle.
"Did you know her?" she asked.
It took him a moment to answer. "She seemed to take an interest in me."
"That doesn't surprise me. She didn't have kids of her own and she was always meddlin' with those youngsters at that church, tellin' 'em what they should and shouldn't do. But they loved her for it. She had the best darn Halloween parties. She'd get all dressed up and do these haunted house things, 'n kids'd come from all over the neighborhood to parade through her house." Her voice had softened from the brusqueness of earlier, and she engaged John with a direct look and said, "You must've been a little boy when she died."
He answered gently, "Yes. I was."
John just stood there staring blankly at Blanche while she rubbed her foot.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then John excused himself politely, said he should be going. As he left he deposited the envelope on a table next to the door.
It was a confluence of events, to be sure, happenings that slowly seemed to construct an awareness of a place, a person. And so it was that he felt himself drawing closer to a world that was not his, and at the center of trnVworld was a woman.
CHAPTER 13
At the end of February, invitations went out announcing a reception to celebrate Armand Wilde's sixty-fifth birthday. It was to be held at the Wildes' home up in Lawrence, a stately colonial-style house set well back from the street in a grove of birch trees just behind the university chancellor's residence. The guest list included the chancellor himself, along with deans and high-ranking professors from a multitude of disciplines. Several of Dr. Wilde's former aeronautics students who were now in prestigious positions in academia or the corporate world had flown in for the occasion, which included a colloquium planned in his honor.
Sarah rode up with Susan and the baby early in the day; John, who was to leave early Monday morning for a conference in Minneapolis, was still working feverishly on the paper he was to present. He was to drive up in the afternoon in time to attend the reception.
Sarah spent the latter part of the morning and the early afternoon sequestered with Will and the other three grandchildren in the spacious third-floor attic of the Wildes' home—one long, undivided room under the eaves stretching from one side of the house to the other. The wife of the previous owner had been a dancer, and the space had been converted to a studio. Now the hardwood floor was littered with toys, and the two boys were huddled in front of a television monitor battling over turns with the PlayStation. Ashley, the youngest, had been the only one to show an interest in the baby, and she had tagged along while Sarah walked around the room with Will that afternoon, trying to lull him to sleep.
Sarah had not had time to eat since morning, had only nibbled a few of the carrots the children left on their plates. When, around four in the afternoon, Will finally fell into a sound sleep, she laid him down in the playpen, left instructions with the children to keep the video volume low, and slipped downstairs to get something to eat.
She could hear the din of voices and low-pitched laughter as she descended the stairs, and she paused, hand on the rail, and looked around. The wide French doors at the back of the house had been thrown open and a shifting sea of bodies stretched from the chande-liered foyer through the living room to the sunroom beyond. In a corner of the living room stood John's father, hemmed in by a phalanx of professors and a few eager graduate students. Armand Wilde was, in all respects, a giant of a man—over six feet four inches—and he had a way of carrying himself with his shoulders thrown back and paunch dead ahead, as if he were accustomed to ramming out of his way any and all obstacles. Watching him move through a crowd of students, one had the impression of a heavily outfitted battleship slicing through frozen seas. At the top of this bulk sat a rather delicate, rosily handsome face and a dazzling pate. And a smile. Armand Wilde always smiled. Even when he tore apart brilliant theses and reduced doctoral candidates to tears, he smiled. He was the stuff of which dictators were made—a man convinced of his own superiority and righteousness, determined to fashion the world in his own image. But Armand Wilde had no political ambitions, and so he wielded his considerable influence only within the sphere of work and family. Those who survived knew themselves to be of exceptional mettle and grew in time to admire the man; those who did not were simply destroyed.
John Wilde was one of those who stood in that elite circle at his father's side, but he seemed vaguely distracted, smiling wanly and belatedly at the pleasantries, glancing about the room. He did not hear half of what was said.
He noticed Sarah as soon as she entered the room, although he pretended not to see her at all. He had been restless and bored, and suddenly the room came alive for him. He saw her weave through the crowd quietly and noticed how she made eye contact with no one, murmuring polite apologies as she squeezed around the piano, behind a cluster of women, unsmiling, detached from them all. She made her way to the buffet table and picked up a plate from the stack. Suddenly, Susan appeared from the kitchen, nervous, her face drawn up tight with worry. There was an exchange of words; Sarah hesitated, then with some reluctance she put down the plate and followed Susan into the kitchen.
John turned away from his father's side, set his glass on the mantelpiece and headed across the room, but a stooped, florid-faced gentleman—a classics scholar and an old family friend—caught him in mid-stride and begged to hear about his recent work. But even then, engaged in conversation about that which he loved most in life, he noticed her immediately, as soon as she reappeared with a tray of champagne-filled glasses balanced effortlessly on one hand. There was a certain pride about her, an air of dignity; he had noticed it earlier, a kind of gravity tempered by grace. He excused himself and made his way through the crowd. She looked up, and he thought he saw a flicker of pleasure in her eyes. Then she smiled.
"Why are you doing this?" he said in a low voice.
"I don't mind."
"Where's the server?"
"She went home sick. And they were shorthanded to begin with."
"People can serve themselves."
Her smile broadened just a little. Then she turned away, toward a cocky graduate student who was reaching for a glass, and he caught the faint perfume of her hair.
She turned back to him and just at that moment the smile faded and her face clouded.
"What's wrong?"
"I'd better go check on Will." There was unmistakable urgency in her voice. "I've been gone too long," and she looked around for somewhere to set the tray.
"Here, give it to me."
She murmured her thanks and pressed through the crowd and dashed up the stairs.
She nearly collided with Ashley clattering down the stairs from the attic.
"What is it? What's happened?" Sarah asked.
"Aaron did it!"
"Did what?"
"Put the pillows over his head."
She took the child's hand and flew up the stairs. They reached the top and Sarah gripped the knob, but the door to the attic would not open.
"Did they lock this?"
"I don't know." Ashley was crying now. Sarah rattled the door.
"Open up, boys," she called out firmly.
She could hear muffled laughter behind the door, and Will's wails.
"He was crying and Aaron got mad and said he was tired of listening to him cry all day. And he said he didn't want an ugly little dark baby for a cousin."
Sarah felt anger surge through her, and she tried to keep her voice calm and low.
"Aaron? I know you can hear me. Open this door. If you don't, I'll have to go back down and get your father. If you open it now, I promise I won't say anything to anyone."
The laughter subsided and she could
hear footsteps approaching, and finally the sound of the latch, and the door opened.
They had piled blankets and pillows on him, and she was amazed that he had not suffocated, that he was only hot and sweating. The wailing ceased and the panic in his eyes gave way to relief as she picked him up and cradled him to her shoulder.
"Oh, baby," she whispered, kissing the sweat from his scrawny little neck, thinking once again how delicate and birdlike he seemed. "You just don't want to be left alone, do you?"
She stayed with him the rest of the afternoon, watched from the curtained attic window as the guests departed, and let him sleep nestled against her neck.
It was well after dark when John found her sitting near the window at the far end of the attic. The other children had long since been allowed outside, and Will was now asleep in his playpen. She looked up as John approached, his footsteps echoing on the bare wood floor.
"You still haven't eaten," he whispered.
"I have now." She pointed to the empty jar of Gerber chicken and peas on the window ledge.
He grimaced. "Baby food."
"It's not bad." She grinned. "It's just the texture that's a little offputting." She rose, straightening her sweater. "Is Susan ready to go?"
"Susan's staying on for a few days. With Will. I'm taking you home."
Sarah dropped her eyes. "All right. Just give me a minute to get my things."
"I'll meet you downstairs."
CHAPTER 14
Wigner [contends] that only when somebody becomes conscious of a phenomenon is it really "actual."... My own feeling is that there is an area where it is true, especially in human relationships; people becoming conscious of each other can have a tremendous effect on each other.
David Bohm, Theoretical Physicist
Armand Wilde had long since retreated to his study, but John's mother stood shivering beside one of the tall white columns that graced the entrance, watching as her son backed down the driveway. John turned and waved goodbye one last time, then she stepped back inside and closed the door.
Even then he avoided looking at Sarah, and yet he saw nothing but her. Her head was bent forward slightly as she rearranged her hair, sweeping up a long strand that had escaped the casually coiled knot at the back of her head. It was this gesture he kept seeing as he shifted his old BMW into second gear and cruised down the steep hill. A fine, dry snow was just beginning to fall.
Nancy Wilde loved Susan as if she were her own daughter, and she had a tendency to worry just a little more about Susan and John than she did her other sons and their wives. This was perhaps why, as the two women sat at the kitchen table a short while later trying to tempt Will with some mashed potatoes, she blurted out a warning to Susan that, in its candidness, took them both a bit by surprise.
"Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to send John off alone with that young woman."
"Oh, Mom, you must be joking!"
"Well, she is rather attractive."
"Do you think so?"
"She's unusual-looking."
"I think I know the kind of woman John would go for, and she's definitely not one of them." Susan threw her head back and brushed a strand of hair out of her face with the side of her hand; there was a touch of arrogance in the gesture, of absolute self-assurance. "Not at all his type." She glared down her nose at Will, who was very slowly mouthing a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
"You want to try?" she asked, proffering the spoon to her mother-in-law.
"No, honey, you're doing fine."
"No, really, I can't imagine they'd have more than two words to say to each other."
"I'm sure you're right."
"Actually, to tell you the truth, sometimes I almost wish he would have an affair."
"Susan!" Nancy's horror was real. "What an awful thing to say!"
"Mom, he's just so..."
Nancy rose quickly and plucked the kettle from the stove.
"Tea?"
Susan saw the look on her mother-in-law's face and knew she had best drop the subject.
"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
As she filled the kettle with water, Nancy Wilde scolded herself for having unleashed an unwanted confession of this sort and resolved henceforth to keep any suspicions to herself. For all her reserve, she had an eye for the subtle and was especially keen to even the slightest aberrations in the normal behavior pattern of sons and daughters, and husbands and wives. And she felt there was something not quite right about that young woman and her son, a tension in the way they seemed to avoid each other's gaze.
"Look in the backseat."
Sarah gave him a curious glance, then turned to look over her shoulder.
"The plastic bag. It's for you."
He turned to catch the look on her face and was rewarded with a smile that made him forget the road and the stoplights strung out along Iowa Street.
"Be careful. It might drip."
"What's in here?" She was peeling off the aluminum foil.
"Is it still warm?"
But she didn't answer, only shook her head as she bit into a crisp spring roll. "Delicious," she mumbled after a moment, then, with thumb and forefinger she lifted a shrimp from the plate and popped it into her mouth. "Delicious," she said again.
"Chinese food is all my parents do, I'm afraid. Apart from Mom's pot roasts."
She tilted her head sideways. "Am I complaining?"
"And I thought maybe you'd like some wine." He reached behind her seat and handed her a small Thermos. "Mom thought it was coffee."
"You are sweet," she said as she took it from him, but she avoided his eyes.
After a while he asked her if she would like to listen to some music, but she declined, said she preferred the silence on a night like this, preferred watching the snow in the headlights.
It is a common enough occurrence in places where roads slice through open prairie that creatures cross those paths unexpectedly, most often at night; but it was unusual in this particular part of the country because the highway was fenced off for the protection of cattle and wildlife, and there was little woodland cover here, only that afforded by the cottonwoods and burr oaks down near the creek beds.
They both spotted the white-tailed buck at the same time. A thing of such grace always startles the eye, but here on open road on the plains of Kansas, on a snow-blown winter's night, the buck seemed to both of them a thing of rare beauty. The swift, graceful arc his body made as it cut through their headlights left its imprint on their mind's eye even after he had crossed the road and bounded down the ditch and over the fence. John shot forward in his seat and let up on the accelerator, suddenly alert with his hand tensed on the wheel, but the buck was already gone.
They caught the doe by the hind legs; she had nearly made it past them. One more stride and she would have been across the highway and out of danger. The impact was so light—a muted thud—John was not quite sure what had happened until Sarah gasped.
"What was that?" he cried, easing the car off the road.
"It was the doe! We hit the doe! Drive back! Please!"
He came to a full stop and turned to look at her. "We can't do anything..."
"Do you have a flashlight?"
"In the glove compartment."
But she already had it in her hand. She tore off her seat belt and threw open the door and jumped down. "Sarah!"
She stumbled down the embankment and disappeared into the darkness. John shifted into reverse and backed along the highway until he had her in his headlights. She was on the other side of the ditch near the fence. She had taken her gloves out of her pockets and was spreading apart the bottom strings of barbed wire to clear an opening.
John rammed the BMW into park and jumped out.
"Sarah! There's nothing you can do!" he shouted as he jogged down the shoulder. "Come on back!"
He stopped and watched as she carefully maneuvered through the barbed wire. Once through, she turned back toward him and cried, "But she must still be alive!"
Her hair blew over her face, and he thought how wild she looked standing there in the headlights, slightly out of breath, her arms raised at her sides in a pleading gesture.
She turned and waded off into the snow, disappearing again into the darkness. All he could see was the circle of light from her torch as it panned the bleak curves of the land.
John hurried back to the car, cut the engine, and pocketed his keys.
He had a rough time getting through the barbed wire; he snagged his sweater and mumbled a few curses, but when he made it out he found her easily enough. She had not gone far. The doe had finally fallen up the hill near a clump of switchgrass. Sarah was squatting a few feet to the side, the flashlight trained just above the doe's head.
"Incredible. That she made it this far," she said softly. "Look at her leg."
John looked to where the disk of light fell on the animal's hindquarters. There was a deep gash down her haunch where the hide was laid open, and the bone below the knee was hanging loose; it had been snapped clean of the joint.
Sarah looked out into the black night.
"He's waiting out there for her. He knows something's wrong."
Then she turned her face up to him.
John's heart was felled with that one look, doomed like the dumb panting creature at his feet. He dropped down on one knee and they knelt side by side in silence in the snow while the wind whistled through the barren hills.
She said, "Down near El Dorado, there's a place where they rehabilitate wildlife."
"This late? On a Sunday night?"
"It's a prison. I'm sure we can get somebody to answer the door."
"They do this kind of thing?"
"The inmates do it. I've taken animals to them before. A snow owl I found once. And a fledgling bald eagle. But this..."
A strong gust of wind blew at them, and she lost her balance. She put out her hand to steady herself, and it fell on his knee.
"You tell me how to get there, we'll give it a try."
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