

### Before the Mellowing Year

Book Two, Part I

by

Jeffrey Anderson

Copyright 2018 by Jeffrey Anderson

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Though this e-book is being distributed for free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reprinted or reproduced without the permission of the author. If you like this book, please encourage your friends to download a copy at Smashwords.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

"Lycidas", vv. 15 – 17

John Milton

Before the Mellowing Year

Book Two, Part I

North Carolina

Zach and Allison walked side-by-side on the pine-straw path up the gentle slope toward the contemporary house—a brick split-level with a low-pitched roof, long overhangs and lots of glass—nestled into a wooded hillside and overlooking a farm pond to the east. Zach noted all these details without consciously thinking about them as the late-day sun hovered behind the dense greenery to their right, shooting the occasional shafts of light onto their profiles, shoulders, feet, leaving marks like thumbprints before retreating, returning. He pictured in his mind that same sun rising sleepy over that pond, wisps of morning fog pulled across it like the lingering veils of the bygone night till the sun rediscovered its power and certitude, shrugged aside those veils to fall full-weight on the pond, the hillside, the house, the waiting breathless fecund countryside.

They'd arrived in Shefford along with their cats under that same sun late the day before and set up temporary residence at the Goodrest Motel, a nearby mom-and-pop establishment where mom was Sally Deerfield, a round-faced, round-bodied friendly soul who'd already told Zach her whole life story twice, all the way from the soft spot on the top of her head she was born with and had never hardened (she peeled aside her brassy blond beauty-parlor hair to show him the dimple) to the bunions on her feet that forced her to wear the soft-sided canvas slippers; and pop was Bill Deerfield, a quiet but efficient man with an ever present grin and watchful eyes.

They'd spent most of this day—their first full one in North Carolina, first anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line—familiarizing themselves with Avery's campus—collecting maps and brochures for them both, course catalogues for Zach, employment listings for Allison; setting up interviews for tomorrow (with the English Department Chair for Zach, for a clerical job in the Bursar's Office for Allison), and walking around the beautiful campus with its Gothic-style stone buildings and grassy quads peppered with massive oaks offering welcome shade from the very hot June sun.

And now, exactly at six-thirty, they were walking up to Barton Cosgrove's house located about five miles outside of town in a rolling mix of open fields and dense woods, set to meet the famous author for the first time over drinks and dinner. Zach had contemplated this meeting for well over a year, since stumbling on Cosgrove's work while reading along the banks of the Charles River and following a convoluted path and unlikely sequence of chances both grasped and missed to end up here—enrolled at Avery to study writing with Cosgrove starting in the fall. In that year-plus, he'd generally avoided thinking about such a potential meeting for very long because if he did think too long on it his breath grew short and his hands started to shake.

But tonight, in whatever God or Fate bequeathed composure, Zach felt completely at ease, though in that calm his senses were in full employ, taking in every sight and sensation and nuance since rising from the motel bed after a brief nap and showering and dressing for their meeting. Though told by Cosgrove they should dress casually, Zach had on a long-sleeved white Oxford-cloth dress shirt and gray wool slacks with black dress shoes, and Allison had on a raspberry-colored knit dress he'd bought her in Boston. Both their outfits were a little warm for the day's temperatures, but neither had lightweight dress clothes as part of their limited wardrobes. In New England, such clothes were rarely needed and seemed a wasteful extravagance.

They mounted the brick steps to the broad entry landing. Zach glanced for a second at Allison, gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She gave him a thin, anxious grin in return. He took a deep breath and grabbed the brass knocker to give it two sharp raps. The noise echoed past them and out into the still evening.

Almost immediately (had he been waiting there? for how long?) Cosgrove opened the solid door and looked out at them from the shadow with a warm and playful smile. He looked like the pictures on the dust jackets though less stern and forbidding. "You must be Zachary," he said in a deep and resonant voice.

"In the flesh," Zach said.

"At long last," Cosgrove responded and extended his hand. "Welcome."

Zach took that hand, smallish and soft, and returned the firm grip. "Thank you," he said simply, not sure if those two words came anywhere near conveying all he felt at that moment but powerless to say more.

Cosgrove nodded, retrieved his hand, and turned to Allison. "And you must be Allison."

Allison nodded and shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, sir," she said.

"Likewise," he said then stood aside and gestured for them to come in.

The living room—with its cathedral ceiling and dark-stained beams, its blond wood paneling on one side and wall of windows looking out onto a mossy backyard and more woods on the other, paintings and artistic photographs covering every inch of wall space, sculpture and artifacts covering the coffee tables and shelves and window sills, a large fur rug in the middle of the wall-to-wall taupe carpet—was quite unlike anything Zach had ever seen: intimate and personal yet somehow intimidating, like a museum or a sanctuary.

Cosgrove took their drink orders—white wine for Allison, bourbon on the rocks for Zach ("A man after my own heart," Cosgrove intoned)—and disappeared into the adjacent kitchen. Zach, relaxed but with his senses still more heightened (if that were possible) looked to Allison standing a foot away. She gave him a little shrug followed by a tentative nod—so far, so good. Zach nodded a silent agreement then promptly looked away, resuming his unprecedented voracious consumption of all the moment had to offer.

Cosgrove returned with their drinks and they sat together on a short-backed loveseat upholstered in gold crushed velvet. He sat in a matching armchair that backed onto the wall of windows, the broad woods beyond.

Cosgrove raised his glass from out of that backdrop. "To Zach and Allison on their first day in Shefford."

Zach and Allison raised their glasses. All three leaned forward in their seats, clinked their glasses as one in the dim air over the coffee table.

Cosgrove settled back into his seat after a full sip of his bourbon. "And with best wishes for many more to follow," he added in that deep voice that made it sound more like a promise than a wish.

Zach took another slow glance around the room then leaned forward in his seat. "Professor Cosgrove—"

Cosgrove halted him with a quick thrust forward of his free hand. "Out here or anywhere else except on campus, I'm Barton. On campus, I'm Professor Cosgrove or Dr. Cosgrove or Mr. Cosgrove; and you'll be Mr. Sandstrom. It's a valuable formality I learned at Oxford and maintain here, against considerable resistance, of course."

Zach nodded acceptance. "It may take me a little while to learn the habit."

"It'll come naturally soon enough."

Allison said, "What about me?"

Barton smiled. "Why, you can be Mrs. Sandstrom long as you like."

"How about Allison?"

Barton nodded. "Done."

Zach completed his stored compliment. "Barton, you have a beautiful and distinctive home."

He nodded thanks.

And thus they were off and running—sprinting already—toward friendship.

The balance of the evening passed in a relaxed and comfortable mix of casual conversation, jokes (a couple of Barton's more than a little off-color) and laughter, and surprisingly unguarded allusions to future involvements and interactions (these between Zach and Barton, with references to shared endeavors beyond the academic mentorship—yard work and household repairs and even an exercise plan to help Barton get his "middle-age donut" of a waistline back inside, rather than over, his belt). Following a half-hour of conversation in the living room, Barton collected their empty glasses, invited them to take advantage of the available bathroom, then led them toward the front door for the trip to the restaurant. On the way there, he paused to tinker with something in the hall closet (and surely not to retrieve a jacket on the warm evening). When Zach asked him about this, he said he was arming the alarm system he'd had installed following recent break-ins. It was the first residential alarm system Zach had ever seen and noteworthy for both its extravagance (reinforcing that his new friend was clearly well-to-do) and its necessity (why should a house in the country be so vulnerable to theft?).

They rode in Barton's Mercedes sedan (interestingly, after his stint parking high-dollar cars in Boston, the ride in this car impressed Zach less than the alarm system had) to the county seat of Axton, a sleepy colonial village ten miles to the west, driving through farm fields and woods that were surprisingly similar to those of Zach's Connecticut childhood, especially the dairy farm that Barton called "Happy Valley" with its picturesque barns and a silo and Jersey milk-cows milling idly in a pasture in the golden setting sun. Allison sat in the back so Zach could have the roomier front seat to stretch out his long legs. Both Barton and Zach made efforts to include her in the conversation despite this separation—frequently glancing over their shoulders and asking her questions—but they also couldn't help losing track of her as they delved with animation into this observation or query. Thus, not thirty minutes into their acquaintance, Allison was already relegated to the role of observer in this threesome, a separation that only deepened in the weeks and months to come, despite conscious efforts—like those comments over the shoulder—to minimize the exclusion.

They ate dinner at the Cornwallis Tavern, an ancient inn and restaurant that supposedly housed General Cornwallis himself either before or during (depending on who was telling the story) the Revolution. The fare included fried chicken, mashed potatoes, squash casserole, green beans simmered with fat back, creamed corn simmered with fat back, collards simmered with fat back, and lots of fresh-baked biscuits and rolls, all served "family-style" in large bowls refilled as needed. Dessert was delicious warm cobbler—apple or peach—topped with ice cream. The owner, Edward Hollins—a tall and slightly stooped old man with an animated jowly face and a shock of bottle-blackened hair and dressed in a blue-striped seersucker suit despite the warm day—stopped by their table several times in the course of the evening to share corny jokes with Barton and a wink and a smile with these newest guests. And their waitresses, twin sisters identically dressed in colonial-style full skirts and frilly blouses, also freely exchanged stories and jokes with their affable host. It didn't take Zach's heightened powers of observation to see how open and spontaneous and friendly the social world of the south—at least this part of it—was, and how dramatically different from New England's icy stoicism, silent judgment, and implied threat. Zach decided on the spot (didn't take much convincing) that he far preferred this world to the one he'd just left permanently (he was certain, that quick) behind.

They returned to Barton's house along the same now darkened country roads, passing on the way a former gas station advertising "All Girl Staff" in red neon just as a T-shirted trucker was exiting the painted-over glass entrance. When Zach asked rhetorically "Wonder what he was doing in there?" Barton replied, "Why, he's come and gone"—as it turns out, a comment on not only the trucker's "hand relief" release (Barton's phrase allegedly gleaned from the District Attorney as to what forms of contact were allowed in these establishments) but also the last vestige of formality or decorum. Whatever the future held for their nascent friendship, it would be discovered and built outside the bounds of politeness and reserve—that is, built on a southern foundation (that included massage parlors as well venerable old inns with seersucker bedecked proprietors).

Back at Barton's, they shared a nightcap—Zach had more of the bourbon only without the ice, Allison had a sip of Bailey's chocolate liqueur, and Barton had cognac in a green-tinted brandy snifter—and more stories and jokes. Just before parting, Barton grabbed a copy of his latest book—a collection of translations from the Bible—and inscribed it as follows:

for Zach and Allison—

on their first day in Shefford

with warm and strong

good hopes for many more

from

Barton Cosgrove

17 June 1979

And with handshakes and smiles and numerous expressions of thanks—surprisingly, in both directions—the occasion of their first meeting ended and Zach and Allison headed back to the motel room and a good night's sleep.

2

They finished their interviews in the early afternoon of another clear and somewhat cooler day. Rather than returning to the motel (that had already grown somewhat claustrophobic), Zach suggested they take a ride in the countryside, try to get a better feel for their new home.

Allison said, "Sure—which direction?" They had maps of campus but no road maps for Shefford or surrounding communities.

"We'll just pick one and give it a try."

That proved to be a risky strategy. The first road they took passed modest residences for about a mile before suddenly dropping them in the middle of a sprawl of low-income housing projects, complete with boarded up windows, thick iron bars across storefronts, and loitering ne'er-do-wells on street corners. This was an unsettling level of inner-city poverty to rival the worst of Boston's Roxbury slums—and here just a couple miles from Avery's Ivory Towers! Zach did a quick U-turn (hoping not to rouse the ire of one of those resident watchdogs) and high-tailed it back to their starting point at the gates of Avery to try again.

Their second attempt, though less dangerous and troubling, was no more successful—a promising windy and deserted road through thick pine woods deposited them at the dead end of a sewage-treatment facility, complete with large pools of fetid sludge and the accompanying piquant odor. Allison laughed. Zach shook his head as he backed the truck into a gravel turnaround.

"We'll head out toward Barton's house," Zach said as they retraced their tracks, leaving the facility and its lingering odor behind. "We know there's pretty country out there."

Allison nodded agreement, still chuckling at Zach's bad luck and annoyance—what did he expect, just striking out with no idea where he was going?

The well-paved and well-marked road to Barton's already seemed welcoming in its familiarity though they'd only driven it twice, and one of those times in the dark. Zach understood that this easy familiarity derived not from the road or the terrain but from the person, and the personality, of the one who lived on it—Barton had a way of making one feel not just welcomed but needed, important. Though at some level Zach suspected this attention was innate in Barton, and extended to all those he met; at a much more urgent and active level, Zach wanted to believe it was the product of a special connection between him and Barton—the same connection Barton's story in the anthology had exposed and tapped that day along the Charles River. At this moment in his life, Zach needed desperately to be needed, to matter to someone in a critical and singular manner. He was bold enough, and reckless enough, to hope that Barton might be that someone.

The road was deserted until they passed a state highway patrol car coming from the other direction. Zach slowed down, not sure what the speed limit was out here, or if he was above or below it, and not wishing to rile the local law. Then they passed another police car, this one from the Shefford Police Department. A little ways farther, there was a county sheriff's car waiting at a crossroads stop sign.

Allison sat up straight and looked to Zach. "What's up with all these cops?"

Zach had already fed all his careful observations—multiple agencies, rural countryside, bright afternoon, no sirens or flashing lights—into his unfailing engine of deductive reasoning. "Must be a policemen's picnic at some area park or campground."

Allison nodded, reassured (and forgetting, for the moment, that Zach's instincts had so recently led them first to a ghetto then to a cesspool).

This new calm lasted only a few seconds, till the highway patrol car with its lights flashing but its sirens off roared past them at perhaps eighty miles an hour, flying in the direction they were headed. Then another—Shefford Police—with its lights on swerved around them and disappeared around the next bend in the road. They were almost to Barton's house by now and Zach had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach—what if something had happened to Barton? where would he and his new and hope-filled future be then?

Driving very slowly, alert to the sudden appearance of patrol cars from any direction, his senses on edge for all sorts of reasons, Zach guided the truck around a sharp curve in the road and cruised slowly past Barton's gravel drive that wound up toward his house sitting on the hill. Though it was barely visible through the thicket of honeysuckle and wild rose and blackberry vines entwined in low underbrush beneath the taller treetops, the house appeared quiet, the drive empty, the hillside calm. Zach breathed an audible sigh of relief and drove on down the road, hopeful that whatever disturbance had produced the flurry of law-enforcement was in their past, behind them on the road and in their lives.

It wasn't. At the next crossroads, perhaps a mile farther on through mainly thick woods, they encountered a terrifying scene. There were many police cars—too many to count, though well over a dozen and perhaps twenty or more—from various jurisdictions parked at all sorts of askew angles in the road, along the shoulder, and in an adjacent field. Over that line of cars, Zach could see steam rising from what appeared to be a wreck near the stop sign of the intersection. Deputies and officers were unloading shotguns out of car trunks. Two pairs of tracking hounds were baying and dragging their handlers behind. A highway-patrol helicopter was just now descending out of the clear blue to land in the broom-straw field beside the road, directed by an officer on the ground wildly waving his arms.

In the midst of this chaos, no one noticed Zach and Allison and their truck stopped in the middle of the road—as if at a drive-in watching the latest shoot-em-up, only it was broad day and the action was unfolding in three dimensions not two.

"What the hell?" Zach muttered to no one.

Allison tugged at his shirt sleeve. "We need to turn around and get out of here," she said firmly then added. "Now!"

Zach made a deliberate and oh-so-slow three-point turn in the road and drove back the way they'd come, leaving the frantic scene to play out in his rear-view mirror, then gone as the truck dipped into a shallow valley and curled around a bend in the road.

Again on the quiet and deserted road (had they really seen what they'd just seen? was it possible?), Zach speculated, "Escaped convicts?"

Allison was not of a mind to accept Zach's deductions. "I'm just glad we didn't get caught in the middle."

Zach could only nod agreement.

Then they came up on Barton's house, and saw the drive full of police cars with flashing lights and a stocky sheriff's deputy standing at the entrance to the drive with a shotgun at the ready diagonally across his chest. Zach's heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach and stayed there.

Zach remembered every minute of that afternoon in vivid detail for the rest of his life—except for the ride back to the motel. That trip was not even a blur but totally lost to memory. He'd guess he broke every speed limit (no cops left to arrest him), ran through stop signs, cut off or swerved around any delaying traffic; but he couldn't say. Maybe Allison remembers.

What he next remembered was dialing Barton's house number (he'd given it to Zach while they were still in Boston, in case their travel plans changed) on the rotary-dial phone in their room at the Goodrest Motel. Zach can still hear the two rings on the other end after the phone completed the connection—the longest rings in a life peppered with fraught phone calls.

"Hello?" Barton said on the other end of the line, his voice shaken but very definitely alive.

"Barton, you're alive!"

"Zach, thank God!"

"We were driving by your house—."

"A break-in, the alarm summoned the sheriff, then a wreck and shootout down the road." His deep voice was frayed around the edges by emotion and shock.

"But you're O.K.?"

There was a pause before Barton responded. When he spoke, his voice was calmer though still taut with fear. "I was on campus collecting the mail and arrived home to find my house crawling with police. They're still here. They say the suspects are at-large in the woods."

"And your house?"

"A mess. My pistol is missing. Don't know what else."

"How can I help?"

"Zach, thank you. I've already called an old friend. He's on the way and plans to stay the night. I think I'm O.K. but thanks for the offer."

"Anything—just let me know."

"I will. I'll give you a call tomorrow. I want to hear how the interviews went."

Zach was startled to be reminded of the time before the break-in. "They went well. I want to tell you about them."

"I'll call you and we'll set up a time to get together."

"We're going to look at apartments tomorrow, but I'll be sure to be in the room till nine in the morning and after seven at night so you can reach me."

"I'll be in touch once the dust settles."

"Good luck, Barton. I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're safe."

"Thank you. You've been a great help."

"How so?"

Barton paused just a second. "For my life."

"You're welcome."

Zach hung up the motel phone, certain now of his destiny and purpose.

3

They'd closed out their joint checking account and left Boston with $264 in cash. By the time they'd arrived in Shefford, that amount was down to $228 after gas, tolls, and lunch at a fast-food restaurant in Manassas, Virginia (where the pretty blonde server directed such a warm and open-faced smile and greeting Zach's way that he actually looked behind him—to thin air—to see if she were addressing someone else). These funds represented the sum-total of all their liquid assets in the world. Weighed against these assets were the accruing debits of the cost of the motel room ($15.99 a day plus tax) gas as needed for the truck (purchased in two-dollar increments), and any food they had to buy for bare sustenance (generic toaster tarts for breakfast, white bread and processed cheese slices for lunch and sometimes dinner, dry food for the cats). Looming in the very near future were the sizable capital demands of their first month's rent in advance and probable matching security deposit on whatever housing they could find, and the associated cost of utilities. And not too far beyond those demands were Avery's tuition (whatever Zach's portion was after the Financial Aid Office completed its calculations of his ability, or lack thereof, to pay) and the cost of books and other academic supplies and fees.

Both Zach and Allison were by nature frugal and conscientious with their money. But a spontaneous and somewhat reckless spending spree linked to their reunion following a painful estrangement had left them far-removed from both this frugality and a significant reserve of funds. Neither understood exactly how they'd gotten backed so deep into this corner. The expenses to close out their life and obligations in Boston ran far past their expectations and materialized after they'd already made lavish (for them) expenditures on clothing, nights out, and a long weekend at the Cape.

So now they were down to a few hundred dollars—Zach, against his conscious desire, could state the exact total at any given minute—and had no obvious source of additional short-term funding. Their families would no doubt loan them money if asked, but both were loath to make such a request, especially in the wake of maintaining little contact with their families since getting married two years before. They might apply for a small personal loan from a bank or request a credit card with a modest limit; but without jobs or a credit history, approval for either would be hard to come by. Both expected to be working soon, and with two incomes they should be able to restore their savings over time. But at the moment they were acutely aware of the obvious—a cash crunch loomed in the near future. And, with an attitude indicative of their age and their relationship, they refused to talk about the impending crisis or acknowledge it in any way.

Armed with the classified ads of the local newspaper, they spent a whole day looking at potential rental units. They'd already discovered that Avery's married student housing had a waiting list, so they needed to look at off-campus options. There were several large apartment complexes within walking distance of campus—which would help save on gas and not penalize Allison for lacking a license, if she indeed secured a job at the university. Further, these apartments were quite affordable. However, they were impersonal, thin-walled, full of rowdy and loud students, and crammed together. Zach would've preferred a house in the country after two years in the city, but anything decent with space around it was way out of their price range. They did look at several trailers (Barton had proudly announced that he lived in a trailer for seven years prior to buying his home), but they ultimately agreed that trailer living was not right for them. They also looked at a garage that had been converted into a two bedroom apartment about five miles outside of town. It was on a side lot next to the landlord's house, had a sizable yard around it, was reasonably well-constructed and maintained, and was priced within their budget. But the landlord, a pot-bellied forty-something divorcee with a crew-cut, spent a little too much time leering at Allison, seemed a bit too creepy a person to have living next door with keys to your house. Besides, the issue of the two of them getting to and from school and work and stores from this spot in the country remained a major obstacle.

So they passed on the converted garage and the three trailers and returned late in the afternoon to the place they'd started—Jacob's Realty, manager of a large apartment complex a half-mile's walk (uphill to school, downhill coming back) from Avery's North Campus where most of Zach's classes would be held and where the Bursar's Office, as well as most of the school's administrative offices, were located. There was a second-floor one-bedroom apartment available for immediate occupancy in the building closest to campus. Zach asked the portly rental agent if he could hold the apartment till the following afternoon while they checked into their finances and made a final decision. He laughed his jolly laugh that made his whole body shake and said, "For a sweet young couple like you, of course I will" while staring only at Allison. Zach nodded and said they'd be in touch.

4

"Zach, I've got a big problem," Barton said while leaning forward on the loveseat. "And, quite frankly, I don't know what to do about it."

Zach gazed calmly but attentively back at Barton from his chair with his back to the window and the woods beyond, wrapped today in low dark clouds threatening rain or a thunderstorm. He kept his expression neutral but was secretly relieved to see a like-minded soul in the midst of the sort of spiritual angst that had plagued him more or less nonstop for nearly two years. He was also delighted to be brought into the confidence of one so revered and distinguished.

It was two days since the break-in, and the living room seemed fully restored to its prior state. But there was a security crew replacing the alarm's siren in the crawlspace. The original had been shot out by the desperados (thinking that that somehow killed the alarm, oblivious to the fact that the automatic dialer had already put through a call to the sheriff's dispatcher). And carpenters were noisily at work in the basement, replacing the glass slider that had been used as the thieves' point of entry with a heavy solid-wood door and a section of framed wall beside. Barton had called the night before and asked Zach to stop out in the early afternoon. While he didn't specifically exclude Allison from the meeting, it was clear that he'd prefer to talk to Zach alone. And Allison was happy to have a few quiet hours in the motel room—to read and let the cats have some daytime playtime outside their cramped carrier.

Zach nodded slowly to Barton's words, ready and waiting to hear him out. But he made no attempt at a verbal response. He'd let Barton—his life and plight—come to him.

As it turned out, that patient equanimity was exactly the reassurance Barton needed to take the final step to laying bare his soul to this tall and watchful stranger that had, really, never been a stranger—not since that first letter, those stories, their meeting, his intersection with this latest and worst trauma for years, at least since the death of his mother thirteen years earlier.

"This house has been good to me and my work for almost fifteen years now," Barton said in a calm slow voice, the sentence a well-rehearsed speech in his head. "But the place has been violated—not just once but three times now. And this last was by far the worst. If I'd not stopped at Best Products to buy an electric razor, I'd have wandered in on them and would probably be dead. If those thugs were willing to shoot it out with a sheriff's deputy, they would've had little compunction about killing one hapless college teacher."

Zach nodded to this list of simple facts—no point in trying to magnify or diminish the account.

"As you might guess, I've thought about little else these last forty-eight hours—the violence, my vulnerability living alone out here, what it means for my future." He paused and stared frankly at Zach, checked to see where he was on this joint journey.

Zach spoke then. "And—"

Barton's eyes twinkled ever so slightly though his expression remained somber. "I can move into town and look for some degree of security in numbers and neighbors."

Zach nodded.

"But my friends in town are fighting the same plague—break-ins and vandalism all the time. They kicked down Roma Davies door just last week."

"No place safe," Zach agreed. He'd only been robbed once—his truck that first early morning in Boston. The incident had troubled him for all of five minutes. He wondered what it would be like to have all this stuff to lose, to care about. Or was there something more at work in Barton's crisis?

"I used to think out here was."

"Could be again," Zach ventured.

Barton studied him closely from across the room for several interminable seconds. "The detective says the house is too hidden from the road."

Zach nodded. "I couldn't see anything when I drove by headed out."

"Says I need to thin out the underbrush in the gully."

"I could do that. I've hacked my way through more thickets than Dr. Livingstone."

Barton smiled and added the obligatory, "I presume" then went on to ask, "You want the job?"

Zach nodded enthusiastically to Barton's hopeful gaze, both of them now far out on the limb of risk and reward—the same limb of reckless wager on fate's greased rails.

After a pause, Zach added, "And I need the job. We've found an apartment and don't have enough money to make the security deposit."

"How much do you need?"

Zach hesitated. "Two hundred would probably be enough, four hundred would give us breathing room till Allison's first paycheck."

"She's got a job?"

"Supposed to hear back from the Bursar's Office today, but there was nobody else applying."

Barton smiled broadly, his face lighter by degrees from the gray and grave mask Zach had met when he opened the door. "Congratulations! You two are well on your way."

"Have been, for a while now."

"The North Carolina chapter, then," Barton delineated as he rose to get his checkbook.

Zach nodded agreement but asked himself—Written by whom?

5

So they took the apartment and moved in over the weekend, after the cleaning crew had gone through on the heels of the painters. It was the middle of five apartments on the second floor, street side. You entered directly into the small living room that included a sliding window facing out on the breezeway. Directly ahead was a dining alcove with a small kitchen to the right. To the left down a short hall was the bathroom, and to the left off that hall was the bedroom, in line with the living room and also with a small window facing out on the breezeway. The apartment had well-used shag carpet in the living room and bedroom and worn vinyl flooring in the kitchen, dining area, and bath. The windows looked out on a narrow road leading into the rest of the complex, and row upon row of rectangular buildings identical to theirs. There was little charm or privacy associated with this residence, but Avery was within walking distance and stores and shops within a short drive. In brief, the apartment was affordable and functional; and they could infuse it with the life and charm it lacked.

But first they needed furniture. They'd packed their clothes and cooking utensils and a few small end tables from Boston, and had the foam mattress from their days of camping in the carryall truck. They'd also disassembled their tall butcher block dining table with its trestle base, and somehow managed to cram it into the jammed full back of the truck. But that was about it—no furniture for the living room or bedroom, and nothing to sit on to eat at their dining table. Barton donated a simple kitchen table and chair to the cause. ("Wrote my first three books at that table," he said nostalgically.) Zach could use it as a desk in the far corner of the bedroom. Over the coming weeks they purchased two unfinished wood stools with low backs that Allison stained and varnished for use at their dining table, and an upholstered chair and couch set from a furniture store in the country between Shefford and Axton that was going out of business. And at that point their modest apartment was modestly furnished and slowly becoming a home.

Allison started work at Avery's Bursar's Office the following Monday, walking up the hill to work with her brown bag lunch (a peanut butter sandwich, a Pepsi, and a banana) and no purse. Fortunately for her and their budget, the casual work clothes she'd worn working at The Hancock in Boston (khakis and corduroy slacks, cotton print shirts) were appropriate for accepting payments from students and sending out bills (though maybe too warm and dark for North Carolina summers—she could always roll up her sleeves, and often did). The job was rather boring, and her co-workers less diverse and on average a good deal older than those she'd befriended in Boston; but she did her best to adjust to the slower pace and milder manner of the south and, unlike in Boston, chose to be patient and moderate in her expectations, to let her life come to her rather than rushing out to find it. This was a prudent choice, as the insular world of her office staff (mostly native southerners and mostly with limited educations) would not have taken kindly to a pushy northerner.

Zach started working at Barton's the same day. He showed up at nine on an ungodly hot and humid day dressed in work boots and jeans and a T-shirt. Barton, who was just finishing his breakfast prior to starting his requisite three hours at the writing desk, handed him a bow saw and machete; and he disappeared into the thick underbrush of the gully between the drive and the road. Within minutes his entire body was drenched in sweat that had no hope of evaporating in the saturated air, simply accumulated until soon all his clothes and even his boots were soaked, as if he jumped into the nearby pond (an idea that looked ever more attractive despite Barton's warning about leeches and water snakes). He would occasionally trudge up the hill out of the thicket to lap long draughts of water from Barton's garden hose hooked to a spigot on the front of the house. He wished he'd brought a towel, or maybe two or three, to wipe his face and try to keep the sweat from stinging his eyes. He wished he'd brought an extra T-shirt (or two or three or four) to peel off the soaked one and have at least a few minutes of dry skin from the waist up. At some point, he peeled of the sopping T-shirt and tossed it up in the drive (it flew easily through the air, balled up and heavy with moisture) and worked the rest of the day with no shirt despite the buzz of horseflies and mosquitos, and the brush of poison ivy and poison sumac.

Promptly at noon, Barton stood on the front stoop and shouted down into the gully, "Even the slaves got a break for lunch."

Zach peeked out at Barton through the dense honeysuckle thicket. "I didn't bring a lunch."

Barton looked toward the sound of the voice but couldn't spot the six-foot-five-inch figure in the dense and shadowed vegetation. "I did," he shouted in the direction of Zach's voice.

"What's Master serving?"

"Come on up and see for yourself."

Zach hacked his way out of the thicket and walked out into the drive. He extended his grimy arms, the machete still in one hand, revealing his dripping chest and shoulders. "You don't want me in the house like this."

Barton laughed. "At least I know you're working! Walk around to the back patio. I'll meet you there with a towel and a clean shirt."

Zach dropped his machete by the side of the drive and walked up the hill. On his way to the backyard, he stopped at the hose and rinsed himself off in the frigid well water, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and goosebumps on his arms. He shook himself like a dog, then walked back to the patio where Barton was waiting with a plush bath towel and an "Avery Reads" T-shirt with Barton's face silk-screened on the back.

"That's an extra-large," Barton explained. "Leftover from last year's library promo."

Zach slid it over his head after wiping himself dry. It fit just fine. "Thanks, Barton," Zach said. "But we might have to change the logo to 'Zach slaves'."

Barton nodded. "Works for me."

Zach said, "That's the idea," as Barton headed back into the house to bring out the tray with lunch, leaving Zach to sit on the metal patio chair and rest in the cool shade of the huge beech with its massive smooth-barked gray trunk rooted just beyond the brick patio.

Lunch was an exotic mix of unprecedented fare and flavors for Zach, including a "sandwich" of pungent and salty Smithfield country ham spread and chunks of blue cheese between a toasted English muffin, spicy okra pickles on the side, home-made mint iced tea in tall and frosty glasses, and store-bought decadent rich chocolate cookies out of a dainty bag. Zach reminded himself to eat slowly and politely but couldn't hide his voracious hunger or keen pleasure at the new flavors. Everything about the moment, from his host to the setting to the food, was an adventure of unimagined excitement and experience. It was there, on Barton's patio and exhausted physically for the first time in years—exhausted in a very satisfying and fulfilling way—that Zach realized experience could surpass expectation, could launch one to a place utterly unknown and unplanned and unprepared for, and that such unexpected exposure (for better or worse, though preferably for better) was the height of life and living, the goal long sought but only just now found. That he'd been toying with just such unprecedented experience (almost all unpleasant) throughout his years in Boston was quickly forgotten in this new world, new Eden.

Barton studied him with a bemused grin. "You're not afraid to work or eat."

Zach looked up from his non-stop assault on the meal, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin (another unprecedented refinement, for a patio lunch anyway). "Been doing both, far back as I can remember."

"How far back is that?"

Zach didn't hesitate. "Playpen on the screen porch, bottle with warm juice, stuffed animals herded into proper order in the corner."

"Age?"

"One year five months, give or take."

Barton nodded. "I remember that far back—Missy the family goat eating my diaper." He laughed. "Memories that early are rare, judging from my annual poll of writing students. Don't know what that says about us."

"You mean blessing or curse?"

"Sane or crazy!"

Zach smiled. "Honoring the world around us."

Barton nodded gravely. "My lifelong calling. Maybe yours too."

"I can hope."

"Be careful what you hope for."

Zach laughed.

Barton didn't. After a few seconds pause, Barton said, "Tell me about your family."

And Zach did—family farm, six siblings, unending chores, constant competition for scarce resources and scarcer supplies of love and attention. Despite regional differences, it was a world very similar—and received, felt, very similarly—to the rural, family-dense upbringing Barton received a generation earlier in the small towns of eastern North Carolina. The two talked with relaxed pleasure and animation for an hour after the lunch was finished, then again late in the afternoon over drinks—a beer for Zach, gin on the rocks for Barton—and church-roasted peanuts ("Methodist Men's Nuts" Barton called them then showed Zach the hand-printed label on the quart Mason jar to prove he hadn't fabricated it) on that same patio. These exchanges were repeated on many subsequent days that summer, as Zach needed the money (five dollars an hour, a good laborer's wage at the time, applied toward the earlier loan), Barton needed the clearing (and, once it was done, other maintenance around the yard and house), and they both needed the companionship and uninhibited sharing. It was a time of innocence and vulnerability for two people who, for very different but equally compelling reasons, would've thought innocence and vulnerability were no longer possible in their jaded and bruised souls.

6

Zach waited for Allison on a bench outside the hair salon in one of the two indoor malls in Shefford. Tess, a petite and pensive blond who lived directly below them with her sometimes live-in sometimes estranged police officer husband Chad, had recommended the salon, Master Marco's, and used her connections to get Allison an appointment on this busy Saturday morning. This in turn filled Zach's Saturday morning, as he had to drive Allison to the appointment and wait for her, since she didn't have her driver's license and refused to take the city bus (which, Zach had to admit, was unreliable and full of rough-looking characters). This obligation in turn forced Zach to decline Barton's invitation to have lunch at his house with the poet James Dickey, who was passing through town on his way to giving a reading in Greensboro that evening. Zach was very disappointed to miss the lunch and a chance to meet the famous poet and public figure; and his disappointment fed into his growing annoyance at having to ferry Allison everywhere.

Allison noted his frown as she emerged from the salon with his wavy auburn hair freshly washed and neatly trimmed and thinned. "Looks that awful, huh?" she joked.

Zach hadn't noticed her hair. "Looks fine, I guess."

"Then why the sour puss?"

Zach was in no mood for this inane jesting. "Why won't you get your license?"

Now it was Allison's chance to frown. "You're mad about missing the lunch."

"I'm tired of having to drive you everywhere. I've got a busy schedule and it's only going to get busier once school starts. There's no reason for you not to get your license."

"I couldn't possibly learn to drive that clunky old truck with a clutch and a sticky gearshift."

"Then we'll get a smaller car that's an automatic."

"How are we going to afford that?"

"Allison, you're just making excuses. Please think about getting your license. It'll give you freedom to do what you want."

"I already do what I want."

"With me driving you everywhere!"

"You don't have to drive me. I'll get Tess or Sue." Sue was her closest friend at work, the only other Yankee in the office—a transplant from Maine.

"They're not going to drive you around on weekends and nights. They've got better things to do than tote you to appointments or the mall."

"Then I'll stay at home."

"Why won't you get your license?"

"People drive crazy."

"You'll survive; everyone does."

"We just moved. Give me a chance to get settled in."

"When will that be?"

"I'll think about it."

Zach shook his head. That was a long and heated discussion, and in the mall court no less (fortunately, there was no one near enough to eavesdrop), to end up at such a conditional response.

"That's what you asked for, right?" she said. "For me to think about it?"

"When?"

She leaned over where he was sitting on the bench and whispered, "Soon, I promise." Her hair smelled like lilacs—that sweet and delicate. She added a schoolgirl's shy tilt of the head and soft pleading gaze. "O.K.?"

He knew that look and that voice well. It had always worked before, still did—until he recalled what he was missing by chauffeuring her around. He stood and said gruffly, "Are you ready to go?"

She looked at him with an apologetic grimace. "Can we stop by the paint store on the way back?" She added quickly, "It's for the apartment—I need more varnish for the stools."

Zach could only shake his head as he headed for the truck—Zach's taxi service for the day, his life. Allison followed a few steps behind.

Thus Allison and Zach were set on divergent paths again. Or, more accurately, they continued in their divergence after a brief respite leading up to their move to North Carolina. This divergence had begun in the immediate aftermath of their wedding two years before, when they'd left the prison (and security) of their small town and large families only to discover how ill-prepared they were as individuals and as a couple for the challenges of growing up (and maybe apart) in a vast and indifferent world of boundless opportunities and hazards. This continuing divergence went far beyond Zach having to "carry" (as folks said hereabouts) Allison wherever she had to go. But that issue did highlight the main area of challenge for them both—that in many ways Allison was still the adolescent she'd been when she'd begun dating Zach six years ago at age fourteen, not only lacking a license but also lacking adult goals and purpose and, ultimately, identity. This wasn't her fault or choice, and not Zach's either. Rather, it was the product of the history of their relationship, and the insular and self-indulgent domain they'd created to escape the oppressive world (in their view, anyway) of their upbringing. They'd used that private realm and their marriage to leverage themselves out from under that weight—and it had worked! But now they were under a different weight, the weight of that obsolete interpersonal dynamic. They both needed to discover their adult selves, something they'd been trying to do for two years now. The fact that Zach was somewhat further along on this journey (both in age and introspection) and getting further ahead by the day through his friendship with Barton (and all the new experiences and introductions it included) and enrollment at Avery, made the challenge all the more daunting—for them both.

7

Barton not only employed Zach and fed him a majority of his meals (lunch every day he worked over there, snacks over drinks after work or on social occasions, and frequent dinners—sometimes including Allison, sometimes not—at his house or a nearby pizza parlor nicknamed "Hot and Saucy Pizza Girls" after a porn movie showing at a local drive-in or a barbecue joint down the road), he also introduced him to the larger world of art. Zach was fairly familiar with fiction and literature from his reading in Boston and at Yale. But he knew little about poetry and virtually nothing about the non-literary arts—painting and sculpture and classical music. Barton's house was a virtual museum, with paintings of various genres and periods covering all the walls and stacked in corners and on chairs awaiting display, and many sizes and types of sculpture on the floor, tables and pedestals. He also had an extensive collection of vinyl records and tapes and made a point of playing the music of the great classical composers—Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Handel—whenever Zach was inside the house. Zach's Lutheran background made him especially susceptible to the majestic chorales of Bach and Handel, but he also found himself utterly transfixed by a new (to him) Italian composer named Claudio Monteverdi. His haunting yet simultaneously serene and uplifting choral vespers uncovered a pietistic place in Zach's soul he didn't know existed, with the enrapturing Vespro della beata Vergine dissolving him in tears of joy the first time he heard it (sitting alone in Barton's living room while Barton was pouring the requisite afternoon drinks in the kitchen) and was a refrain ever playing in his head through the months to follow.

And then there was poetry. Through high school and college, Zach had caught fleeting glimpses of the power and mystery of poetry. Verses from Yeats's "Lapis Lazuli" and Eliot's "Prufrock" would descend at the oddest moments—"Black out; Heaven blazing into the head" at the sight of a dog trailing a leash struck by a car on Comm. Ave. (was that verse for him, the dog, or its wailing owner on the sidewalk?) or "I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" sitting on a barstool at last call at a strip club. But like most of his generation raised on the reverberations and visceral gratifications of rock and roll, poetry by and large seemed to him archaic and obtuse, an obsolete language couched in dense and impenetrable metaphor and allusion.

Until some of those same verses, offered with feeling and awe in Barton's resonant baritone, sprung to life before his eyes and within his ears, not like "Lazarus come from the dead" ("Prufrock," again), swaddled and encumbered in grave cloths, but like bounding gazelles full of life and vivid motion and unpredictable leaps of meaning and sense. With Zach's attentive audience and full and reckless trust, Barton dusted off his sizable repertoire of memorized lines and shared them as occasion called and opportunity arose. He summoned forth and laid bare Shakespeare and Milton and Marvell and Cowper, Wordsworth and Keats and Tennyson and Poe, Dickinson and Kipling and Robinson and Yeats, Eliot and Frost and Auden and Lowell. And Zach, with an uncanny and previously unknown ear for recitation, memorized the shorter pieces on the spot and took the longer ones home in borrowed cherished volumes for rehearsal. With this permission and new-found passion (O.K.—obsession) Zach dusted off his Norton Anthology of Poetry from his Yale days and read it from cover to cover, marking the poems and lines that seemed to him the most powerful and thrilling, and reciting them to Barton at the earliest opportunity—even a few times calling him late at night to share his latest find over the phone. In this way, he stumbled on a poem by Keats that became for them both—in its romantic longing and its intimation of mortality and loss—the signature, and oft recited by one or the other or both simultaneously, poem for this period—their summer cut out of time, their romance held forth and grasped.

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thy own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

*

"It seems like you're reaching too far outside yourself," Barton said with slow deliberation.

For some reason this afternoon he'd chosen to sit in the chair backing onto the picture window and bright summer woods beyond, the chair where Zach usually sat if alone, leaving Zach to sit on the loveseat. From that position, Barton's face and upper body were backlit by the leaf-filtered but still glaring sunlight pressing through the glass, leaving Barton in ponderous shadow and, Zach presumed, him in the full exposure of the day's diffuse light.

It was a Tuesday in mid-August and a day off from yard work for Zach. About a week earlier he'd spent a whole day in a thicket full of chiggers and discovered on waking the next day the uniquely southern experience of the chigger bite—in his case, more than two dozen bites, huge welts around his ankles, behind his knees, and all up in his crotch, welts that drove him to distraction with their inflammation and itchiness. His body had reacted so violently to this unfamiliar pathogen that he'd spent two days in bed, doped up with antihistamine to fight the swelling. (It was the chemical secreted by the tiny insect, not the insect, that caused the reaction—contrary to local lore that claimed the insect burrowed into the skin and took up residence there, laying eggs and hatching whole families of chiggerettes to feed off and ravage your helpless epidermis.) Zach had recovered from the worst of his allergic reaction but was still a little tired and plenty itchy, his legs plastered with calamine lotion below his cotton shorts (and above them too, though he didn't mention that to Barton).

In anticipation of classes starting in a few weeks, Barton had asked Zach for some ideas for his independent study project on a work of long fiction. (Barton was officially on sabbatical this fall, as he worked to complete his latest novel; but he'd agreed to oversee Zach's independent study in writing, a course he was taking in addition to four regular classes in literature and history.) Zach had submitted three ideas along with sample scenes for each. And Barton had invited him to the house to talk over the proposals.

Zach fixed his steady gaze on the backlit Barton. "The characters or the themes?" Two of the proposals were vaguely autobiographical—a young man trying to find his way to adulthood through perilous struggle: with nature in one case, another man in the other. The third idea was for an idyll of farm life in a simpler era.

"The place," Barton replied. "I can see you and what you care about in all these topics. And that's good—young writers, old ones too for that matter, need to stay close to home, close to what they know. But there's the problem with these ideas—they take a familiar protagonist and put him in unfamiliar territory. He won't know where home is, or what it is."

"That's bad?"

"Usually."

"Sometimes people have to shake their lives up to discover who they are."

Zach thought he saw a kindly grin cross that shadowed face for the briefest of moments before returning to the instructor's hardened stare. "If the author doesn't know, instinctively and completely, where he is, what home is, then neither will the reader. And if the reader doesn't know, then he will begin to doubt the author. That critical trust will be broken. You've got to start with what you know—characters and setting."

Zach knew his disappointment was clearly marked on his face, in the fullness of afternoon light. He'd worked a long time on these proposals. Worse, he had no additional ones to offer, no other ideas or prospects available and classes due to start soon.

Barton broke his stony instructor's stare and replaced it with a supportive and encouraging look that may have been personal or professional, or straddled the line between both. "Here's what I'd like you to do. Go home and write me a letter about life on your family's farm. Include the people and events that are most vivid to you. Don't worry about structure or themes or narrative continuity. Just write a letter to me—not as your teacher but as your friend. Tell me the story that matters to you, that is inside your mind and pushing to get out."

Zach looked doubtful. "But that's not a basis for a long work of fiction."

Barton leaned forward with an indulgent smile and patted Zach's knee across the across the coffee table and the cow skin rug. "Just write the letter. We'll figure the rest out." He didn't add the word together but it was clearly implicit in his touch and his look.

It was the first time a hint of condescension had entered their burgeoning and complex relationship. Both knew such a hierarchical ordering was inevitable with semester looming large; but both were, at the moment at least, uncomfortable and resistant to it.

Zach flinched at the touch of Barton's hand on his bare skin, but he held Barton's gaze and managed to say, "I'll try."

Barton released his knee and stood. "Must be five o'clock somewhere," he said breezily.

They both looked at their watches—it was: 5:05 PM right there a few miles outside of Shefford, North Carolina on August 14th in the year of our Lord 1979! Barton headed to the kitchen for drinks. Zach held in his seat, the dimming afternoon light.

Two drinks later (Barton's self-imposed limit, adopted by Zach at least so long as he was in Barton's house) and fully returned to their former relaxed and variable rapport—sometimes laughing, sometimes in rapt attention, sometimes in playful teasing—Barton ended a few seconds idle silence with these words spoken to the melting ice cubes in his silver cup cradled in his two hands out before him like a prayer offering. "Zach, I'm gay."

Maybe it was the numbing effects of the two bourbons on top of his medication, but Zach didn't flinch or look away. But neither did he speak. In the wide diversity of settings and circumstances encountered with Barton these past two months, Zach had not once found himself at a loss for words—until this moment.

Barton looked up from his cup to Zach. "Surely you must have suspected," he said softly. "Never married at forty-six. Mostly male friends. Opera lover, for Pete's sake!" He ventured a nervous laugh.

"Never crossed my mind," Zach said simply. And it hadn't. In the small-town world of Zach's upbringing, he'd never known anyone who admitted to being homosexual; and he well knew that if anyone had admitted to it in Dover, he would've been ostracized, or worse, immediately. And in Boston's emerging gay culture (the "San Francisco of the east coast") all the homosexuals Zach knew were of the flaunting-flaming-militant sort—in your face overt to the point of being obnoxious, and threatening to Zach on all sorts of levels. He'd never known a "normal" gay man, let alone one who'd come to mean the world to him, and to hold his spiritual as well as academic future in his—suddenly!—homosexual hands.

"I'm sorry," Barton said gently, then laughed at his words—the sort of apology all of his gay friends would've excoriated him for uttering. "Sorry to have shocked you," he explained. "I don't think I've ever been sorry for being gay, though it has presented its challenges, and awkward silences." He looked up at Zach with patient but pleading eyes. "Like right now."

With the sun now behind the long overhang of the roof, Barton's figure was in late day shadow, gray-tinted despite all the green beyond the glass. His face seemed freshly pale, but maybe it was simply the look in his eyes. Zach held that gaze for many seconds, still numb, his mind blank. Then he knew, that instant and completely: it didn't matter. In all the ways that mattered—the stratified bedrock of their friendship, accreting by the day, the minute—Barton's sexuality, or his own polar opposite brand, didn't matter. And all the rest could be figured out along the way, would be figured out along the way (he felt blindly sure). Zach smiled broadly. "Thanks for telling me."

Barton returned the smile, his face suddenly lighter and brighter by degrees. "You're welcome."

They raised their silver cups in a silent toast to their accomplishment—a first major hurdle cleared, no problem at all.

8

Tess invited Allison who invited—no, told—Zach that they'd be going on a double-date with Tess and her on-again-off-again husband Chad at an Italian restaurant called Milt's tucked in an obscure corner of an obscure strip mall a mile or so down the road. Tess confided to Allison that she hoped this date might lead to a friendship between Chad and Zach, that Zach's education and calm manner might have a taming impact on her rowdy husband and his wild ways, and that the two couples might spend more time together, providing her an alternative to the awkward dinners alone with Chad or the raucous and drunken parties with his off-duty cop friends. Allison had simply nodded at this list of goals and hoped she was right. She and Zach could also use some friends in common to help bridge the growing gap between his cerebral university acquaintances and her townie co-workers. What she didn't warn, and secretly hoped wouldn't come to pass, was that the opposite might happen—that Chad would pull a ready and willing Zach into his alcohol-drenched mayhem.

They drove in two vehicles up to Milt's (Tess's sports car was a two-seater, so Zach and Allison followed in their truck) under a placid summer sunset with bands of orange and pink and gold in the western sky. The day had been oppressively hot under the undiluted and intense sun; but with its setting, the night offered the promise of some slight relief from the worst of the heat though no hope of outright cool. After nearly two months here, Zach and Allison had grown accustomed to the unrelenting heat even as their bodies still balked at it—Zach had fungal rashes on his feet and groin to go along with his slow-healing chigger bites and Allison was still seeking an anti-perspirant strong enough to retard the sweat stains under her arms from her early morning walks up the hill to work.

Tess cooed sympathetically at their predictable complaints as they walked to the restaurant's entrance across the asphalt still boiling from the afternoon sun. "Now don't you fret. It'll all be over soon enough and you'll just love the fall."

Chad crowed, "Welcome to the South, Yankees!"

They all four stepped into the low-ceilinged restaurant only slightly cooler and darker despite the air-conditioning on full and the white curtains drawn across the bank of windows facing out onto the parking lot. A pretty high-school girl seated them at a booth along the wall and ignored Chad's wink, choosing instead to direct her coquettish smile at Zach as she distributed the menus. Tess gave Chad a sharp elbow to the ribs. Allison glanced at Zach just as he looked away from the hostess's not so subtle invitation.

"Welcome to Milt's," she said in a natural and seductive drawl. "Y'all enjoy your meal."

Chad couldn't resist chirping, "I'm enjoying the scenery already," despite Tess's elbow firmly planted in his side.

The hostess smiled her cute smile then turned and headed back to her receptionist's post beside the door.

And the four of them settled into their evening together in the modest but pleasant setting. Chad ordered a pitcher of beer with two mugs from the older and somewhat stern (and decidedly non-playful) waitress, and Allison and Tess each ordered white wine. Allison ordered lasagna, Zach spaghetti and meatballs, and Chad and Tess split a pizza "with the works." The waitress scurried off to get their drinks.

Tess looked across the dining room with a bar across the far wall, about half the tables full and only one person—some jock in jogging shorts and a tank top—at the bar. "It's pretty quiet here during the summer," she said. "But once the students get back, you won't be able to find an empty seat."

"Damn Yankees," Chad muttered.

"But it's so far from campus," Allison said.

"Doesn't matter," Tess said. "The basketball team hangs out here, and everybody else follows." Avery had a nationally prominent men's basketball team that had been to the Final Four the year before last. It's starting five were well-known and magnetic figures, both on campus and in town.

Allison nodded. She'd heard much about Avery basketball fever at work but had yet to witness the phenomenon. "They asked Zach to try out as a walk-on."

Chad's eyes lit up. "Are you going to?"

Zach shook his head. "Can only handle one full-time commitment."

"Allison?" Tess suggested.

Allison laughed. "Are you kidding?"

Zach said, "I came here to focus on writing, and I need to stick to that plan."

"Barton," Allison said.

"Who's he?"

Allison looked at Zach.

Zach said, "He's a writer who teaches at Avery. I came here to study with him. He's become our friend."

"Your friend," Allison said.

Zach looked at her but didn't respond.

Chad said, "Get more girls if you played basketball."

Tess didn't bother with the subtlety of her elbow this time—just hauled off and punched him in the shoulder.

"What?" he protested. "At least I didn't say 'pussy'."

Tess buried her face in her folded arms. Zach and Allison laughed uncontrollably from the far side of the booth. Their waitress delivered their drinks.

Chad said, "About time," and poured the two mugs full. He raised his mug above the table. "To Zach and Allison, our newest friends (even if they are Yankees!) with hopes for lots of fun times to come."

Tess lifted her head from her arms, took up her wineglass, and turned to Chad. "Now that was very nice, Mr. Williams. I can drink to that."

Chad winked. "At least I didn't say 'drunken orgies'."

Tess shook her head in disgust but still managed to click her glass against the other three, as Zach and Allison dissolved in more laughter.

The evening continued in like manner over their salads and entrees and New York cheesecake dessert that followed, their conversation surprisingly relaxed and enjoyable for two couples from such different backgrounds and with such divergent hopes, that conversation helped along by generous amounts of beer, as Zach and Chad had reached the bottom of their pitcher before their entrees arrived and ordered a second. Zach asked Chad about working as a police officer ("Just busting heads and kicking ass," he'd replied casually) and Allison asked Tess about growing up as a debutante (she was born in Shefford and raised in a genteel "old-money" family, a family that had ostracized her when she chose to marry Chad, an uneducated boy from the other side of the tracks—quite literally in this case, as he grew up on the east side of town, beyond the rail-line that split the town from south to north). Tess asked Zach about plans for his writing, and at some point asked about Barton Cosgrove's wife and family. When Zach said Cosgrove had never been married, Chad said, "Not one of those queers, is he?" Zach could only shrug and say, "None of my business."

As the evening wore on and turned to night and the hostess pulled aside the curtains to reveal the dark parking lot beyond, the restaurant grew steadily more crowded, especially the bar area, which eventually became standing-room only and quite noisy. Several guys at the bar waved to Chad on entering, and one of them sent a complimentary round to their table—wine for the ladies, shots for Zach and Chad. Zach also noticed a provocatively dressed dark-haired woman (fishnet stockings and heels beneath short shorts and a halter top—how could he miss that?) at the end of the bar keep looking their way. He knew she wasn't looking at him and wondered how Chad knew her, a question all the more loaded since he was conspicuously ignoring her. Neither Allison nor Tess appeared to have noticed her, their eyes not programmed for such sights.

It was almost eleven when they'd finished their desserts and Tess had sipped her way through a cup of coffee, Allison through a cup of tea. Tess waved to the waitress for the check.

Chad reached across the booth and grabbed the bill from the waitress's hand. "Zach and I still have a little beer to drink," he said, tilting his head toward the dregs of beer in the bottom of the pitcher, "And some guy-talk to exchange."

"Since when do guys talk?" Tess said skeptically.

Chad was indignant. "Since when I meet a new friend and want to get to know him better. Isn't that right, Zach?"

Zach shrugged then added after a moment's glare from Chad, "Wouldn't mind hearing about quail hunting down east."

Chad said, "See—boring old guy talk. Why don't you two go on and we'll follow you after a bit. Zach knows the way."

"Chad!" Tess growled in a reproach that sounded all too practiced.

"What?" her husband answered in a similarly practiced retort.

Tess shook her head in disgust but decided against making a scene in this public space, with her new neighbors caught in the middle. She looked at Allison. "You ready to go?"

Allison looked at Zach. She saw the glint of hunger in his eyes—the glint from Boston days that said he wasn't ready to call it a night, not by a long shot. She should've warned Tess—well, too late now. She turned back to Tess and said in a resigned tone, "Guess I'm ready if you are."

The two women stood without a word to their husbands. They were halfway to the door when Tess turned suddenly, came back to the booth, and leaned over and hissed to Chad, "If you keep Zach out all night, that's it for us."

Chad looked indignant. "He's a big boy, and he's got the keys. How late he stays out is his business."

"Chad!" she said in a vehement whisper.

"Okay, okay. I'll guard the kid with my life. Jeez."

Tess turned and left in a huff, grabbing Allison by the elbow as she passed.

"Women," Chad muttered to no one in particular. He watched in silence out the window until the taillights to Tess's car blurred into the other taillights passing on the road beyond. Zach wondered if he were feeling remorse, perhaps ready to suggest they finish off the beer and follow their angered spouses to the apartment complex.

But as soon as Tess's car had disappeared, Chad waved to the waitress, handed her the tab, and said, "Add another pitcher and two shots to that please." And with that statement, Zach knew he was on his way to another all-night adventure, first since last fall.

And it was an adventure, though more as an observer than a fully involved participant. With the women gone, Chad's cop buddies from the bar soon sauntered over and gathered around their booth and exchanged profanity laced shop talk. They were particularly animated about an incident that happened earlier in the week, where a group of four white officers (Chad not among them) had roughed up a black guy and put him in the hospital. Maybe he'd had a knife or maybe they'd planted it on him (the storytellers were careful to leave that point vague), but in any case the corporate adrenaline produced by the incident was still flowing through the ranks of white officers (which comprised some ninety percent of Shefford's police force at the time, though the general populace was fifty percent black). Through his somewhat intoxicated haze, Zach recorded his first encounter with the entrenched racism of the region.

After a while and another pitcher ordered and drained, the other cops mentioned a house party in some neighborhood Zach had never heard of. Chad waved his arm and told them to go on. "We might join you later," he said.

Soon after the others were out the door, the woman in the fishnets came over from the bar and slid in next to Chad—very close to Chad. "What took you so long to get rid of them?" she asked.

"The boys or our wives?"

"All of them," she said. Zach saw her arm slide toward his lap, her hand hidden under the table.

"Zach, this is Brooke."

She looked at him across the table. "Pleased to meet you." Her mouth was soft and inviting but her eyes were glazed and hard. She didn't lift her hand from its new found home beneath the booth.

Zach nodded. "Nice to meet you."

"Thanks for covering for our buddy here." She looked back at Chad.

"Hey, it's me watching him," Chad said with a wink.

"So I see," Brooke said, her hand busy beneath the table.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Chad said and slid away from her on the seat, till his back was against the wall.

Brooke sat straight up and folded her hands on the table, looking as demure as her big head of flowing locks and her loose halter top would permit. "Julie's having some folks over. Might even get your friend a friend."

"Let's go," he said, all but pushing Brooke out of the booth as he dropped a fifty on the check, more than enough to cover their bill and hush money for their waitress.

Zach rode in the backseat of Brooke's car while Chad drove. In their new privacy (if you forgot about Zach, which apparently Brooke had) Brooke was all over Chad—kissing and licking his ear, sliding her hands first under his shirt then lower, then her head disappearing below the seat. Chad silently accepted her attentions but offered none in return, kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel in apparently practiced form. Zach suddenly wondered what might be transpiring in all those cruising patrol cars that he so carefully avoided or tried to ignore in feigned nonchalance.

They arrived at Julie's, a brightly lit bungalow with people milling about a broad front porch and beyond the open front door and street-side windows. Chad and Brooke promptly disappeared down a hallway into the back of the house without a word to Zach. He found his way to a table well-stocked with all description of alcoholic beverages and poured himself a plastic cup half full of bourbon and added a couple ice cubes from a Styrofoam cooler. With this cup as his companion, he slowly wandered through the various open rooms in the house, noting the mix of attendees with a neutral stare. They all appeared to be a few years older than he, though none over thirty. And they all had the loose-limbed, easy-going manner of locals, drunk locals at that—no imports, no college types, certainly no Yankees anywhere to be found. And not one of the two dozen or more people he saw looked up or acknowledged him in any way. He didn't feel rejected or ignored; he simply felt invisible.

He found his way out onto the porch, where at least there was a taste of cool air. He stood at the brick railing of the wood-floored porch and looked across the shallow yard and the empty street to the dark houses on the far side. He suddenly felt very tired and very lonely. This corner of the south wasn't his world and never would be. It was time to find his way back to a place he knew, a place with at least a chance of becoming home.

Something brushed his empty hand hanging limp by his side. He turned to see a young woman with large dark eyes and shoulder-length brown hair looking up at him. "I'm Daphne," she said.

"Zach."

"You seem lonely."

He smiled. "That obvious?"

"Easy guess this time of night."

He nodded. James Joyce rose spontaneously to his lips. "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon the living and the dead."

She smiled. "Maybe the best short story written in the English language."

"You've read it?"

"We read in the South too, you know."

Zach nodded. "Never doubted it."

"Everybody else does."

He stared frankly at her, a stare made possible by the time of day and his state of inebriation and her ethereal presence. At that moment in his life, she was the most beautiful creature on earth—a calling as absolute as she was currently forbidden. "I need to get home to my wife."

"She's probably worried about you."

He laughed. "I doubt it."

"Then she should be."

He raised his hand and brushed her cheek. It was cooler than the warm night. "Thanks for the company."

"Likewise."

He left his cup on the railing and strode past her and down the steps and out into the yard. Behind him he heard her say, "If you get through Ulysses, give me a call."

He said over his shoulder, "I promise" though he couldn't see her among the others on the porch.

He thought he'd simply retrace their route here and get back to the restaurant and decide then if he'd drive home or walk; but after three intersections in the dense and dark labyrinth of residential streets, he knew he was completely lost. Worse still, he doubted he could find his way back to Julie's party; and even if he did, would there be anyone there to help him? He decided to just keep walking—either he'd find a familiar landmark or dawn would find him.

As he walked, the houses to either side grew steadily smaller and more humble, at some point became tiny dark millhouses, then boarded up millhouses, then no millhouses at all—just vacant lots and fenced enclosures with growling guard dogs jumping against the backside of the fence. He'd still not passed a single moving vehicle since leaving the party.

Up ahead the road rose and crossed over paired railroad tracks. Zach knew the tracks passed close to the mall the restaurant was in, and less than a half-mile from the apartment (he often woke in the wee hours of the morning to the rumble of the 5 AM freight train making its way through town). These tracks could lead him home.

But he had no idea how far it was, or for sure he was headed in the right direction. The tracks just went on and on. He grew more and more weary. His legs started to feel like his ankles had the lead weights he used to wear for summer basketball training. All he wanted to do was lie down and rest. The tracks offered the perfect resting spot—clean and dry, a little air up here above the thickets and the road, the rail to lean his head on. It seemed the perfect place to lie down and rest for just a minute. He bent down and brushed the smooth steel. It was warm but not too hot. It'd be the perfect place to which to lean his head.

Then he spotted a pair of headlights in the distance, coming toward him on the road that ran parallel the tracks. He watched those headlights grow steadily larger. He had a choice to make. He could lie down between the rails and hide from whoever or whatever was behind those headlights; or he could run down the embankment and stand in the road and wave down whoever or whatever was behind those headlights. But he had to decide soon. The lights were steadily approaching.

He slid down the gravel bank, nearly losing his balance along the way and stumbling out into the road just in front of the car. Fortunately the vehicle was not traveling fast and came to a stop without hitting him. Zach stood in front of the car, staring over the headlights and trying to make out who might be behind the windshield. Suddenly a blinding light shone directly in his eyes. He raised his hands in front of his face to block out this searing artificial sun. Still in the light's brilliance, he felt his way around the front of the car and along its hood to the driver's side door. The light suddenly flashed out.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the new dimmer light (the cars headlights were still on, illuminating the road ahead and casting a diffuse glow backward over the car) Zach noticed the bank of lights atop the roof and the black and white paint of the car, with the words Shefford Police printed across the side.

A voice from inside the car said, "If you want to kill yourself, best not to run in front of a police car. We know how to stop."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself."

"Then what the hell were you doing?"

"I stumbled coming down the bank."

"Walking the tracks in the middle of the night—might as well be trying to kill yourself. You know how many drunks we scrape off those tracks each year?"

"I was just trying to get home."

"Last I checked, weren't no houses up on the tracks."

"I'm lost. I was hoping the tracks would lead me back to my apartment."

"Where's that?"

"Shefford Forest, Building One, Apartment H."

"You're a long way from home."

"A friend took me to a party then disappeared. I was trying to make my way back. Would you please drive me home?"

"We're not a taxi service. I can take you to the drunk tank, but I can't take you to your apartment."

"As a favor to Chad Williams?"

"How do you know old Chad?"

"He's the one got me in this mess. He's the one drove me to the party."

"Chad wouldn't do something like that."

"He was bird-dogging a girl."

The cop laughed. Zach's eyes had adjusted enough to see the shadowed driver. He had a round face and a crew cut. "Now Chad would do that."

"So will you please take me home? You can put it on Chad's tab."

"That's already a long tab."

If Zach weren't so exhausted, he might've laughed. Instead, he simply said, "So make it one favor longer."

The cop hit a button and unlocked the back door. "Get in," he said.

Zach opened the door and collapsed onto the backseat.

"You ain't got no weapons on you, do you?"

Zach leaned forward and actually checked his pockets, breathed a sigh of relief when he felt his keys still there. "Nothing harmful," he said finally to the back of the officer's head.

"Except your breath! Damn, boy, get your face away from me. And don't you dare puke in my patrol car. Ain't no tab long enough to make me clean-up puke!"

Zach followed his instructions on both counts, flopped down on the seat and fell into a deep sleep until the cop shook him awake and helped him out of the car on the street in front of their apartment, the sky to the east just starting to turn golden.

9

Zach helped Barton carry the food down the carpeted stairs to the lower level where he had his dining table at the far end of the single long room that also included his "den"—a couch and chair arranged around a small fireplace and a TV with one of the new video tape players connected beside it. There were packed bookshelves along all the walls and under the windows that looked out onto the backyard, covered now with wood shudders against the glare and heat of the late-day sun. The ground-level room, lit by flickering candles on the window sills and table, and perhaps ten degrees cooler than the upstairs with all the conditioned air sinking to this lowest level, seemed a different domain from the thick and torpid world of the upstairs, a world in the strangling grip of the dog days of late August, the air so thick with humidity and latent heat one wondered where your next breath would come from, how your weary lungs would drag it in, strip it of its few molecules of oxygen, push the remains back out—again, then again.

Allison was already seated at the table, waiting for the men to finish ferrying the cold dinner from the kitchen. She felt one minute like a queen being tended by her servants, the next like an interloper in their secret fraternity, finally like a forgotten bystander. She marveled at how Zach, a creature of stubborn habits and slow adjustment, had grown so comfortable so fast with this place, this person. Truth be told, she was jealous but wouldn't admit that, not even to herself.

"I think that's everything," Barton said as he stood behind his chair at the head of the table after sliding the serving utensils into the bowl of curried tuna salad and under the sliced fresh tomatoes on their neat rounds of bibb lettuce and peeling aside the linen napkin that covered the warm rolls in the bread basket.

Zach stood at his chair at the opposite end and quickly surveyed the table neatly laid out with polished silverware and Wedgewood plates. "Looks beautiful, Barton," Zach said sincerely. He'd not known till this summer what care and attention to presentation meant to one's dining experience. He'd not known a lot of things till this summer.

Seated between them, Allison wanted to jump up and wave her arms and scream, "Hello! I'm here! Maybe you could include me in your intimacy!" Instead, she said in calm normal volume, "Looks good enough to eat."

Barton laughed. "Good food, good meat, good gosh, let's eat!" He sat and passed the tuna salad to Allison to begin.

The meal shared in that dimly lit, elegantly appointed cave initially unfolded in a fitting quiet reverie—soft-spoken thanks for the food, the day, the end of the work week, the approaching end of the summer, their words all gently cloaked and elevated by the tones of the Bach harpsichord concertos permeating the room from hidden speakers.

But soon life intruded into that waking dream (had it ever left?). Allison was bored with her job and looking into other options within the university. Zach's British Lit II course with the best professor in that period (Davis) had been cancelled and replaced by one taught by the worst (in Barton's humble opinion) teacher not only for the period but in the whole department—"A dead weight, and that's being generous," he surmised. And Barton glanced to his right at the new paneled wall and solid wood door and said, "I don't miss the old glass slider. But I need to get some bookshelves built. Zach, you don't do carpentry, do you?" "That's Allison's strong suit," Zach replied. "Oh," Barton answered, then added after an awkward pause, "Might need to get your advice, Allison." She nodded and said, "Anytime."

And Allison didn't like the food. She carefully and discreetly as possible separated the bits of chopped onion—every single tiny piece—from the curried tuna salad and set them in a neat pile to one side on her plate. She slid the thick sliced tomato with its olive oil and wine vinegar glaze off the bed of lettuce and ate only the dry lettuce. She did, however, like the sourdough rolls—ate three of the rolls slathered in lots of the whipped unsalted butter. No one mentioned her actions, and she said several times how delicious it all tasted. But Zach slid the tomato she'd left on the serving plate atop his portion (the slices fresh and juicy, delivered that afternoon by Earl, Barton's neighbor through the woods with a huge garden in his backyard); and late in the meal he used his spoon to quickly scoop Allison's onions onto his plate and mix them with his second helping of tuna salad. Later, Allison's fuzziness grew almost (but not quite) overtly hilarious when the bowl that had held her dessert serving of rum-raisin ice cream was cleared by Zach who discovered the raisins, stripped of their luscious rich cream, sitting forlorn in the bowl's dark bottom. Without a moment's hesitation, he tipped the bowl to his lips and consumed all those rejected raisins in two huge swallows, leaving a dribble of melted ice cream on his chin—all secretly observed by Barton grinning ruefully at the head of the stairs.

After clearing the table and stocking the dishwasher—Allison actually helping this time, to abundant if perhaps slightly excessive praise from Barton—they repaired to the living room for after-dinner drinks—amaretto and cream over ice for Allison (a sweet delight she could enjoy without reservation), espresso for Zach, cognac for Barton. The room felt warm and close after the cool downstairs and Barton pushed the thermostat lower before sitting in his chair in front of the window. Despite the heat, this space with Zach and Allison on the loveseat and Barton opposite them felt more familiar and natural, somehow more tangible and real and auspicious than the sequestered dining table. It also reminded the three of a similar moment two months earlier, Zach and Allison fresh arrived and fresh-faced in their hopes and innocence.

Barton intoned, gazing at a spot on the wall just above the couple's heads, "The World was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, and Providence their guide."

And Zach seamlessly picked up the verse, his voice nearly indistinguishable from Barton's, "They hand in hand with wandering steps and slow, through Eden took their solitary way."

In the silence that followed, Allison set her drink on the mahogany end table and clapped twice. "A performance, just for little old me."

Barton gazed at Zach with a kind smile.

Zach laughed nervously. "A little Milton to help the digestion."

Allison nodded. "I'm sure it will. But tell me, who is it walking hand in hand?"

Barton and Zach answered simultaneously, "Adam and Eve!"

Allison nodded but knew her question was unanswered. They all knew.

10

Zach spotted her amidst the crowd soon as he rounded the corner to the quad where they were holding the Transfers Orientation. There were maybe thirty students and a handful of faculty advisors gathered under an open-sided tent trying unsuccessfully to escape the pounding sun and the oppressive humidity of the late-August late afternoon. The minute he saw her he realized that his rush home from a sweaty and exhausting day working in Barton's yard, his quick shower, his sweaty drive up here in his truck with no air-conditioning (why'd he bother to shower, anyway? why'd anybody bother to shower in this heat and humidity?), and his half-jog across campus were worth the effort. Few things could've made it worthwhile, but she was one of those few.

As he approached the tent a tall, athletic middle-aged man with curly blond hair and a dark tan that made him look younger than he was greeted him and shook his hand. The man identified himself as Morris Houston, Professor of Sociology, and Transfers Supervisor. He welcomed Zach to their gathering and to Avery University then advised him that this period of refreshments and socializing would be followed by a brief orientation session. He handed him a packet that included the names of all the transfers and the college they were transferring from, invited him to pick-up his nametag from the table (it was the last one), and suggested he get himself something to drink. Zach thanked him for his hospitality and welcome. He walked to the table and picked up the nametag, peeled off the backing to expose the adhesive, then decided not to put the tag on for fear it wouldn't stick to his damp shirt. He crumpled it up and stuck it in the pocket of his tan pants.

Then, with some considerable trepidation and reluctance, he tucked his chin and strode into the crowd of intimidating strangers.

At the bowl of lemonade, a short, dark-haired boy with a pale face and black rimmed glasses said to him without looking up, "Wonder which one's the guy from Yale?"

Zach donned an expression of curiosity. "Which one do you think?"

"Well, it could be him." He gestured toward a good-looking preppy guy dressed in top-sider shoes with no socks, khaki shorts, and a madras-cloth shirt.

Zach had to admit that the guy looked like he was born cool and could well derive from Yale. "Could be him," Zach agreed. "But if so, it looks like he wished he'd stayed at Yale."

"Yeah. Who'd be crazy enough to leave there to come here?"

"Good question," Zach said.

A few strides farther down the table, Zach ran into an attractive dark-haired girl named Rhonda who was helping herself to some of the cheese that was melting on top of soggy crackers. She also was curious about the transfer from Yale. "I'm from Connecticut," she said, "but Yale was never on my radar screen."

"Where'd you transfer from?"

"Conn College."

"That's a good school."

"I guess, but no Yale."

"Yale's not all it's cracked up to be."

"You know?"

"Yes. I went there for two years."

Rhonda looked at him in surprise.

"Don't look like the Yale type?" Zach asked.

"Don't act like the Yale type. And in my book, that's a good thing."

"I'll take it as a compliment, then," Zach said. "And I couldn't agree with you more. I wasn't the Yale type. That probably had something to do with my unhappiness there."

"So why here?"

Zach sighed. "That's a long story," he said. It was a story that didn't lend itself to discussion over melting cheese on soggy crackers. It was a story that maybe didn't lend itself to discussion with anyone anywhere.

"Maybe you could tell it to me one day," Rhonda said. She'd not noticed the ring on his finger. Wedding rings were not something she, or any other student for that matter, looked for.

He nodded. "I'd like that."

Zach moved a little further along the table to where he found a bowl of chips that wasn't yet stale. He nibbled on a handful and sipped his lemonade.

"Zachary Sandstrom."

He turned. There stood the girl he'd spotted from far off. She was more lovely up close than from a distance—her blond hair radiant, her dark eyes gentle but captivating. She possessed a grace and calm presence that stunned him, and her welcoming smile totally disarmed him. He'd never experienced such a combination of overwhelming beauty and physical charm. He couldn't speak and barely managed to extend his hand.

She took that hand and shook it firmly. "Rebecca Coles, but everyone calls me Becca. I'm your advisor." She laughed. "But don't ask me for much advice. I've only been here a semester myself—still learning my way around."

Zach finally found his voice. "But willing to help us poor lost newbies?"

"Or get lost along with him."

"Better than nothing."

"So why'd you come south, Zachary?"

"Zach works best," he said. "And I came south for this lovely weather."

Becca smiled again that marvelous smile. "Isn't it great? I live for the summertime."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"You're not?"

Zach laughed and shook his head. "I'm dying in this heat—never been so uncomfortable in all my life."

"Well, you'll like the winters. All my friends from the North say the mild winters are the best part of living here."

"I'll look forward to that, and try to learn your love of this heat."

"Might need to be born here."

"You were?"

"Fifty miles west—in Greensboro."

"And transferred from?"

"UNC-Greensboro."

"So you've spent your whole life in North Carolina?"

"So far—daughter of the South."

"Good place to be."

"Except for the heat," she said with a wink.

"Except for the heat."

Just then Professor Houston walked by and asked Becca to join him and the other student and faculty advisors for the orientation program. Becca lagged just a second as the others moved to the head of the table. She touched Zach's shoulder and said, "Duty calls. Nice to meet you, Zach. Welcome to the South."

All he could say was, "Thank you. It's good to be here." Only after she'd joined the others to stand dutifully nearby as Professor Houston summarized transfer responsibilities and privileges did Zach realize how relaxed and comfortable she'd made him feel.

By the time Professor Houston had finished his monologue and the group of advisors had fielded a handful of inane questions from a couple anxious transfers, the sun had set and the quad was immersed in a still hot but not stifling pink twilight. The thirty transfers were then divided among the three student advisors and invited to address particular concerns to their assigned advisors. Zach joined the other nine students as they gathered around Becca. She gave everyone her address (an apartment on Central Campus) and her phone number then patiently fielded each question or comment as if it were the most important question or most interesting comment she'd heard that day or maybe ever. Zach stood back and watched. He could see that everyone loved her, even if many of his northern compatriots didn't always understand her accent or believe her genuine attention. The North had never produced this combination of grace and charm.

Becca turned to Zach in the growing dusk after wishing the last of her advisees good luck and telling her to keep in touch. "So how'd I do, Mr. Sandstrom?"

"Best Transfer Advisor the South has ever produced."

"You really think so?"

He could tell her question was sincere. "Yes. You made everyone feel welcomed and cared about. That's not easy to do."

"Thank you. How'd you learn to be so watchful?"

Zach thought—Depends on whom I'm watching. But he said, "I hope to write fiction. Watchfulness is an important skill in that trade."

"A writer—I don't guess I've ever known anyone who wrote fiction. Maybe you'll let me read some of your writing one day."

"I will."

"Good. There's a party over on Central Campus. You want to come?"

Zach shook his head. "Got other plans. But thanks for the invitation."

"Next time."

"Next time."

"Well, good luck with your first week of classes." She offered her hand.

He took her hand and shook it lightly, holding it for just a second longer than might've been expected. "Thank you. I'm sure I'll do fine. I've got the South's best ever Transfer Advisor."

Becca laughed. "Give that advisor a call if you need anything. Good night, Zachary Taylor Sandstrom." She walked off in the direction opposite the way Zach was headed.

He watched her leave, then turned and headed back into his life now changed forever, though it took him awhile to grasp the size and scope of that change.

11

Zach eased the front tires of the truck atop the mound of dirt and cut the engine. He reached out the open window and lifted the metal speaker off its pole and hung it on the lip of the door.

Allison slid out the passenger door and asked through the open window, "Root beer, right?"

"Rather have real beer."

"Zach, you promised." The morning after being brought home by the cop, Zach in extreme contrition and a more extreme hangover had vowed not to drink any alcoholic beverages for a month.

His impulsive promise (had he ever made a real promise that wasn't impulsive?) had been easy the first week, as his body purged itself of the residual poison; and not much of a sacrifice the second week. But now, settling into a relaxing night at the drive-in, on the heels of a physically strenuous work week at Barton's (as he prepped for the curtailed hours and diminished paycheck once classes started next Tuesday) and in the throes of the resulting body-fluid deficit, Zach longed for the soothing comfort of an ice cold beer (or two or six or more). This craving was first established during long and sweaty work days on the farm and the associate immoderate beer consumption—up to a case per man—which did replace lost fluids as well as blur the soreness and the fatigue; and it persisted in Zach's psycho-physical memory though he hadn't worked on the farm for years. But a promise was a promise. "Root beer, it is," he said, full knowing that there was nowhere to get beer anyway, now that they were inside the gates of the drive-in theater.

Allison said, "Be back in a jiff," and bounced off into the twilight toward the refreshment stand, weaving her way between the neighboring cars.

Zach turned his attention forward, toward the large white screen at the edge of the field, still blank this early in the evening, and the smattering of cars and people spread out before him beyond the windshield. In just that moment, it seemed that unfolding drama beyond the glass was the movie—families in folding aluminum chairs sipping drinks (one fat guy was lucky enough to be cradling a can of beer) and eating home-made popcorn out of brown lunch bags, pick-up trucks backed into slots with their tailgates down and high-school sweethearts cuddled up on beach blankets in the back, youngsters competing to grab the most sky on the rusty swing set beneath the dormant screen, majestic pines like soldiers at attention safeguarding the idyll their oblivious charges etched, and all of it presided over by the golden sunset fast fading to purple then to slate. This southern filming of a similar drive-in movie he'd watched a few years back in Connecticut—from this same seat in this same truck, in fact—was no more charming, no less banal, than its northern counterpart. At this elemental level, unknowingly observed in the unwinding of their everyday purposeful or purposeless intersectings, people were people, families families, wherever watched, whenever captured.

But the watcher changes, Zach thought. This watcher has changed. The sky darkening beyond the blank screen now held a fixed future—classes, professors, classmates, assignments: a world he knew, was trained in navigating—not the unknown void of boundless possibility and peril that had awaited him at the prior viewing all those years—and tears and fears and failures—ago. In short, he felt at home and anchored here, in this strange land, where he'd felt estranged and adrift that earlier time, in his hometown, the only world he'd ever known. He grinned calmly and complacently upon the scene—the movie before the movie—the placid gaze of one finally sure of his place and his future.

Allison tapped the passenger door with her shoe and looked in its open window. "Sorry to interrupt your meditations, but I could use a little help here." She cradled the cardboard tray of two tall drinks and a huge bucket of popcorn.

Zach laughed. "Sorry." He slid across on the seat, opened the door, and took one of the drinks and the bucket of popcorn off the tray.

"Thank you," she sighed and slid onto the seat. She pulled the door shut, dousing the truck's dome light just as the big screen leapt to life with advertisements for the snack bar's drinks and—you guessed it—popcorn! Zach and Allison settled back to enjoy the real thing as the two-dimensional counterpart played out before them.

The first show of the double feature, American Graffiti Two, suffered by comparison to its better-written, better-acted predecessor (truth be told, suffered by comparison to almost any movie they'd ever seen) but still provided entertainment appropriate to the venue—lots of action, several chuckles, one or two good laughs. They sat at separate ends of the seat—sipping their drinks, sharing the bucket of popcorn on the seat between then (their hands actually brushing a few times amidst the greasy kernels) and inhaling the cool night air through their open windows, tethered to the world beyond through those open windows, reminded of it by the occasional passing mom clutching the hand of her child on the way to the refreshment stand (and restrooms), the sporadic car horn's trumpet blare into the dark.

During the intermission, as most others in attendance walked to and from the snack bar or stretched their legs outside their vehicles, Allison tossed the empty popcorn bucket in the back and slid across the seat to press her left side full-length against Zach's right. She leaned her head against his shoulder and rubbed her cheek up and down against his forearm.

Zach was glad the cab was dark to hide his surprise at this gesture. She'd not snuggled against him—in the truck or anywhere else for that matter—for years, maybe since the last time they'd sat at a drive-in theater. What was this all about? But his shock quickly passed. It was night, after all; and they were in their own world set apart from the rest of the world. Who was he, sober no less, to set limits on her expression, his? He pulled his arm out from between them and looped it behind her neck and over her shoulder. She laid her head on his chest.

"Will you still love me when you're a hot-shot student?" she asked the dark.

"I'll always love you."

"Not when we were apart."

"Maybe more when we were separated."

"Why?"

He tested his spontaneous statement against the night, confirmed it was true and asked himself why? "Maybe without the clutter of our past and our expectations, I could see you for who you really were and how much you meant to me."

"That's so sad."

"I didn't think so. Painful, maybe; but not sad. Sometimes you have to get alone on the mountaintop to see the world in all its beauty."

"Or down in the pits."

He shrugged. "Sometimes one requires the other."

"You're planning to leave me again."

"What?"

"I know."

"You're wrong."

She buried her face in his shirt.

He held her close, wouldn't let her go, not this night.

The second feature, Every Which Way But Loose, was quite original and funny in its goofy and improbable plot, its clever writing, its mix of dry wit and slapstick humor, and the unexpected magnetism between the leading couple (the mirror of a real-life magnetism that would cause the end of the male lead's long-standing marriage). Zach enjoyed it, watching from above Allison's head pillowed against his chest. But he couldn't help but wonder if she saw any of the movie, wonder what she was seeing from her resting place above his resting heart.

Later that night, after an uncommon joining of their two bodies both intimately familiar and frighteningly strange, after a condom arrested this rare chance at a child, Zach rolled off Allison and promptly fell into a deep sleep. In that sleep he had a dream that was really more a portrait than a moving narrative. Allison as he'd first known her stood by the side of an unfamiliar road waving his way. While he would've said she'd not changed much in six years, this old portrait suggested she had. There was innocence in and about the eyes, a fearless optimism in the upturned gaze, a reckless trust in the half-smile and quizzical tilt of the head. She appeared simultaneously so safe and so vulnerable. The portrait slow faded into deeper sleep, fell beyond memory before he could ask the two obvious questions—who was she waving to? was she or the viewer doing the leaving?—and arrive at their single answer.

Beside him, Allison watched from her pillow his slack sleeping face in the diffuse glow of the streetlight leaking around the curtains. In a sudden and silent upwell of feeling (as if this night hadn't had its share already) she asked for blessing on his future, an unlikely request followed almost immediately by a plea for her own strength to meet the challenges ahead: her first prayer in years.

Then she turned her face toward the shadowed ceiling and waited for sleep that was a long time in arriving.

12

If Zach had ever doubted destiny (which he hadn't, not since learning of the word in the sixth grade, which was long after he'd accepted the reality behind the word, which would've been sometime in the crib when he sensed his life to be shaped and pushed along by hidden but kind forces), he didn't after he came upon Becca Coles on his first day of classes, in Russian Novels in English Translation. She looked up from the desk and said, "Guess I really want to know more writers."

Zach nodded and said, "This would be the place," and sat down to contemplate just what all this meant—the novelists and this dazzling girl one seat in front of him.

It didn't mean all that much for the first six weeks, except that he had an added incentive to be sure to get to Russian Novels class both on time and well-prepared to discuss the day's readings. But neither of these were atypical traits for Zach. He'd always taken his studies seriously, even when he had no particular cause or purpose. Now that he had a purpose—to be as well-read as possible so as to improve his understanding of literature and, by extension, the quality and depth of his own writing—he was all the more conscientious about completing his reading assignments and taking notes on possible discussion topics. And Zach had always been punctual, having little desire for the twin disorders of tardiness—frenzy and contrition. So really all Zach had to do to try to impress Becca was show up and be himself; which, for the time being, was all he did—that and exchange pleasantries with her before and sometimes after class (if she wasn't talking to one or more of her numerous other acquaintances in the class—Becca was friends with almost everyone).

13

Late in September Zach received a letter from his youngest brother Mark who was a few weeks into his first semester at college and suffering from all the confusion and homesickness associated with that rite of passage. Though they'd spent little time together in the last two years and exchanged only a few brief notes in that time, they shared a love of the outdoors, hunting, and basketball that bridged their separation. So when Mark was feeling lonely and down at UConn, he reached out to Zach (as well as to every family member and friend he could secure an address for). Zach was touched by this communication and the frank emotions it bared. So on a Saturday night at home (no campus parties for this married student) and with Allison already asleep in the bed behind him, he sat at his desk and hand-wrote the following letter to his physically far-off but spiritually near-at-hand brother.

6 October 1979

Dear Mark,

I received your letter last week and enjoyed reading it very much. It sounds like life is anything but boring, full of good as well as not so good events. I guess if there's a proverb in all this it is that no experience is negative experience. In other words, even things that seem tragedies now (like Chem tests or jerk girls) will ultimately be put in their proper perspective and serve to broaden one's outlook and enrich one's life. So do the best you can and don't let anything get you down. There's a lesson in everything.

Things are going very well for Allison and me. Allison's job in the Bursar's Office gets her down sometimes, but she's taking some courses in computer sciences and hopes to get a promotion to a more challenging job. There is hope, but we aren't holding our breath. As for me, I'm overloaded with work but couldn't be happier. I have five courses—Chaucer, British Lit II, American History from 1607-1860, Russian Novels (in English translation), and Independent Study in writing. I'll read about 10,000 pages and write about 200 for the five courses. Besides writing about two hours every day, studying, and going to classes, I have two part-time jobs—one in University Archives (ten hours a week) and one doing odd jobs at Barton Cosgrove's house (ten hours a week). So I keep busy. As I told Barton last week, "I don't have time to take a piss in the morning" (a slight exaggeration but true in general).

But the thing is, Mark, I love it! I enjoy reading; I enjoy writing; I enjoy the people I meet. All of this satisfaction hinges on the fact that I've finally got my life straightened out and am doing what I want to do. It took two years of hell—and believe me, it was HELL—but I've made it. I got a break (actually, I earned a break) and now I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do. I realize not everyone is so lucky (or, considering what I went through these last two years, so unlucky) but one thing I've learned is faith. I believe, despite all indicators to the contrary, there is justice in the universe. I suffered and somehow survived; now I'm reaping my reward.

I all that sounds vaguely religious, well I guess it is. I'm no Bible-thumping evangelist, but I now believe things will eventually work out justly. A year ago I was as low as anyone could get—Allison and I were separated, I was living in a literal rat-hole, I was working a dead-end job, and all my dreams had been shattered. Somewhere in all this came an inkling of hope—a letter from Barton Cosgrove. He had no reason to pick up a six-month old letter. He had no reason to write back. He was famous, respected, received many unsolicited letters every week. But he chose to follow up on mine. A year later, here I am. A miracle? No, justice.

Not that any of this necessarily applies to you. Make of it what you will. My point is that I've been given a second chance and I intend to make it work. A year ago I had no chance; now I do. I'll be damned if I'm going back to where I was—a failure living in a dump. I'll make it or die trying.

Despite my workload, Allison and I still get out once in a while. We've become so provincial with occasional trips to the local drive-in theater and daily newspaper delivery. After living hand to mouth for two years, this sedate home life feels great!

We still don't have a stereo but appreciate your album suggestions all the same. I'll make sure and keep an ear open for the new Stones' tracks. We've been dividing our radio time between rock and classical (of all things!). Allison still prefers the rock, but I'm beginning to love classical!

Hang in there and keep writing. We enjoy your letters very much. We'll see you over the holidays if not sooner.

Love and best wishes,

Zach

14

They were six weeks into term—and all the way through Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, and into Turgenev—and Zach and Becca had exchanged less dialogue than one of those Russian masters could've thrown off in two minutes' time. Zach was convinced that Becca had a boyfriend. In any case, she surely had no more than a passing interest in him. And, with fatalistic reticence, he made no effort to discover the truth of the situation. Given the present complexities of his life, he was content to marvel at the beautiful and graceful girl that typically sat in front of him in class and seemed completely at ease with the knowledge that he was watching her every move. Like so many of the characters in the novels they were discussing, Zach was content to watch and adore—that is (also like many characters in their reading), until life forced him to act.

Their bald-headed, hawk-nosed Slavic Studies professor closed his text to signal the end of class. Zach put his pen in his pocket, closed his paperback copy of Fathers and Sons, gathered up his notebook, and headed for the stairs and the gray, cold October day that lay beyond. Becca was standing in the hallway talking with one of their classmates, a tall, thin girl named Cindy who seemed very bright but was so shy and soft-spoken it was hard to know for sure. Zach passed the pair without interrupting or making eye contact.

"Zach, wait up," Becca called from behind.

He turned and waited at the wide landing above the stairs.

She was a few feet away and still walking toward him when she asked, "Want to go out for dinner sometime?" She swung her book bag onto her shoulder then looked at him from an arm's reach away.

Zach was stunned by the question—the fulfillment of a wish he'd kept secret even from himself. He was so shocked he at first doubted what he'd heard.

Becca stood in front of him, smiling, waiting his answer.

"Well, sure."

"Good. How about next Monday?"

He nodded. "That's fine."

"There's a nice vegetarian restaurant near South Campus. We'll have to drive, though."

"That's O.K. I can pick you up."

"Great. Seven o'clock? You have my number and my address."

He nodded. "I'll see you then."

"See you Monday." She walked down the stairs, her book bag bouncing on the back of her brown coat.

Zach flew down the stairs and out into his new world without ever moving from the landing.

"You like Turgenev?" It was his professor, paused at the head of the stairs.

Zach nodded enthusiastically. "Very much."

"Then you'll love Tolstoy."

"Can't wait."

15

Zach carried the food and plates in a wicker tray from the kitchen through the living room and out onto the patio and set the tray on the black metal table. Barton followed with the glasses and the wine and silverware and napkins. Sir William Devonshire—a tall, loose-limbed, clumsy-looking fellow with a shock of unruly blond hair turning white and gentle blue eyes and an absolutely winning child's open and innocent smile (though this child was approaching seventy and had recently been knighted by the queen, thus the "Sir" prefix)—shuffled about and kept saying "What can I do to help?" and in the process managed constantly to get in the way and bump into the two of them and almost every other object on the path from the kitchen to the patio. When Sir William followed them out onto the patio through the screened door with its closer wedged open, he said "Well, at least I can close the door" and in the process of trying to do so neglected to release the closer and consequently broke it, causing the metal piston to fall to the brick patio with an ungodly racket. "Oh, my," Sir William said.

Barton, who might've strangled anyone else so haphazard with the order of his home, looked to Zach with an indulgent smile and a rolling of his eyes, set what he was carrying on the table, and turned to the gangly man who was now awkwardly bending over and trying to pick up the pieces of the closer that were strewn around and under the door. "William," he said teasingly, "What have you done? Must we teach you how doors work on this side of the Atlantic?"

"They usually just open and close," William said, looking over Barton's shoulder at Zach with a twinkle in his eyes. "You must have some new kind of door here, Barton."

Barton said, "Had, William. Had," and shooed him out of the way as he picked up the pieces of the closer and set them on the brick sill of the nearby picture window.

Zach watched all this with wonder and amusement, and noted that he now had another chore for when he came to work next weekend.

Barton then unpacked the tray, quickly setting three places at the table and uncovering the food for their lunch—pesto (another new experience for Zach) tossed on fettuccine noodles, sliced fresh tomatoes (they'd still not had a frost and Earl had shared some of his few remaining tomatoes with Barton, who now shared them with Zach and William), and a long French baguette for tearing off chunks of crusty bread. He poured the three wine glasses generously full of the fine red wine he'd opened earlier to breathe, then invited the others to sit and serve themselves.

It was a glorious Saturday afternoon in mid-October—temperatures in the low seventies, partly cloudy skies, a light breeze, the leaves of the surrounding beeches and oaks and hickories and poplars near peak color in their panoply of orange and gold and burgundy. Earlier in the week, following their independent study progress meeting, Barton had invited Zach to join him and William for this lunch. William Devonshire was one of Barton's oldest and dearest friends—a mentor dating from his studies in England in the fifties that had become a combination father-brother-son-confidante in the decades since. He was also a world-renowned poet and an acquaintance of almost every literary luminary of the twentieth century. He was staying with Barton for the weekend prior to flying to Atlanta to teach a weeklong poetry seminar at Emory.

After the obligatory praise of the food and the table and the weather—this once, all such praise accurate in its hyperbole—Barton not so gently nudged William to share some of his experiences. "Tell us of your encounters with the rich and famous."

"All stilted drivel and posturing," William said dismissively with a twinkle of mischief in those soft blue eyes. "And I'm as bad as any of them. I was at a cocktail party a few years ago, before they saddled me with that loathsome title, and chatting up this rather pleasant woman, just as chummy as you please, when I noticed her tiara and realized to my great embarrassment that I was talking with the queen! I quickly threw in a half-dozen 'ma'ams' and a few deep bows to cover my mistake."

"And what did she say?" Zach asked.

"She didn't give the slightest sign of awareness of my distress, just listened intently though maybe I noticed the smallest hint of a grin come across her face as I excused myself to get a sip of punch, backing slowly away and bowing the whole time!" William's face dissolved in laughter at this joke told on himself, and Zach and Barton roared.

Later Barton mentioned Ernest Hemingway—he'd been to his Key West house a few years before and written an essay on the experience for Esquire—and Zach asked if William had known Hemingway.

"We were together in Madrid during the war."

"What was he like?" Zach idolized Hemingway.

"He was such an unpredictable man. With a group in a room, everyone followed Ernest's lead and talked at each other's lips in a gross caricature of the Hemingway hero. It was disgusting but he loved it. He was a sadist, too. He always called me 'squeamish' and one day grinned that big smile of his and handed me a packet of photos of the victims of the most horrendous murders occurring in Madrid at the time—of which there were plenty. He used to brag about dragging Marty to the morgue every morning before breakfast. He loved to taunt and goad people, even those he cared about."

He paused and looked at his audience with that kind face. "But there was a good side to him. We'd often walk in the evening along the river and talk about books and writing and it was quite fine. He wanted me to come to Key West but I never went. I knew we'd go deep-sea fishing and I'd get seasick and Ernest would love it. No, I never went."

"Did you see him again?"

"The only other time was when we read together at Shakespeare and Company. I think the only reason he read that day was because he knew I was reading and wanted to give me a boost. Yes, he could be very generous." His voice trailed off with the memory from some four decades ago.

Zach listened with a rapt attention that was no more than one third the result of the subject of discussion. He was also transfixed by this gentle and forthright soul that had been an integral part of much of this century's history and culture. And he was startled to see Barton, ever the animated conversationalist, willingly step aside and yield the stage to William.

The three of them sat around that table for over two hours, long after the food was gone and the bottle of wine emptied. Barton, so often attentive to the clock, to keeping proceedings moving forward in an orderly fashion and according to a schedule only he knew and could define, this day set aside his arbitrary agenda and sat back and simply enjoyed this occasion with these two—his old dear friend and his new one.

16

The restaurant Becca directed him to on Monday night was crowded and cramped, the food O.K.—black bean burritos, pasta primavera. Their conversation—while driving to the restaurant in Zach's old truck, over dinner in the noisy restaurant—was not remarkable—typical undergraduate banter about classes, teachers, papers due, social events. They shared a few carefully selected details about their background and their hopes. But both seemed content to let the occasion itself be their main achievement, their main sharing, for that evening.

In the dark truck on the five-minute ride back to her apartment in the clear, warm fall night, Zach said, "I'll take this weather as a dose of your southern hospitality."

"Ordered it just for you, and all the other frost-bitten Yankees in our midst."

"This frost-bitten Yankee thanks you."

They rode a minute in silence. The turn to Becca's apartment was just ahead.

Zach said to the windshield. "Becca, I'm married."

Becca was silent for several long seconds then said, "That's news."

"I didn't think you knew. I thought you should."
"Thank you for telling me."

Zach turned into the parking lot for her building and switched off the truck. "I enjoyed tonight very much. Thanks for asking me."

"You're welcome. I enjoyed it too."

"I'd like to do it again."

Becca nodded slowly. "Me too."

"Good." Zach got out, went around the truck, and opened her door.

They walked the thirty yards to her entry patio and stood for a minute under the porch light Becca's roommate had left on when she went out. Becca looked up at Zach. He was surprised and pleased to see neither fear nor revulsion in her gaze. She was in fact every bit as lovely and captivating as she'd been when they'd started out. He said, "See you tomorrow in class?"

"See you tomorrow."

He turned and left. When he reached his truck, he looked back. She was still standing there, in the glow of the porch light. She raised her hand and waved, held it aloft till he'd cranked the engine and driven out of the parking lot.

17

Zach met Barton at his house late Tuesday afternoon to do a mid-term assessment of his progress on his independent study—the start of a novel about the challenges and drama of adolescence set against the backdrop of life on a family farm in a rural community fast being overtaken by suburbia. It was the story that had grown out of Barton's request two months earlier for a simple letter from Zach, a letter that once written had unveiled dark depths of unresolved anger and disappointments, betrayals and regret. Zach was some fifty pages into this novel now, with his four primary characters well-established and his narrative unfolding. But he was doing extensive rewriting as he went along, a process that was both tedious and discouraging.

"No one ever said writing was easy," Barton said.

"No one ever said it would be this difficult," Zach countered.

"Then you never asked a writer."

Zach sat silent, chastisement duly recorded.

Barton went on to explain some of the comments he'd penciled in the margins of the draft Zach had submitted a week earlier. They were seated together on the loveseat with Barton pointing out details on the pages balanced on Zach's knee. Zach didn't enjoy this unusual seating arrangement or the topic of conversation or the tone of Barton's voice. There were many places he'd rather be, many precedents for alternate seating arrangements or topics of conversation or tones of sharing apart from the current demeaning process. But out of all those possible alternatives, one image arose in his mind—the face of Becca standing beneath the porch light, her hand raised in silence, a beacon in the dark, a calling as irresistible as it was innocent and unpretentious.

Barton sighed and sat back. "Zach, I'm not picking on you. I'm your teacher. Teachers are hired to teach, to make corrections and suggestions, to offer guidance and advice. That's what I'm doing. It doesn't mean I don't like you. It doesn't mean I don't like your writing. I'm fulfilling my obligation to the university that you helped pay for through your tuition." He fixed a frank stare on Zach's face just a few feet away. "O.K.?"

Zach grinned and said, "Not true."

"What?"

"That I helped pay for your salary through my tuition."

"Why not?"

"Because the Financial Aid Office finally ruled on my application and concluded that since I was no longer a dependent of my parents (who couldn't have paid anything anyway) and have no assets or savings, they would fund the entire cost of my education, including tuition and living expenses."

"Zach, that's wonderful. You don't have to pay anything?"

"I'll have to take out a small student loan, and they'll deduct a portion of my work-study earnings. The rest is paid for! I'm supposed to get over two thousand dollars later this month for this semester's living expenses!"

"Avery is going to pay you to go to school?"

"That's about the size of it."

Barton stood and extended his hand. "Congratulations. Your record and your reliability have been rewarded."

"That's one interpretation." He shook Barton's hand while still sitting. "Or maybe it just means I'm poor."

Barton laughed. "What's the poor boy want to drink?"

"The usual."

Barton disappeared into the kitchen.

Zach straightened the typed pages on his knee and put them in the faux leather briefcase at his feet then closed it and set it beside the end table. He stood and walked to the windows of the far wall and looked out on the woods beyond, shrouded by dark clouds. The weather was still warm but rain was expected this evening, to be followed by clear and crisp cold, the season's first hard freeze. Zach wasn't sure how to interpret this omen. There'd been so many dramatic changes in his life over the past year he'd given up trying to read the signs. Still, these dark clouds prevailing at this moment of transition from summer to winter felt portentous. But of good or ill?

Barton appeared beside him. "I hate the fall—all death and dying."

Zach chuckled. "Always been my favorite season—hunting and the outdoors and crisp sunny days, long lonesome nights."

"If I know you, not many nights have been lonesome." He handed Zach the bourbon on the rocks in a silver cup.

Zach laughed. "One can hope." He clicked Barton's cup. "To nights spent in company."

"Here-here," Barton said.

They sat in their old familiar seats—Zach in the chair with his back to the leaden woods, Barton on the loveseat across the room.

"So you got Sir William to the airport and on his way?" Zach asked.

"Thank God," Barton affirmed. "One more day of wet towels on the carpet and coffee cups on the bookshelves and dirty underwear in the sink and we would've had to condemn the place and call for the wrecking ball. I found his toothbrush in the silverware drawer!"

"If he weren't so charming, he'd be infuriating."

"Try both, all the time! Now that Mother's dead, there's no one on earth means more to me; but if I had to live with him longer than a few days at a time, I'd surely strangle him."

"We'll try to keep that from happening."

"He loved you."

Zach was startled by the comment. "I liked him a lot and felt a surprising closeness, a comfort and ease around him. But I figured that was just his nature."

Barton shook his head. "William is almost always gracious and polite, though I have seen him cut people off at the knees with a single word or phrase. But he rarely opens up the way he did to you."

"I can't say how much that means to me."

"He also said, after you left, that now he understood why I was doing so much better."

Zach gave him a puzzled look.

"He meant that you were the reason for my improved outlook."

Zach tried to shrug the comment off. "He was just being generous and kind."

"No, Zach, he wasn't. He knew that. I know that."

Zach stared at him in silence.

"You saved me from a very dark time, Zach, a real crisis of spirit. You stepped into that breach without a moment's hesitation or doubt and stabilized a world that seemed to be caving in around me. I wasn't going to tell you this, but what the hell—one day my housekeeper Dottie saw you working down in the gully and turned to me and said, 'Look like the Lord just sent us an angel in Zach.' Dottie says a lot of nonsense, but she was right on the money that time, Zach. And I thank God for you every day."

"I'm not sure what to say."

"No need to say anything."

"Yes, there is," Zach realized. "We saved each other, Barton—me every bit as much as you."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

"It's the only way this could've worked—in balance."

Barton smiled.

"What?" Zach asked.

"William said something else about us."

"Yes?"

"He said, 'Be careful.' I found that ironic and told him, 'William, you've never been careful in any romance in your life.' And he said, 'That's why I know.'"

Zach nodded. "Thanks for the warning."

Barton said, "Thank William."

18

Zach wrote this prose poem in his Poem Journal four days after his dinner with Becca, eight days after she'd asked him out:

Plain Thanks

Only she knew the slow measured breath that came before the question.

She just asked, something he never could do. The words arrived before the eyes, empty for that instant's solitude. Then the eyes flowed behind, pushed the words along like boulders before a glacier—that sure, that inexorable. Who could've withstood that?

Not he. He was in love already, had been for weeks, since the day he'd met her—crippled by the sight, struck down in wilting sun.

But this now, her question, secretly desired but wholly unexpected, and what was he to do? Well, respond—say yes. She smiles, is glad; he stares, is lost.

We know the rest. It's been told before.

But not this, the point of this, this feeling, the feeling itself—gratitude.

Time will unravel the tangled knot of passion, cool slowly the preposterous furnace of love. But this it cannot kill, will not ever—plain thanks for taking a chance on him. This is what will stand when all else is gone.

He typed it over the weekend, placed the sheet in a manila folder, and gave it to her after class two days later.

She accepted it with a curious smile that reached to a place in Zach's soul far beneath his nervousness over sharing the poem. She read it calmly while they stood together off to one side in the suddenly empty classroom. When she looked up again, Zach had no idea what emotions or thoughts lay behind her calm and composed gaze; but he knew that instant he'd do whatever it took to rest in the presence of those eyes, their abundant soothing radiance. She mouthed the words Thank you before carefully sliding the manila folder and its dear contents between the pages of her bulky History text for safe-keeping in the jumble of her book bag.

Then they walked together in silence down the three flights of stairs and out the heavy carved oak doors, exchanged parting nods at the fork in the slate walk, and headed off into their separate lives that were separate no more—a cherished part of Zach now with Becca, and she permanently affixed to his heart.

19

30 October 1979

Dear Mark,

I was glad to receive your most recent letter and pleased to hear my last one gave you a little comfort. We are obviously different people at different points in our lives, but I'll hope that my parallel experiences might be of some help to you. Everyone goes through a confusing period such as you're experiencing. The key is to hang in there and things will get better.

I'm glad you had a chance to go home and do some hunting. It sounds like you had a good time despite your lack of results. It never mattered much to me whether or not I brought home dinner. It was just being outdoors that I loved. I'm delighted to hear that Gina is doing well. I still miss her very much. Allison cut out a comic strip that made her think of Gina and hunting. She gave it to me and I'm sending it on to you. Show it to Gina if you get a chance. I'm sure she'll laugh, maybe even bark!

I haven't hunted here yet. Dove season has been open for six weeks, but quail season doesn't open till Nov. 17th. If I hunted, it would probably be for quail; so I'll wait and see. It'd be better to have a dog for quail, but I'll keep it in mind.

The idea of hunting has changed for me. While I was growing up, hunting was a very special interest, a chance for solitude, a chance to think, a chance to "get back to nature." All of this was tied closely to knowing the land, knowing where every stump was, every tree. Now that I'm older and in a strange territory, the whole concept is different. Gone is the familiar land, the joyous company of aloneness in a safe place. Yet I'm still called by the land, any land, as I pass by overgrown fields on a fall day. In many ways, renewing the intensity of feeling I had while hunting in Dover may be the most challenging, bravest thing I could do. To face down my past and bring the same level of feeling into the present requires immense courage and conviction. The challenge is there waiting for me. Then again, times have changed, I've changed. Maybe it is really gone forever, and all I can do is move on, hope to find that feeling in something or someone else. Who knows?

I went to an open scrimmage of Avery's basketball team the other day—an intrasquad scrimmage—and get this: there were 10,000 people there! The arena was packed and they were turning people away. At a scrimmage! Jesus! Needless to say, basketball is big, REAL BIG, hereabouts. Avery should be ranked in the top five and plays Kentucky in Springfield on November 17. It'll be nationally televised so check it out if you get a chance.

Hang in there. You have our support.

Love,

Zach

20

Zach and Allison invited Barton and Larry Sampson, Zach's supervisor at University Archives, and his French-born wife Celine to dinner at their apartment on the first Friday in November. It was their first dinner party for more than just Barton and they inaugurated their new set of TV trays (there was no way to seat more than three people at their narrow bar table) and ate in the more spacious (though still cramped) living room. Zach spent much of Friday afternoon (he took it as comp time from Archives, would work tomorrow morning instead) preparing, at Barton's request, cassoulet, a French white bean stew with lamb and kielbasa and "oie confite" (goose preserved in its own fat—he substituted boiled chicken). The five ate the rich bean stew and salad and rolls from the new trays with their wood photo-paper tops and their dull-brass painted metal legs.

Barton and Larry were close friends dating from Larry's undergraduate years at Avery in the late sixties (this was the connection that landed Zach the Archives job). Larry had met and courted the then teenaged Celine, who was working on a green card as a nanny for a faculty couple. One day she informed Larry she'd soon need to use her nanny skills on their own child (as Celine told the story in her heavily accented English, her actual words were "I'm k-nocked up!"). So now Larry and Celine had a seven-year-old daughter Marie whom Barton adored and frequently tended when Larry and Celine needed time for themselves. Zach and Allison had met Marie at an Archives picnic earlier in the fall and also liked the precocious little girl (though Allison had intimated to Zach afterwards, "In a few years, she'll be a handful!"). They'd offered their babysitting services should Barton ever be unavailable. Much to the relief of their cats (which were hiding in the bedroom) and the five adults crowded into the small apartment, Marie was at home with Larry's visiting mother on this evening.

The dinner party couldn't have been more fun. The food was delicious (atop the tasty main course was a dessert of delicious creamy cheesecake made from Zach's mom's simple recipe), the informal and intimate setting relaxed and comfortable, the conversation lively and full of jokes and much laughter. Barton and Zach conspired to hold Larry (who could be, as a mutual friend once asserted, "Prolix to a fault") in verbal check, gently or, at times, not so gently interrupting him before he got too far into one of his monologues. The normally shy and reticent Celine took this cue to come out of her shell and regale them with tales from her impoverished childhood that sounded like something out of Les Miserables. Allison was the only one in this mix who seemed unusually quiet, though every time Zach checked she was attentive and grinning politely from her seat on the wooden chair brought in from Zach's desk and set in front of the entry door for the evening's seating.

The three guests bid farewell around eleven amidst profuse thanks and praise for the host and hostess, and talk of wanting to repeat the gathering in the near future. After Zach and Allison waved to their departing cars from the breezeway in the damp and chill night, they returned to the warm apartment and put their modest residence quickly back in order. Allison returned the desk chair to their bedroom and released the cats from their confinement. They emerged cautiously, sniffing every square foot of floor as they inched their way back into the kitchen then the living room. Allison wiped off and folded up the TV trays and collected the stray glasses and cocktail napkins scattered about the living room while Zach started hand washing all their dishes and serving bowls and the big cast-iron casserole (the apartment had no dishwasher). A few minutes later, Allison joined him near the sink to dry the dishes he was washing, a division of labor that dated to their earliest acquaintance—Zach standing at her parents' sink washing the dishes from Sunday dinner while she dried them fast as he could wash ("A good dish drier catches what a good dish washer missed!"). Even their physical placement matched those olden times—she to his left, receiving each dripping dish or utensil from his left hand into her right, no words or touch to distract from the task before them.

Once the dishes were done and all put away in the drawers and cupboards (the casserole under the sink—only place big enough to accommodate it) they went into the living room and flopped down on the upholstered furniture, Zach on the armchair with its bulky armrests and winged back and Allison reclining on the couch, immediately joined by both cats suddenly desperate for attention and her reassuring touch. They exchanged a few idle comments about the evening and their guests, highlighted two or three of the more humorous moments and stories. Then their conversation drifted to silence. It was nearing midnight and time for bed. They were both exhausted.

Zach looked at his wife. She was leaning into the corner of the couch looking toward the window's rectangle of night, wearing a pale-blue peasant smock, her legs in brown corduroy slacks stretched out across the cushions, her feet in her earth-sole shoes hanging out over the edge, argyle socks hiding her ankles, the cats pressed against her thighs—one to the left, one to the right. It was a poignant snapshot forever burned into his memory for what he next said.

"I think we should live apart."

They were words he'd been rehearsing for weeks, maybe months. But he'd not intended to speak them that night, had no idea why they came out just then, would never know. Like standing in frigid water to your thighs trying to get up the courage to dive then the next instant feeling the water rushing past your face and the potent new silence, the silence you dreaded almost more than the cold, now heard needing to be dealt with—it didn't matter why now; all that mattered was living with the statement, going forward.

Allison didn't look toward him or move. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, at the rectangle of black in the beige-painted wall. Silence gripped the room. Zach began to wonder if he'd spoken the words aloud or just emphatically in his head. If they'd not been said, he'd not speak them tonight, maybe not ever.

"Why?" she said, the word garbled by her rising quiet sobs.

Zach sighed—nothing to do now but go forward. "It's best for us both. We're holding each other back."

She turned her head toward him. Her face, just that fast, had dissolved into a mask of wretched sorrow. "You're not holding me back," she said one word at a time between sobs.

Zach hated himself for inflicting so much pain on one he'd loved long and deeply, one he had long ago (years before their marriage) sworn to God to honor and protect. But how could he protect her from himself and the flawed relationship they'd engendered and not, in over two years' tumultuous effort, figured out how to correct? "I need to be able to partake fully of my college experience."

"I know that. I'll let you," she said, her voice stronger and briefly imbued with hope. "Do whatever you want."

"I can't do whatever I want if we're living together. That's not fair to you. It would be impossible for me."

"Why'd you bring me down here just to leave me?" Her sobs had ceased, replaced now by sharp-edged (albeit sniffling) anger.

"I didn't bring you here to leave you. We came together. Unfortunately, we also brought a lot of unresolved issues with us."

"I didn't."

"We did, Allison. The problems from Boston weren't solved, just set aside. We both need to figure out who we are and what we want to do. That's not possible if we're living together."

"You don't love me anymore."

"I do love you. I'll always love you. I just don't want us to end up hating each other because of the chances we missed."

She stood so suddenly Pisser went flying onto the floor. "That's a bunch of crap," she said, glaring down at him before rushing into the bedroom and slamming the flimsy door in her wake.

Zach looked blankly at the couch, where his wife had been. Bobbi stirred sleepily, wondering where her pillow had gone, then stood and jumped from the couch's arm to the chair's (the gap wasn't more than a couple feet) and settled into his warm lap.

Maybe an hour later he opened the door to the bedroom carefully, undressed in the dim light, and slid into bed beside her. He strained to hear her breathing but could make out no sound. Finally he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. She rolled away from his touch and pressed her face and body against the wall. He conceded her that gap, shrunk himself small as he could and held to his side of the bed, one leg hanging off the edge of the mattress.

The next morning—clear and bright—she was up and dressed when he woke. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom and said in firm voice, "It's for the best. I don't want to live here anymore. I'll find another home." Then she turned and left. He heard the front door open then close, the deadbolt locked. He rose on his elbows and pulled aside the curtain over the window above the bed. Sue, her friend from the Bursar's Office, was waiting beside a car in the street below. Allison got in and they drove off.

21

Zach told Barton at the end of their independent study session three days later.

"Allison and I have decided to separate. She'll be moving out soon as she can find a place."

Barton fixed a careful stare on him. "For the record," he said slowly, "I had nothing to do with this decision."

Zach was unsure if this were a statement or a question, and he was uncomfortable with Barton's sudden intense gaze. He looked down at the novel draft in his hands and said, "If you're asking if your name came up in the conversation, the answer's no. This decision is about our lives and needs. But you're a big part of my life now." He lifted his eyes long enough to see that Barton's piercing stare had softened.

"Why now?"

Zach sighed. He was already tired of asking himself this question. It seemed no less tedious coming from Barton. "I don't know. We're on divergent trajectories and have been for quite some time, well before coming to North Carolina. We were just getting farther apart."

Barton watched Zach in silence. It didn't take a trained university professor to recognize that the student still hadn't answered the question.

Zach took a deep breath and continued. "Except for a thoroughly messed up couple months in Boston, we've never been free to explore ourselves and discover who we are outside the presence of the other half. It's time to do that."

Barton nodded. "Understand that I'm making no judgment, stating no opinion one way or the other. I like Allison. She's a sweet girl."

Zach nodded—disclaimer noted.

"But it's been obvious to me from the start that she wouldn't fit in the world you're pointed toward, are already a part of."

"I know that."

"I've seen many bad matches among fellow writers, where the spouse is merely a vestige from some past life, tagging along or worse. I can't say how many friends I've stopped seeing because their other half didn't fit into the mix."

Zach felt they'd gone far enough down the road of Barton's endorsement of his choice, maybe too far. "So Allison chose to move out. I feel bad about that. Seems like I should be the one moving out. But she says she doesn't want any part of our old life, any reminders."

"She's angry."

"You think so?" Zach said with a wan ironic grin.

"And how are you?"

Zach considered the question. He'd not stopped and stepped aside to assess his own well-being since blurting the words. "I'm O.K. I think, maybe a little in shock. But I've got so much going on, I don't have time to sit around and reflect about it. I can do that later."

"Don't push it down the road too far."

"Thank you, Dr. Cosgrove," he said but accompanied the words with a grin.

"And know that Dr. Cosgrove is available anytime you need to talk."

Zach nodded. "Never doubted it."

"You'll get through this."

"I know."

22

The first step was to find Allison a place to live. Sue didn't like her apartment or her roommates and was open to sharing a residence with Allison, maybe someplace in the country. But she still had three months to go on her lease. So Allison would need to find temporary living quarters and, given the brittle tension that had infiltrated their apartment, find it fast. Her boss at the Bursar's Office, John Snow, was fond of Allison and very sympathetic to her plight (how could her heartless student husband toss her out in the cold?) and granted her whatever time she needed—long lunch hours, early departure—to look into living quarters. He went so far as to offer to drive her to some of these appointments. Allison thanked him for the offer but declined, though she did ask if Sue could also leave early that day to help her out. Mr. Snow looked disappointed but said, "Of course."

Fortunately, in a campus town there's a lot of apartment turnover, especially late in the semester. Within days she'd identified three options available immediately and signed a three-month lease (payable in advance) on a one-bedroom apartment in a ten-unit building near South Campus and within walking distance of a university bus stop. The building was old and a little beat-up and the neighborhood not the greatest, but it suited Allison's low self-esteem of the moment (Zach couldn't help but recall his boardinghouse choice a year earlier) and served as implicit punishment of Zach—see what you've forced me into! Zach was excluded from all these deliberations in a decision both appropriate and unintentionally kind. He went to class, went to work, came home to the apartment in a routine largely unchanged except for Allison's stern silence. He spent a lot of time at his desk, but he'd been spending a lot of time at his desk. One might say the desk and the work he did there became a refuge, but it had been a refuge for a long time. Only now maybe there was a wall around that refuge—the wall of their separation that he'd deemed to force out into the open.

The first night after his announcement (Allison wasn't back when he got home from his stint at Archives and was still gone when he heated up some of the leftover cassoulet for supper; he'd begun to wonder if she'd found a new home that fast and if she'd call, when she showed up around ten, changed in the bathroom, and gone to bed without a word) he turned in his desk chair from the circle of light illuminating his novel in progress and asked Allison's dim figure lying in their bed with her back to him, "Does my working here bother you?"

"No more than before," she said without facing him.

"Should I sleep on the couch?"

"Am I that unattractive?"

"I thought maybe I was."

"No, you're not."

"So?"

"So sleep in the bed. It's still half yours."

"Thank you." He turned off the desk lamp and stood and started to undress.

"But please don't touch me," she whispered out of the shadow.

He whispered back, "O.K."

A few minutes later after he'd slid between the cold sheets, staying close to his edge, he ventured, "What if I roll against you in my sleep?"

There was a long silence. He wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

Then she said, "We'll let that pass."

He thought he heard her giggle into her pillow, but maybe that was just his wishful thinking.

If he'd been excused from locating and renting her apartment, he'd most definitely not been released from helping her move. The first order of business was identifying what she was taking with her. Zach, in contrition and simple fairness, would have given her anything from their apartment, everything, except his clothes and books and Barton's table and chair. But in keeping with her initial impulse to start fresh, the only joint possessions she demanded were the mattress and bedframe, and the upright vacuum cleaner. The novelist in Zach might've had a heyday with these selections; but that novelist had almost always been turned off in matters involving Allison (was that an indicator or cause of their troubles?), all the more so in the current upheaval. He understood her choices in the way she understood them—these items were costly and difficult to replace so she'd take them and let Zach find replacements. But the rest he could have and good riddance.

Still, by the time you added her clothes and crafts and books and framed calligraphy to these items, the move still amounted to two roundtrips between apartments and many roundtrips down then up the stairs at the former place, up then down the stairs at the new one. This was all accomplished in one whirlwind and exhausting (the choice conscious and cathartic for them both) warm and cloudy Saturday one week after the break. Zach didn't know what to say or do in all these awkward arrangements, so he imagined himself a hired hand, a small-time mover with a strong back and a truck, and let Allison order him around as she saw fit. Allison quickly recognized and adapted to this convenient arrangement, giving soft-spoken but firm orders as required—"that box over in that corner"; "those supplies on that shelf." Part of Zach wished she'd be meaner, more demanding, more vindictive; part of Allison wished he'd be unfeeling, less accommodating, less attentive. But such outright ruptures weren't possible in their relationship. They'd been through so much together, and they still loved each other.

And then there were the cats. Thank God they had no children (what if Zach had had his way and they'd had a child? where would they be then?), but the cats came close. They'd both always thought of them as officially Allison's, and they'd stayed with her through the previous separations (she'd kept the apartment both those times). But Allison's new apartment didn't allow pets. While she might be willing to sneak them in later (who would ever know?), she didn't want to take a chance during the transition—with her landlady snooping around and new items of furniture being moved in over the coming weeks. So she asked Zach to keep them for now with the understanding she'd take them once things had settled and conditions were safe. Zach gladly agreed. He couldn't help but wonder if there was more at work in this choice than mere logistics. But if so, what? Was Allison keeping a toehold in their apartment and his life, an excuse to come over on regular "custody" visits? Was she leaving him living and breathing reminders of her and their marriage, unfailing indictments of his brutal act? Or was it an improbable kindness, purring salves left behind against his inevitable loneliness and remorse? This last possibility seemed so remote and self-serving as to be absurd, and Zach quickly tossed both it and all the other speculations aside. He'd take Allison the way she asked to be taken—at face value. She was leaving the cats temporarily with him as a convenience.

And just like that, Allison was out of their apartment—now his apartment—if not out of his life. The next big hurdle, as if they'd not had enough of those, was teaching Allison to drive, and getting her a license and a car. It was not without reason they'd avoided confronting this challenge for years. Allison was terrified of the idea of driving. So they had her fears to overcome, along with all the practical requirements and costs. But Zach was committed to seeing her though this process of adjusting to independent living, long as she'd have him.

In these days and weeks of transition, Zach maintained his already full schedule and added a few activities to his now more flexible schedule. He began playing intramural basketball on a team headed up by Arnie, a junior who worked in the Bursar's Office and had learned about Zach early in the semester from Allison. He also began spending time in the Inn, a late-night restaurant on campus where you could buy food and, more importantly, beer with meal tickets. Finally, Barton made a point of keeping a close eye on Zach, calling him often and inviting him out to the house for reasons other than the independent study or yard work—for drinks or dinner—and followed through on their oft-discussed intentions to exercise by jogging around the field behind his house.

The one thing Zach didn't do during these weeks of transition was see Becca outside of class. That first dinner and a lunch on campus a week or so later remained their only non-classroom meetings through this period. Zach did, however, use a brief moment before class one day to tell her that he and Allison had agreed to separate. Her face betrayed not the slightest emotion as she held his taut gaze and said with simple sincerity, "I wish you both luck. It must be very difficult." Zach could only nod and say a quiet, "Amen" as their professor took his seat and began the class.

23

Following a five-lap, fifteen-minute jog around the broom straw field behind Barton's house on the cold damp cloudy day with three of Earl's cows as a stoic, cud-chewing audience, they stumbled into Barton's blessedly warm kitchen huffing and puffing and Zach wheezing with a bout of cold-air "asthma" (not really asthma but bronchial constriction he'd periodically suffered throughout his life after exercising in the cold).

"Sure you're alright?" Barton asked as he put his hand on Zach's shoulder as he was bent over clutching his knees and taking in small sips of the welcomed warm indoor air.

After a few more slow and calming breaths, Zach felt strong enough to stand up straight again. He gave Barton a sheepish grin and said, "All your fault for running this youngster into the ground."

Barton, red-faced and struggling in his own right though without the frightening wheezing, said between his huffing, "Maybe we should've stopped after four laps."

"And missed this jogger's high? Not on your life."

"On my life!" Barton affirmed. "Or end of it," he said and feigned a collapse so realistic Zach actually reached to catch him before Barton righted himself. "Just kidding."

"Not funny, Barton. Under the circumstances, not funny at all." But they both burst out laughing.

Barton said, "We've earned a sauna."

Zach knew Barton had a sauna in the basement, off the laundry room. He'd had to show him how to take the sealed cover off the light to change the bulb. But he'd never had a sauna, here or elsewhere. His life had been full of first experiences recently, so why not one more? "Sure. Lead the way," he said with fresh confidence now his lungs were working properly again, breathing in full unimpeded draughts.

Barton led him first upstairs, to the bedrooms. He got a plush maroon bath towel out of the hall closet. "Here's your towel." Then he pointed toward the guestroom where Zach had changed into his jogging shorts and T-shirt. "Get undressed and wrap yourself with the towel. I'll go warm up the sauna. Come on down when you're ready." He turned and started down the stairs.

"Naked?" Zach asked.

Barton laughed over his shoulder. "No clothes allowed in the sauna. That's what the towel is for." By then he was on the main level and headed for the basement. Zach turned and went into the bedroom. He carefully closed the door though there was no one except Barton in the house, and he was downstairs (and would see him naked soon enough anyway).

A few minutes later he tapped lightly on the cedar door to the sauna.

"Come on in," Barton said from inside.

Zach opened the narrow door. In the vermillion glow of the incandescent light passing through a red lens, Barton reclined on the left-side cedar bench next to the heater, sitting spread-legged on his own towel (that might've been blue or black but it was impossible to say in that light) and completely naked. A blast of intense heat slammed against Zach's body and he recoiled a half-step.

Barton gestured toward the bench on the opposite wall of the small space. "Put your towel on the wood and have a seat."

Zach hesitated.

"Come on, Zach. You're letting all the heat out."

Zach bent down and stepped through the doorway onto the hot wooden floor and pulled the door shut behind. He had to remain stooped over to keep his head from hitting the cedar ceiling. He undid the towel from around his waist, spread it hurriedly on the bench, and sat down facing Barton, his thighs firmly together but doing little to hide his total nakedness.

Barton smiled gently (though his expression and everything else in this tiny and overheated wood crate was tainted by the garish red glow). "Relax," he said softly. "Take a deep breath. Let the heat melt away all the tension and stress." He leaned forward by example and took several long and slow breaths.

Now seated, a foot or two of unoccupied space all around him, and his skin slowly acclimating to the intense but dry heat, Zach followed Barton's recommendation and took a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes and took another, then another. The hot air did open his lungs and, gradually, began to melt away his discomfort. He noticed a distinct scent, an odor that must've been from the unfinished cedar covering every inch of the room except the light and the heater. It was a sharp smell yet somehow soothing, in keeping with the heat encasing him and the red glow that, on opening his eyes, didn't seem so garish anymore but imbued the space with a surreal quality. In those moments with his eyes closed, Zach had surrendered his inhibitions, his need to make this world fit his prior conceptions and demands. Or had that really begun happening months before, with his stride across the sauna threshold the final step in a lengthy process of realignment?

He looked over at Barton. "It's definitely different."

"Sometimes a shock's good for the body."

Zach nodded. "And the soul."

They sat awhile in silence. Zach again closed his eyes and let his mind drift. It drifted to the image of a certain blond girl that didn't belong anywhere in this sauna or his already full and muddled life. But since when does one's heart obey any rules?

Barton said, "Brace yourself."

Zach opened his eyes. "For what?"

"This." He picked up a natural sponge from a stainless steel basin beside him on his bench and squeezed water from the sponge atop the heater's lava rocks. Steam boiled up with an ominous hiss and filled the close space.

The thick moisture in the air made it almost impossible to breathe. Zach started gasping. He felt like he was drowning.

Across the way, Barton said between his own labored breaths, "Bear it as long as you can."

Zach was already beyond that point. He was instantly drenched in sweat. He was gasping for breath. He thought he might pass out.

Barton stood and opened the door, took Zach's hand, and led him out into the frigid (or so it seemed) laundry room. Barton closed the door behind them and pointed toward a daybed covered in a sheet along the far wall. "We'll take a short break then go back in for round two."

Zach nodded dazedly, both his body and his mind in a suspended state of vulnerability, far beyond prior experience or knowledge, able only to follow this trusted guide. He copied Barton and spread his towel, still damp with the steam and his sweat, on the daybed's sheet and lay down on his back beside Barton, fully forgetting (or not caring) that they were both naked.

"That steam's a killer," Barton said, looking up at the textured ceiling.

"A killer."

"But it cleanses the pores and clears the respiratory passages."

Zach nodded. "If you say so." His body felt exhausted and limp. Some far away scrap of consciousness told him that's how one was supposed to feel after a sauna. But the balance of him began to ease toward dozing rest (also, perhaps, the intended result of a sauna).

It was in that dazed state that he felt Barton's hand touch his chest. It remained there, lightly pressing his left nipple, for some indeterminate period of time before gently and slowly sliding downward over his taut and sweat-dampened stomach. In a state of sudden stirring consciousness that was stirring not toward the old status quo—that domain of fixed knee-jerk response to such overtures—but toward some new definition of love and responsibility and sharing, Zach's right hand calmly intercepted Barton's left at a point near his bellybutton, and with an intentional gentleness meant to soften the rejection set that hand on Barton's chest but kept his hand soft covering it there, both of them safe like that, touching but caged.

After a few minutes, Zach rolled his head sideways and bore Barton's look of disappointment and reproach. "Thank you," he said to that stare. "I'm honored and grateful. But no." Then he sat up on the edge of the bed. "And ready for round two."

Barton remained on his back for several long seconds then sat up quickly beside Zach. He leaned over and kissed Zach on the cheek, the stubble of his beard scratching Zach's raw skin. "You're welcome," Barton whispered before standing and heading toward round two, Zach following close behind.

The following morning, Zach rose from his makeshift bed—two sleeping bags wrapped in a sheet spread out in the corner of the room and topped by another sheet and a wool blanket—and wrote the following words in his Poem Journal before getting dressed or eating or taking time to pee:

I dreamed this:

Your house. Full day through unshaded windows. Strangers gathering your possessions, dropping them into soiled sacks. And you? Invisible at least. Dead? Helpless captive? What? I don't know. Simply absent. And I? Watching but powerless, from above—frustrated hands clawing inches-thick glass, hollow shouts echoed unheard. We are so frail.

Only waking spares sanity.

Finally calm, the dream speaks this: Know this as warning. Go where you are needed.

I hear its message. I will protect you the rest of my days.

Later that day he reread the words, added the title "For Barton" at the top of the page, typed it, and gave it to its namesake when he next saw him two days later. Barton received it with gravity and a silent nod—of thanks, or perhaps acceptance of the promise.

24

Becca led Zach down the hall and into the kitchen where Sarah was making a peanut-butter sandwich for a late-afternoon snack. "Hey, Sis," Becca said across the island's countertop.

"Hi, Kiddo," Sarah said softly. "Keep it down. Katie's asleep." Katie was Sarah's year-and-a-half-old daughter.

"That's too bad," Becca said in a low voice.

"Not for me. She's got me worn out today."

"No, for me. I was hoping to see her and introduce her to Zach."

"She may be up before you leave. But how about starting out by introducing me to Zach?" She stuck the knife in the open jar of peanut butter and extended her hand across the counter toward the tall stranger in their house.

"Sorry," Becca said. "Sarah, this is Zach Sandstrom. Zach, this is my older sister Sarah."

Zach reached across the counter and shook Sarah's hand lightly. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she said then looked at her hand. "Sorry about the peanut butter. There are paper towels by the sink." She nodded toward the sink under the window looking out onto the drippy and cool fall day.

Zach smiled. "No problem," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Good for the skin."

Sarah laughed. "I've always thought so, but what do you do about all the birds and mice following you around?"

"There's worse company to keep."

"Becca said you loved nature. She wasn't kidding."

Becca waved her hand between the two. "Hello. Becca's here guys. You can include her in your conversation if you want."

Sarah smiled at her sister, "Sorry, Bec." She touched Becca's hand resting on the counter. "There—you can have some peanut butter too."

"Sarah!" Becca exclaimed. "It's not my idea of a skin cream!" She went to the sink to wash her hands.

"How about for food—y'all want a snack?"

"It's almost dinner time, Sarah. We're going to go to Tony's before the movie."

"Little snack before dinner never hurt anyone. How about you, Zach?"

Zach had walked over to the double French doors leading out onto the deck backed by autumn woods. "No thanks. I'll save my appetite."

Sarah snickered as she finished putting her sandwich together. "Probably just saying that for Becca."

Becca turned from the sink. "Sarah, mind your manners."

"What manners?"

Zach gazed out at the woods silent and sleepy in the fall drizzle. Though Becca's family's house was on a cul-de-sac in a highly developed part of Greensboro, the view from these glass doors revealed only nature—a mix of deciduous trees, some with their foliage gone, some clinging to brown and gold leaves, and lofty dark pines. The setting recalled for Zach similar days in similar woods from his childhood on the farm. Though he was delighted to be here—with Becca proudly showing him her home and introducing him to her family (Sarah anyway, Katie if she awoke, her parents if they got home from work and errands before they left)—he felt a sudden yearning for the long ago damp fall woods of his childhood, could even smell in the nostrils of his memory the brassy odor of decaying leaves and approaching winter. The view and the memory lulled him toward a dreamy daze.

"Zach!" Becca touched him on the shoulder.

He turned and looked at her. "Sorry. Something about your backyard reminded me of home."

Becca smiled softly and gazed at him with those gentle and ever kind eyes. "You miss your family."

"I didn't think so, but something about the day and the woods—." He shrugged. "Just a passing feeling."

"It's O.K. to miss your family, Zach. You don't always have to be the brave loner."

"I'm not; I'm with you."

"Good. Let me show you the rest of the house, and introduce you to Prince Albert."

Behind them, Sarah said, "Don't wake Katie," mumbling the words between bites of her sticky sandwich.

Becca'd brought Zach by her family's house before taking him out to dinner at a favorite local restaurant then on to the just released movie The Rose, showing in a theater in the same shopping center as the restaurant. This was only their third official date; and the fact that Becca had suggested coming to her hometown for the movie (when it was playing at several venues in Shefford) then added this impromptu visit to her home, was a development of not so subtle significance. Zach was already in love with this beautiful girl, had said as much in a prose poem he'd recently given her and hinted it in words and actions. But he was simultaneously pulling hard on the reins of his surging emotions, trying his best not to overwhelm Becca or get too far ahead of her in this still nascent attraction. So this visit carried a profound meaning for them both.

Becca led him down the center hallway and gestured toward the formal living room near the entry and the dining room opposite, then pointed up the open and spacious stairs. "The bedrooms," she whispered. "Where Katie's sleeping."

Zach nodded.

They got to the end of the hall and entered the family room at the back of the house. "And this is Prince Albert," Becca said and squatted down beside a loveseat covered with an old bedspread where a large English bulldog slowly raised his jowly broad head. She lowered her face and rubbed her nose against his flattened wrinkled snout. "How's my old Bertie?" she cooed. The dog's abundant flabby skin quivered at her touch and words, like a large vat of brown furred jello.

Zach loved all animals; but with a farmer's son's practical bias, bulldogs were not high on his list of desired pets. They were useless as working dogs—prone to injuries and illness with chronic joint and respiratory problems due to overbreeding and misguided selection. But he sure loved this dog's cooing owner, and would welcome the bestowal of similar loving attentions on him, when—or if—she ever felt so inclined. He knelt beside her on the carpeted floor and scratched behind the dog's cropped ears. "Pleased to meet you, Prince Albert," he said and shook the dog's near paw.

Becca straightened up from Bertie, briefly lost her balance, and fell into Zach's side as they both knelt beside the couch. Zach steadied her with his arm around her waist. Though she'd quickly regained her balance, Becca remained leaning against Zach for several seconds, not looking up at him but staring blankly at the dog and the couch, her breath stuck in her lungs.

Prince Albert rose with much stiff-jointed, grunting effort and nuzzled his head against Becca's shoulder. Becca laughed and stood. "Poor old Bertie," she said as she picked the dog up and set him gently on the floor. They followed his waddle out into the hallway.

Becca looked at her watch. "We should probably head on to dinner. The movie starts at seven."

Zach nodded. "Ready anytime you are."

"Let me find Sarah and say good-bye," she said and headed off toward the kitchen.

Zach waited by the front door, silently admiring the high ceilings and ornate moldings of the entry hall and central stairs.

Becca returned a few minutes later. She shrugged. "Don't know where she went."

They'd just turned toward the door when sound and movement from the head of the stairs caused them to look back.

Sarah slowly descended the stairs holding a sleepy child. She reached the bottom and walked over to Zach then turned her back to him so he could see the little girl's face resting on her shoulder. "Zach, this is Katie."

Zach leaned over and tried to catch the child's attention. The little girl buried her face in her mother's neck and hid under the feathery curls of her own light brown hair.

Sarah turned back around to face Zach. "Still half-asleep," she said. "You won't find any of that shyness when she's awake—more like try to find a way to hold her down."

Zach nodded. "I'll look forward to seeing her sometime when she's more awake." He reached out and shook Katie's bare foot protruding from beneath her frilly pink dress that Sarah had put on her just for him. "Pleased to meet you, Katie," he said to the back of her head.

Over Sarah's shoulder, Katie said, "Bert-bert," and extended her arms toward the bulldog waddling down the hall.

Sarah laughed. "Katie's favorite toy." Katie squealed as the dog disappeared into the kitchen. "Y'all have fun at the movie while poor Sarah sits bored at home." She offered them a full pouty face.

Becca leaned over and kissed her sister's cheek then the back of Katie's head. "We'll send you some cheese to go with that whine, Sis."

"I could use it," Sarah said before turning and heading down the hall.

Behind them as they headed out the door, Katie yelled, "Bye-bye."

Zach was silent for the short drive to the restaurant as Becca concentrated on navigating the heavy rush-hour traffic and he tried to find his way through a sudden upwelling of melancholia. Something about this fading damp day in this fading calendar year mixed with Becca's warm and welcoming home and family and his own unexpected recall of his childhood had pushed him to the edge of a dark precipice he hadn't visited for months—at least since meeting Becca, the golden light in his recently revived life. He wondered at the apparent contradiction in his feelings—that as he got closer to this center of calling and purpose, he somehow felt further away. He'd have liked to share his feelings with Becca, and let her help him push the gloom aside (he had no doubt she could do as much, with a simple look or word). But he didn't even understand the feelings himself, and knew he would tangle it all up if he tried to express them. So he kept quiet and watched the traffic pass and hoped the dark shadow across his heart would pass soon as well.

The high-school aged hostess seated them in a booth about halfway back in the long, narrow restaurant that was situated in the strip mall between a shoe store and a tailor. Becca held up her menu after the hostess headed back to the front of the restaurant. "The family's Greek but the food's Italian, and it's all good and all made in-house."

Zach smiled. "A match made in Heaven—Greek method and Italian style. That combination managed to rule the world for about a thousand years, and define art for a lot longer than that. They ought to be able to turn out a good meal."

Becca nodded. "They do."

They got an antipasto platter to share, and Becca ordered manicotti and Zach got eggplant parmesan served over spaghetti (one of his favorite dishes).

As they waded through their generous portions of delicious food, Becca looked at Zach across the table and nibbled on a round of the warm and soft bread from the napkin-lined basket. "Sarah likes you."

Zach laughed. "Sarah likes men."

"It's that obvious?"

"Not in an inappropriate or desperate way. It's just clear she lights up in the presence of males. I'd like to think it was something special about me, but I can tell it's not."

"Good," Becca said. "Save the special part for me, not my sister."

"A little sibling rivalry?"

"Not really. We're best friends, always have been. But there've been times I feel in her shadow."

"She needs you now."

"You mean with Katie?"

"I mean with getting her life back on track."

"I'll help her where I can, but she'll find her own way. She always has."

Zach nodded. "I can see that. Still, you're lucky to have each other."

"I know."

"And the special part is yours."

Becca looked at him with questioning eyes and a tilt of her head.

"What you asked for earlier—the special part of me. It's all yours, if you want it."

"I do want it, and thank you for the gift."

"It's been yours for quite some time."

Becca nodded. "Part of me has known that for a while, and part of me just discovered it."

Zach paused, then said, "I just discovered something myself—at your house and on the ride over here."

"What's that?"

"You have your home, and it's a good home—warm and secure and comfortable. I haven't had a home like that for a long time. But I think I do now." He paused and looked up at her. "It's you."

Becca stared at him across the booth. Her eyes never left his. She finally said, "Welcome home," and released a smile that sustained Zach not only for that evening but for months to come.

But that steady gaze and radiant smile that was for Zach an answer to his hope beyond all hopes, his inner calm where there'd previously been only fear and chaos—that promise was not above being tested, as it was almost immediately as the two of them sat near the middle of the full theater and watched the powerful performance and story of a female singer steadily imploding under the weight of fame crossed with self-loathing, success mixed with substance abuse. The film accomplished its purpose, with Zach at least, as it drew him into the star's frenetic downward spiral, with chances at salvation just missed or tragically ignored and the disastrous end finally unavoidable, however much one wished for some better outcome—for the star, for the neurosis she exhibited.

Caught in the riptide of this drama, Zach found himself longing for the reassurance and hope he knew in Becca—wanted to see it in her eyes, feel it through her skin. But her eyes were hidden to him in the dark theater, and her skin was still apparently off limits, as he waited for some clear sign from her of openness to touch, a sign that was not forthcoming—at least not in this dark but still highly public domain. So he consoled himself best he could—against the emotional turbulence played out on the screen and within his heart—by feeling the press of her shoulder against his above the seat arm, and by stealing the occasional glance of her perfect profile in moments of bright reflection from the action on the screen.

She smiled at him after they'd sat all the way through the credits and the house lights came up. There were no more than a handful of patrons still in the large theater, giving them finally a modest degree of privacy. Zach was both consoled and troubled by Becca's glowing smile—it was what he needed and longed for, yet it seemed so inconsistent with the drama they'd just watched, the believable self-destruction they'd just witnessed. Where was the blank howl? Where were the tears?

"You really related to her," Becca said.

"You could tell?"

"I felt it in your tense muscles. I see it in your eyes."

Zach nodded slowly then looked toward the large empty screen, that motionless void almost more frightening than the tragic drama that had so recently been played out across it. "I've danced along the edge of a similar chasm, and not so long ago—not with the fame part of course, but the self-loathing and the self-destructiveness were all too familiar. I don't know if I feel more gratitude for my escape or shock at my close miss." He faced Becca again. She was still there, still smiling, still the grace-filled center to an unfolding better life. He could've easily knelt before her and unburdened his heart of a lifetime of confusion and loss and pain, so vulnerable did he feel. But of course he didn't, knew it wasn't the time or the place—hoped there'd never be the time or place, if her heart of light could evaporate that ocean of tears before it ever rose to the surface.

But Becca with her unfailing instinct for kindness and care, found a substitute almost as good, almost as efficacious as his soul's long delayed catharsis—she offered him her hand and used that touch to lead him forth into the still damp fall night.

25

Zach drove Barton to the airport in Barton's gold Mercedes on the afternoon of the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Barton was flying to San Francisco for a two-week vacation in the Bay area. He'd been looking forward to this trip for weeks, a reward for completing the first draft of his latest novel earlier in the fall and his first extended time away from Shefford since starting that novel two years before.

The only small cloud (and it really wasn't all that small) shadowing his enthusiasm and optimism on this bright day (no clouds in the real sky unfurled above them) was concern for Zach's emotional state and stability in the wake of his recent separation. He worried that Zach needed him close at hand, ready to offer a listening ear or timely advice, during this ongoing transition. Almost as much as Zach's needs (and he understood, in his brutal honesty and self-analysis, that this was pure selfishness), he worried about leaving his house and his car and his keys—in effect, virtually all his worldly possessions—in the care and control of this student in the midst of a personal life crisis. He'd shown Zach how to arm and disarm the house's alarm, and given him virtual carte blanche permission to use the house and car as he saw fit. Limits on such use—no strangers in the house, no driving the car after drinking, no reading of his private correspondence—were clearly implied but never explicitly stated. This understanding, built on months of close contact and sharing and trust, had seemed adequate to Barton. But now, just minutes from turning his whole life over to this tall guardian driving along the thinly travelled highway as if he didn't have a care in the world, he wasn't so sure.

"You remember about the alarm?" he asked.

Zach laughed. "If I didn't get it on the first practice run, I sure did by the time we finished our fifth!"

"And you'll collect the mail, both on campus and at the end of the drive? The detective says that's one of the first things thieves look for."

"Got it covered." Zach glanced at him with a placid gaze of unfaltering reassurance, born of the blind and reckless assumption that he could guard Barton against any harm, at least as regarded his property and possessions. "Don't worry. I've got it under control."

"And no wild parties?" Barton asked, then added with a laugh, "At least none resulting in the summoning of the law?" Zach's glance had worked. His doubts and anxieties were fast fading, steadily replaced by thoughts of San Francisco and some of the old friends he hoped to see there.

"My only wild parties these days are played out in my head."

"Safe enough, I guess." Barton directed a sly grin to the side of Zach's face. "But make sure to wash the guestroom sheets when you're done."

"Don't worry. Those fantasies only get played out in the familiar confines of my apartment."

The exit to the airport loomed ahead. A massive departing jet roared low overhead. They waited for the roar to subside.

"How will you spend Thanksgiving?" Barton asked.

"Larry and Celine have invited me. You?"

"With Max and Dora, but I don't know if we'll go out or stay in. You've got their number, right?"

"On your kitchen counter, and also on my scratch pad at the apartment."

"Don't hesitate to call, using my phone card, if anything comes up."

"Check," Zach said. They were nearing the low and modest brick building that was the terminal for the airport. There was a bustle of activity out front but still plenty of places to park and unload.

"Or if you just want to talk," Barton added as they pulled alongside the curb.

Zach stopped the car and put it in park. He turned to Barton and smiled warmly. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll be fine. Have a great time in San Francisco."

Barton nodded. "I plan to do exactly that."

26

Zach sat in his usual seat by the window in the lecture room on South Campus. He tried hard to keep his attention directed toward the world-renowned scholar as he guided the class of some fifty students through the economic forces and political intrigues that shaped the drafting of the Constitution. Zach cared about his education, wanted to learn. He tried hard to pay attention to the famous lecturer; he truly tried.

But his attention kept getting pulled toward the tall, divided-lite, arch-topped window to his left, and the beautiful, warm, sunny mid-fall afternoon stretched out beyond that window. From the second-floor classroom, Zach could see across the near lawn, so lush and green despite the season, to the tennis courts beyond, and the recreation fields beyond that. Students populated the scene—lying on blankets and towels on the lawn, playing tennis, tossing Frisbees and footballs on the rec fields. The scene beyond the divided panes defined an idyll of late-twentieth century coed campus life in America.

Yet Zach, ever one to seek the symbolism and meaning—any symbolism or meaning—in a scene or event, barely took note of the scene unfolding beneath him. His attention focused on the parking lot between the lawn and the tennis courts, off to the left and bordered by a row of tall willow oaks. About two-thirds of the way through the fifty-minute class, his watch was rewarded when Becca's blue Volvo turned into that parking lot and parked in one of the spaces in the shade of those oak trees.

Zach had spotted the arrival of Becca in that parking lot on the first day of this history class and in almost every class since. She had no idea he was watching her arrive these three days each week. At first, when they were just acquaintances, it seemed an insignificant tidbit of information to share; and now, as their relationship was deepening, he felt embarrassed by his watch. How could he explain that the sight of her arriving in the parking lot, getting out of her car, and walking off to the South Campus library and its study carrels consistently lifted his spirits out of the dustbin of this dry lecture course to something like a shining perch atop the world? Just how corny would such an honest confession sound to her?

But on this particular afternoon, he was even more excited, and nervous, at observing her arrival. On this particular afternoon, she'd not be heading off to the library to study but would instead wait near the parking lot for him to get out of class and come down to join her for some as yet undetermined excursion—a date, on this beautiful fall afternoon. He watched her get out of her car, wave to one of the couples lounging on the lawn, then stroll over to that couple and sit beside them on their blanket. He turned to face the lecturer and focused on him for the balance of the hour but saw only Becca before his eyes.

He walked across the lawn to where she was still sitting on the blanket talking to the couple. She was wearing jeans and a pink Oxford-cloth shirt with its long sleeves neatly rolled above the elbow and the top two buttons open at her neck. She stood to greet him, reached her hand out to brush his free hand when he got close enough. "Class interesting?"

Zach laughed. "Let's just say his reputation exceeds him."

"That bad, huh? Well, it's over; and now we have the rest of this beautiful afternoon." She threw her arms out and spun in a pirouette of praise to the day.

Zach could only nod agreement.

Becca introduced him to the couple on the blanket—her roommate Caroline, in navy blue jogging shorts and a lemon-colored tank-top, and her boyfriend Mike, who had his shirt and sandals off and was wearing only a pair of shorts labeled as the property of Avery Basketball (he was one of the student managers for the basketball team). They exchanged a few pleasantries, then excused themselves and headed to Becca's car.

Once inside the car, Becca turned to him. "So where to, Zachary Taylor Sandstrom?" Zach's middle name wasn't really Taylor (it was Carl), but Becca had given him the middle name from the twelfth President first time she met him and kept it as a pet name ever since.

"You say. You're my advisor, remember?"

"Yeah, right. Like anybody could advise you, Mr. Ivy-league."

"Who's a long way from the Ivy League now, and on the home turf of Miss Rebecca Coles."

Becca nodded. "O.K. Let's go to the Gardens—they're bound to be beautiful today." She started the car and they drove the mile or so to the Gardens' parking lot.

The Gardens comprised about fifty acres of green space in the middle of campus, a natural park that included flowerbeds and paths, ornamental bushes and imported trees, fountains and ponds, a large gazebo used for outdoor weddings and ceremonies, an amphitheater-shaped grassy hillside for concerts, and several open fields for recreation and lounging.

As Becca'd predicted, the Gardens were beautiful on this lovely afternoon. Trouble was, everyone else on campus must've had the same thought. The paths were crowded, the benches full, the gazebo overflowing. Even the amphitheater and adjacent fields were full of mainly students sunning themselves and tossing Frisbees. After weaving their way through the crowds around the fountains and gazebo, Becca finally found a few square yards of grass on the hillside overlooking the open field. She sat and gestured for Zach to sit beside her. They sat a few minutes in silence, observing the vibrant, chaotic scene unfolding in front of them. The field was densely packed with people lying on blankets in the sun. Many of the women were in bikinis, and some—including an attractive pair of sorority sisters just a few feet away—were lying on their stomachs with their bikini-top straps undone to let their backs tan evenly. Some of the guys were trying to toss a Frisbee in the dense crowd. Still others had music blaring from boom-boxes.

Becca laughed and shook her head. "I think they must've cancelled classes."

"And the beach trip," Zach added. He reached out to grab a Frisbee that was sailing toward Becca's head. He tossed it to the apologetic boy jogging past in bare feet.

"All we need now is a beach ball."

As if on cue, a large, multi-colored beach ball came bouncing down the hill. It landed squarely on the scantily clad buttocks of one of the sorority sisters lying on the blanket. She yelled something, but didn't roll over or move. Zach had to laugh.

But beneath his laughter, he was concerned that Allison or one of her co-workers might be in this crowd and spot him with Becca. Part of him figured he could fib his way out of such a sighting—he was just out on a pleasant afternoon with a classmate. Part of him would be relieved to have Allison find out about Becca—it was bound to happen sooner or later. But most of him would prefer to postpone any discussion of Becca with Allison until further into their separation.

Becca shook her head as she followed the beach ball's bouncing path down the hill. "This is ridiculous."

Zach nodded. "Wild scene."

"Do you know any place a little less popular?"

Zach thought a minute. "I know just the place," he said. "Let's swap your car for my truck and I'll take you there."

"Good," Becca said, standing carefully so as not to step on the nearby girls.

Becca pulled alongside Zach's beat-up carryall truck in the parking lot beside his apartment building. They got out of the car and swapped roles as they climbed into the truck's front seat, with Becca sliding over to the passenger's side, past the shift knob, and Zach getting behind the wheel. Zach said, "Hope you're not embarrassed to be seen in this beater."

Becca said, "Embarrassed? I love it. It's got so much style."

"Is that what you call rusty fenders and a mismatched driver's side door?" The original door had been side-swiped on a street in Boston and replaced by a salvaged door off a police paddy-wagon. The replacement door had never been repainted and was still a dingy white with the police logo painted over with rust-colored primer. The rest of the truck was a faded forest green.

"It's so you Zach—your own person, your own world."

He looked at her. "Sometime you'll have to tell me what that means."

"Sometime I will."

Zach started the truck and backed out of the parking space.

"Now tell me where we're going."

Zach grinned mischievously. "My secret lair."

"That sounds like fun." Her smile never faded.

"You're not scared?"

"No."

"Darn. Not much of a mystery man, I guess."

"That's a good thing. I'm not much for surprises."

Zach said, "I thought we'd go by Barton's place. He's got some woods behind his house and a beautiful field."

"Sounds nice. He won't mind?"

"He's out of town. He's told me to feel free to walk in his woods anytime I want."

Becca nodded. "Lead on."

Zach parked his truck in a narrow turnaround where Barton's drive started to curve up toward his house. He opened the door and slid out of the truck; Becca slid across the vinyl seat and climbed out on his side. As soon as he shut the door, a potent autumn stillness embraced them. After three hard frosts last week, the insects were all dead or dormant, the leaves were mostly off the trees, and the large pond to their left was utterly stagnant. Zach took Becca's hand and led her into the bright woods along a rutted logging track.

At the top of the hill, the woods thinned and opened onto a three-acre triangular broom-straw field. The thin brown grass came up to their knees and released white, feather-like tassels as they brushed past. The sky was a silver-tinged cloudless blue, the sun a warm golden disk just now touching the bare tips of the highest branches of the tallest poplars on the far side of the field. The silence that had overwhelmed them on exiting the truck persisted even in this open and inviting field. No breeze stirred, no branch shivered, no blade of grass moved if they didn't move it, and even that movement was silent.

Zach led Becca, her hand still in his, straight into the heart of the field, to where it leveled off and then began to slope gradually downhill to the woods at the far side. This was Zach's favorite spot in all of Barton's forty acres—the road invisible behind the hill, no house or sign of human habitation in any direction, the open field merging into the tall deciduous woods beyond. Somewhere back in those woods was a ravine with a spring at its head and a trickle of water running into the creek that formed the western boundary of Barton's land.

Zach released Becca's hand and held his arms out toward the sloping field and the woods beyond.

Becca nodded but still didn't speak. She sat on the grass at the highest point of the hill, just where it began to slope away. Zach sat beside her, leaving about a foot between them. The bare tree trunks cast long parallel shadows up the slope and across the field to where they sat. In the first few minutes after they sat, the earth rotated just enough for the sun to cast one long shadow first across Becca, then into the space between them, then across Zach, then off to the field east, leaving them both in the sun's warm late-day glow.

"This is beautiful, Zach. Thank you for sharing it."

He nodded, first to the woods and their eternal creator, then turned and nodded to Becca, her golden hair in golden radiant fire in the golden sun. He wanted to speak but couldn't. The air had left his lungs at the beauty of the girl beside him. He faced the woods again, tried to catch his breath.

"I bet you spend a lot of time out here," she said.

"Every chance I get, but not as much as I'd like." He spoke these words to the woods.

"Surprised anyone could pry you away from this." She gestured toward the woods, then turned to him and smiled.

He nodded to the woods. "One of my favorite places on earth." Then he added in his head but not aloud—that just became sacred the moment you sat down here and the sun kissed your face. He wanted to turn toward her but couldn't. Every muscle in his body was locked in place. But his voice still worked. "Somewhere along the way, I realized it wasn't enough."

"What?"

"Nature. And I've looked pretty thoroughly. Even a spot beautiful and peaceful as this isn't enough by itself."

"You mean isn't enough if you're alone."

"Isn't enough if you're alone," he repeated. "I've looked."

She turned back to the woods. "That's what I've always figured, though I never really looked very hard. I love the outdoors—the beach, the woods, the mountains. But I've always known I had to be with people."

"It took me awhile to learn that."

They sat in a new silence that was somehow different from the previous one. Where the earlier silence had been imposed by the overwhelming scope and stillness of the setting and extended far out as they could see or imagine, this silence had been chosen by and just for them, extended just to the outer edge of their two bodies. It was the silence of sudden unexpected intimacy.

Zach's muscles relaxed and he turned to brave another look at Becca. The sun had fallen behind a grove of pine trees deeper in the woods, and the whole hillside was now wrapped in pale gray shadow. Becca's hair was still golden but not on fire, her face in profile still lovely but not debilitating. She seemed deep in thought, or was maybe focused on some movement down along the edge of the woods. Zach slowly closed the space between her face and his and kissed her dry cheek with dry lips. He froze in that gray twilight moment, his lips touching her skin, for several seconds that seemed an eternity to him—long enough to know that he'd just discovered something that changed his universe forever. Then he just as slowly and silently retreated to his former position. Becca never moved or spoke; her intent gaze into the woods never altered.

They sat for a few more minutes in their silence, the silence of new intimacy. Then Zach stood, helped Becca up, and walked her to the truck through deepening twilight.

Back at the apartments' parking lot, Becca didn't wait for Zach to open his door, but instead opened her passenger door. Just as she started to slide out that side, she stopped suddenly, turned and quickly leaned her body across the length of the front seat, and kissed Zach on his right cheek. Then she slid out her side of the truck.

She leaned back into the truck's dome light from the darkness beyond. "Thank you, Zach." Then she added, almost as an afterthought, "I'll see you tomorrow in class." She disappeared into the night.

He stared toward her fading presence.

28

Zach prowled Barton's empty house like some tall upright tiger locked in a cage, pacing, pacing—upstairs, downstairs: study, bedroom, bedroom, bath, hall, stairwell, stairwell, den, dining, laundry, sauna. He paused outside the sauna, considered stripping right there, cranking the heater to high, and locking himself in that oven till the heat melted away his frenetic energy, calmed his jangling nerves, or fried his brain. But no, not tonight—he couldn't deal with the sweat and the stickiness and the necessity of a shower and hadn't brought a change of clothes.

So back pacing again, into the dining room, the den, up the stairs to the main level, looping around the entry, kitchen, breakfast corner, living room. Then again—entry, kitchen, breakfast corner, living room. He didn't touch anything in his pacing, kept his hands and arms close by his side; yet he recorded everything in vivid detail—the spine of every book (hundreds) whether upright or flat or leaning; every trinket on every sill, sideboard, table (opaque brown nineteenth century medicine bottle with cork, obsidian black shark's tooth, Gettysburg battlefield slug, Miss Piggy bobblehead); the spider web in the ceiling-wall-chimney intersection; fountain pen beside inkwell on the built-in mahogany desk; the elastic waist of a pair of white briefs peaking over the top of the hamper; the contact numbers in Barton's scrawl on an unlined index card by the phone on the gold-flecked beige Formica of the kitchen countertop. Every inch of the house, every object, every visual nuance—seen, documented, stored. The sheer weight of the compulsion was crushing.

Zach finally flopped down on the upholstered chair in the living room, his normal seat, his chair—the one familiar and safe-seeming object in the whole house, safe harbor, his back to the dark woods beyond the window, those woods hidden now behind the blinds lowered and tilted tightly closed: no one to see in, no one to see out. He leaned forward in the chair. His breaths were shallow and rapid-fire; his heart was racing, pounding in his chest. He stood, circled the room once more—the cowskin rug, the coffee table with its Remington bronze "Buffalo Runner," the sheathed Samurai sword in the corner, the Russian icons on the wall.

He stopped at the stereo cabinet, turned on the receiver, found the local rock station playing a new song by a new singer, Tom Petty, and cranked the song up loud, still louder, still louder—

No you don't have to live like a refugee

(Don't have to live like a refugee)

No you don't have to live like a refugee

(Don't have to live like a refugee).

—then turned it down a notch for fear of popping a woofer, and how would he explain that to Barton?

He returned to the chair and sat down. The window rattling bass and fast-paced lyrics drained away some of his frenetic energy. The DJ's monotone that followed and the advertisement's insipid jingle further drew him toward calm. There was a world beyond this house, beyond the pulsing crush of this place, its owner's potent presence and bottomless expectation. One more fortuitously timed song—Springsteen's "Thunder Road," a personal touchstone from his Boston days—and Zach was safe.

He stood and turned off the receiver, punched up the tape player, and turned down the volume for the soft and mournful strains of a Bach concerto for two violins, left in the player by Barton last Sunday. He went and sat again, on the loveseat this time, gazed slowly and calmly around the large room. He locked on the angled windows along the far wall, just beneath the low-pitched roof, no blinds or shades there, peered into the fathomless dark beyond—sloped night, sloped life. None of this was Barton's fault. He'd volunteered; Barton had accepted. He'd cut himself loose from his past, his last tether to that history; but hadn't that been the point, the goal? Time to suck it up. Time to find your way in this new land. Time to carry the weight you've asked for and been given.

It was the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving Day. There'd been no classes that day and campus was shut down for Break, the students scattered to the four winds (one in particular, on a west wind—to Greensboro). Allison was off on a two-day whirlwind to Atlantic Beach with Sue (he'd see her Saturday to go car shopping). Archives was closed, and he'd long since prepped Barton's yard for winter dormancy. With no classes, no students to play basketball or drink beer with, no work on campus or out here, and no Barton, Zach had spent his day taking notes and writing in his novel, and the intensity and duration of those creative activities had plain wiped him out, left him emotionally drained but physically on edge, all his body's energy dammed up inside him. He'd ridden out to Barton's to check on the place and hoping to release some part of that growing pressure. Well, it had gotten out, sure enough, but not in a manner he would've chosen or anticipated.

The house, permeated by the soothing tones of Bach, was safe again—Barton's again, but his also: for the next ten days anyway, maybe longer, we'll see. He could do this, he knew. He was scared, but he could do this. He was sure. He had the strength. He knew it.

He leaned his head back against the pine paneled wall behind the couch, listened to Bach, shut his eyes for just a minute, let the ease descend upon him.

From beyond in the night and viewing through those sloped windows, through the blinds and their tilt-closed slats, through the brick-veneer exterior walls and the mopped tar and gravel roof and the fiberglass insulation in the rafter cavities and the skin of sheetrock and paint on the interior roof plane—the source and destination of that ease breathed his own sigh of relief. This watched and loved child had just come perilously close to flying off into oblivion, to a place where not even he could've reclaimed him. This one took such chances, such reckless gambles with his gifts. Is that the cost of having bounteous blessings—the need to expend them, wholesale release to the world or certain parts of it? How many times can a soul give itself away without drying up? How many emptyings by one vessel not refilled? This sojourner was far beyond his control or understanding—but not beyond his love. He could only pray this lost one found his way to the harbor there for him—right there!

And if not?

God left, not sure of the outcome, not sure he wanted to know (though, of course, he would, as time allowed).

29

On a gray but warm Saturday afternoon, Zach drove Allison's new car—a used teal-blue two-door Honda, a brand just recently introduced in the United States—from her new apartment to an insurance company's parking lot, empty on the weekend and an expanse of open pavement sufficiently uncluttered and unattended for Allison's first stab at driving. They'd bought the car that morning at Constellation Motors, a seedy used-car lot on the outskirts of town, for $250 and had it driven to Allison's apartment by a pimple-faced, surly high-school kid who followed the whole way inches from Zach's bumper then acted miffed when no tip was forthcoming. He left in a huff to find his way back to the dealership—by bus or thumb- or sole-power, it didn't matter to them.

They'd eaten a quick and silent cold lunch of bologna sandwiches on buttered white bread then set out for the parking lot and Allison's long-delayed first stint behind the wheel (she'd never sat in a driver's seat with the vehicle running—not on the farm's tractors, not in the hay truck able to "drive itself" through the field in its snail's pace creeper gear, not in their truck with the whole of the Wyoming prairie to hide and safeguard her efforts: never). And she was clearly nervous now—silently chewing on her thumbnail when she wasn't fidgeting with the window crank, door lock, or defrost dial (the utilitarian car had no glovebox door or radio).

The car was tiny by American standards of the period. It had no trunk, just a little space behind the two seats accessed through a "hatchback" door (a fairly recent innovation). The wheelbase was incredibly short, and the tires little more than what you'd see on a camper trailer. The roof was low, smooshing Zach's hair; and though he had the driver's seat slid all the way back, his knees still rose high on either side of the steering wheel. But it ran, had relatively low mileage, came equipped with a "selectamatic" transmission (requiring shifting but no clutch), and was adequate to Allison's around-town needs and priced to their budget. According to all legal documentation, it belonged to Zach. His was the name on the temporary registration (that required a licensed driver) folded up in the open glovebox. He was the insurer. He'd written and signed the personal check used for payment, drawn against Avery's deposit of funds for his college living expenses. But in all ways that mattered to them, it was Allison's car—a physical symbol of her biggest step ever toward adult independence and responsibility.

And she wasn't taking that step gracefully. "No. I'm not going to. No," she said when Zach stopped the car in the middle of great plain of asphalt and offered her the keys.

"Allison," Zach said quietly, "You've got to try."

"No," she said firmly. "I can't do it. Not today." She turned away from his cajoling stare and looked out the side window.

"It'll be O.K. There's no one to see and nothing to run into."

"It could zoom away," she shrieked. "I could smash into the building." She waved toward the modernist glass office building barely visible in the hazy distance.

Zach stifled a laugh.

"And you'll laugh at me," she said, glaring at him now.

"No, Allison, I won't. I'll be right beside you, ready to grab the wheel or turn off the ignition or shift into neutral if anything goes wrong. But I won't laugh," he said, bearing the full brunt of her anger born of anxiety and stress. "I promise."

She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

Zach sighed. He took a chance and extended his hand and brushed her thick wavy hair once, let his hand hold there at the nape of her neck as her shoulders rose and fell.

After a while, she stopped crying. After a good while longer and many more negotiations (including Zach's threat to stay there till nightfall and then she'd have to do her first drive in the dark), Allison suddenly opened her door and jumped out, came around to his door and opened it and said, "Get out." As he climbed out she grabbed the keys, got in and slammed the door and started the car. She tried to drive away (where would she have gone?) except she didn't know you had to put your foot on the brake to shift out of park.

Zach walked around the car, opened the passenger door, and got in. "That was a good start," he said.

Laughter burst forth from her lungs and lasted long seconds as she pressed her forehead against the steering wheel.

And so Allison's first driving lesson began. They spent most of the afternoon in that parking lot. During a break between her twentieth or so 5-MPH circuit of the perimeter and her first staccato and swerving backing-up tries, they turned off the car and explored its inner mechanics together—checking the oil, the coolant, the brake fluid of the hamster-cage engine; finding the tiny spare and the lug wrench under a false floor in the back (though the jack was missing from its holder); unlocking the gas cap; checking the screws holding the temporary tag. Over the course of the afternoon, Allison ever so slowly lost her nervousness, ever so gradually took ownership of the car and the freedoms its use assured.

After Zach parked the Honda beside her building in the encroaching gray dusk, they paused close but not touching on the sidewalk. "Want to come inside for a little while?" Allison asked. "I can at least offer my teacher dinner—some soup and grilled cheese, maybe a beer."

Zach smiled. "Thanks for the offer, but this teacher works for free."

"Sure?"

"I'm sure. But I can walk you to your door," he said and turned in that direction.

"That's alright. I've learned the way."

He nodded. "Next lesson?"

"I'll call you Monday to set up a time—in daylight."

Zach nodded. "On the road?" he asked with a wink.

She shuddered. "Not yet!"

"When you're ready."

"How about never?"

"Think how far you've come in just one afternoon."

She laughed then added, "I'm sorry about earlier."

"For what?" he said.

She nodded. "Thanks."

He brushed her cold hand then turned and left.

30

Zach drove to Becca's apartment on the slate-gray Saturday night. The sky was low and overcast, reflecting the lights of the town back on themselves, making the world seem very small and very still.

Zach had not seen Becca since their dinner date on Tuesday night, before the Thanksgiving break; and his whole being was desperate to be in her presence again. While this longing had physical manifestations—increased heart rate, heightened alertness and sensitivity to the world around him—it was not a physical longing. Rather, it was a near-overwhelming emotional need to reveal—to express to her in ways she'd understand—his love for her. After six weeks of casual acquaintance and six weeks of dating, Zach could no longer suppress what he'd felt since the first moment he'd seen her—that she was the place where the road of his life must stop and stay. He knew—some detached part of his consciousness knew—that this impulse was a reckless leap of faith—in her and in the one who put her in his path. But he never considered any other option, not once. In his heart, there were no other options.

Becca opened the door before he knocked. Without a word, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his lips then hugged him as tight as she could, her face pressed into his chest. They stayed like that, in the doorway, for a long time. Someone walking past would've seen the silhouette of one person in the doorway, and that silhouette unmoving. But no one walked by; the campus was deserted for Break. Zach and Becca had the world, or at least this part of it, to themselves.

Becca finally leaned back far enough to look up at Zach, her arms still wrapped around his waist, her hands firmly linked behind him. "I can't believe how much I've missed you," she said, then pressed her face against his chest again and squeezed him even tighter than before.

Zach could only laugh, a laugh of pure joy and fulfillment.

From that moment, the rest of their evening unfolded in an alternate universe, a world where all that mattered, all that existed, was the space between their two bodies, where everything that lay beyond their eyes and lips and hands was a prop, a two-dimensional stage set of inconsequence. Each one's sight was locked on the other all night long. Even when their physical gaze had to leave the other—when Becca slid across the truck seat, when Zach drove to the restaurant—they still were gazing at the other in their hearts. And when they were free to look each into the other's eyes, their locked stare filled the space between them with the almost tangible essence of their feeling. Weeks later a mutual friend remarked to them that she'd seen them that night at the restaurant, and had called twice to catch their attention, each time to no avail. "You two were out of it," she said. "The look you shared was scary."

They went to Milt's for dinner. It was a favorite haunt for them both, but this night it was different. When they walked in, everybody looked up but they didn't look back. Several people nodded a greeting in their direction, but they didn't nod back. They sat at a table against the wall, second from the corner. They ordered a pizza and a pitcher of beer. They sipped the beer, nibbled on the pizza, talked of Thanksgiving Day observations and exploits (Becca had spent the holiday with her family in Greensboro, Zach with friends in town seated on their back deck on the 80-degree afternoon). But in truth neither really tasted the beer or the pizza, or heard the words of the other, however intently they seemed to be listening. The sum total of their experience that night was transmitted through the eyes, eyes that saw the other's and beyond into this huge black void that was not the least bit frightening despite its blackness, a void that was in fact imbued with every promise and hope each had, not only for the other but also—for that moment at least, which was all they knew—for their whole lives.

They stayed at the restaurant a long time that for them passed like no time at all. Because of the holiday weekend, the restaurant was not as busy as usual; and no one was waiting for their table. So the young waitress left them alone; it was clear they had everything they needed. A little before closing time, she slipped the check between them.

Zach drove them to his apartment through a light drizzle. He held Becca's hand as they walked from the parking lot to the building then up the stairs and along the breezeway to his door. He opened the door and they stepped into his living room without turning on the light.

They'd not once kissed or embraced since leaving Becca's doorway. Yet what they'd exchanged in those hours that weren't hours at all but just one instant and all instants was far beyond physical touch, was far more rare and perilous than the most passionate embrace, the most unbridled lust.

So neither was nervous or awkward as they walked into Zach's bedroom, as each undressed the other in the streetlight's dim glow that snuck around and pushed through the curtains pulled across the room's small window, as they lay down on Zach's crude bed comprised of two sleeping bags spread out on the carpeted floor and covered with sheets and two wool blankets, as they labored to express the love that had already been fully realized through their eyes in the language of joined flesh.

"You fell asleep on top of me." Becca gazed up at him from the shadows of the floor where she lay enfolded in the covers of his crude bed in dim dawn light.

Zach stood in the doorway to the bedroom drying his hair with a beige towel. He smiled at the memory she'd summoned.

Becca didn't join his smile or laugh. She continued to stare at him from the shadows, unwilling to let him shrug off the incident.

Zach's smile faded. "Was I too heavy?"

"Your weight didn't bother me."

"Then what?"

Becca hesitated.

"What?"

She blurted out, "You fell asleep inside me."

Zach could've melted to the carpeted floor right then and there in love and tenderness for this girl caught up in confusion, regret, and shame. Instead, he knelt, naked except for the clean white boxers he'd put on after showering, at the foot of his spare bed, lay his head on her knees beneath the covers, and hugged her legs with all his strength and passion. He was overcome with gratitude—for last night, for her.

When he looked up, she was gazing down at him in perplexed wonder. He said, "That's never happened before. I've never trusted anyone that much."

"Trust?"

He nodded slowly, his chin bumping her knees. "What else could it be?"

She didn't answer.

He lifted his body up on his hands and knees; and, careful not to put any weight on her, he crawled forward till his head was above hers resting on the pillow. He kissed her forehead at the edge of her hairline. Her skin was cool to the touch of his lips.

"I should get home," she said, and gently slid out from under his hovering body.

He ran into her on Monday morning on the slate sidewalk in front of the Library. He wasn't expecting to see her there, and it was one of the few times he'd ever encountered her without spotting her from far off. Despite his surprise, he smiled broadly and walked over.

She looked terrible (which was hard for her to do). She looked like she hadn't slept since he'd last seen her. There were dark circles under her eyes and a frown on her face.

But Zach's smile and the love that lay behind it never missed a beat despite her incriminating stare. There was nothing she could do to drive him away or lessen his devotion. Without a word, he reached out and brushed her cheek with a gentleness from some other realm, as if he were cradling the most precious object in the universe—which he was.

She said, "We have to talk."

He said, "O.K."

She said, "Can I come by your apartment this afternoon?"

He said, "Sure." His fingertips still brushed her cool cheek with the lightest of touches—almost as if imagined, almost as if not there at all.

"See you then," she said.

He lowered his hand.

She walked away.

When she'd got up that morning (after a sleepless night), when she'd arrived on campus, when she'd seen him from a ways off, Becca'd fully decided to tell Zach it wasn't going to work, to find the right opportunity to break off their relationship. But then she saw how he looked at her there on the sidewalk in front of the Library, how he'd touched her like he was touching an angel. No one had ever looked at her like that, touched her like that. No one else would ever look at her like that, touch her like that. Then she knew—this man will never hurt me.

When Becca met Zach at his apartment that afternoon, the first thing she said was, "Can I keep a change of clothes here, a toothbrush, some shampoo?"

He said, "Of course."

She turned around, walked out to her car, and brought back her overnight bag.

The Only Meaning

Gentle sun evaporates the haze stretched like gauze over the sleeping town and we find ourselves standing alone in the cool wash of morning light, awake, finally free to search the meaning of what we'd shared the night before—the dark dancing shadows we'd cast in pursuit of a thing we neither recognized nor understood, our minds and souls helpless before the driving locomotive of passion, that boundless energy of need that would not quit short of victory, victory for it being our surrender.

For surely it all meant something, but what? Candidates rush by in dizzying fashion—betrayal, manipulation, disrespect, fear, abuse. Words flood the head, all shouting one thing—mistake. Was it? Standing in the trough offered so readily by the world, by the real that refuses to admit romance, it's hard to find any answer except: yes—we made the mistake, we suffer the consequences. Regret tugs at our faces until not even our attempts at smiles can hide the doubt that grows with each breath. We part, grim victims.

But life has no use for such remorse and time dissolves those visions of doom, substituting this—you, me, lying together in crude bed in the dim moments before dawn, lightening sky prying entrance around drawn shades, enough light to show this: me on my back, you half on your side, your head resting on my chest, us both asleep but waking gradually to find ourselves together—together, safe at last. It is a moment no one can ever take from us. It is the only meaning offered by that night that will survive time's erosion.

31

Zach opened Larry and Celine's front door to discover Becca standing on the front stoop in the pale glow of the light mounted on the brick veneer. She glanced up at him with the sweetest tilt of her head and the shiest of half smiles, looking like a schoolgirl peddling raffle tickets to fund a band trip. He'd been expecting her so knew who it was when he heard the light tapping on the door. But now in his vision—framed against the autumn dark in this quiet setting, looking down for a moment, then back up at him with hopeful expectation, her hands clasped loosely in front of her—she seemed to him brand new, some gift from years ago he'd forgot to open and just came across at the back of the closet or tucked under the eaves in the attic. What's more, not only was Becca brand new—a surprise gift—but so was he, suddenly in and through her shed of all the defeats and disappointments and demands of a broken marriage and a disassembled life under radical reconstruction. All those encumbrances simply evaporated beneath that shy but open-hearted gaze and the effortless physical beauty of this innocent standing before him on this new and neutral turf. He silently held one hand out to her; she took it and stepped up into the house.

Zach was babysitting Marie, Larry and Celine's seven-year-old daughter. Late in the week, Larry'd lucked into a pair of tickets to tonight's Avery basketball game; and Zach had volunteered on short notice to babysit Marie. By agreeing to babysit, Zach had foregone the chance to attend any of the numerous concerts and parties occurring on campus on this clear cool Friday night; but he felt no sense of loss or sacrifice. He was happy to help out Larry and Celine, who'd welcomed him into their home in this quiet residential neighborhood several times, most recently on Thanksgiving; and he adored the quick-as-a-whip Marie with her bossy nature and perceptive unabashed declarations. He'd figured to spend his night reading Tolstoy after Marie went to bed—that is, till Becca phoned shortly before he left his apartment and asked if she could join him later in the evening. He'd given her the address and left his Tolstoy at home.

Zach gently closed the door behind them and raised one finger to his lips. "She went to bed about fifteen minutes ago," he whispered. "I think she's asleep."

Becca nodded and grinned. "Quiet as a mouse."

He led her across the living room and down the hall past the dark dining room and the dimly lit kitchen toward the bright den at the back of the house. Just before entering the den, while still in the close confines and privacy of the hall, he turned to her and wrapped her in his arms. She hugged him back and pressed the side of her face against his shirt and closed her eyes. He pressed his face against the crown of her head, inhaled the scent of her hair, breathed in her fresh and redemptive life. They'd recently unmasked other routes to total merging, held those memories and promises close and dear. But this night in this place through this contact they discovered yet another point of union in what seemed, at the moment at least, a boundless supply of such opportunities—they discovered together youthful infatuation, passed that gift back and forth. Then they walked into the den. Becca shed her coat and draped it on the back of the chair, and they sat together on the couch.

The T.V. was on with the volume down low, tuned in to a comic series set in the deep South about a couple fast-talking, moonshine-running brothers with a souped-up flame-orange car and a sister who liked to wear hotpants above her long and oh-so-shapely legs. It was the latest version of Hollywood making money at the expense of the South, peddling clichés and stereotypes to a national audience long dismissive or ignorant of the region's rich and complex culture.

Becca laughed ironically at the slapstick humor and the mangled accents. "You'd think they'd at least try to sound right."

"Why? It's all part of the joke—like the California hills that are supposed to be Georgia or the white suit on the portly mayor."

"A joke on them or us?"

"Feeling a little regional sensitivity?"

"Rather not have the whole world think we're all uneducated hicks that spend our time working on cars in jeans so tight they leave nothing to the imagination."

"You talking about the guys or the girls?"

"It's the guys working on the cars."

"I mean the tight jeans—does it bother you with the guys or the girls or both?"

"Sex is sex, I guess; but I'm more used to it with girls. Since when did guys start advertising their wares in public?"

Zach laughed. "Not much for Women's Lib, I see."

"Not much for exhibitionism, male or female," Becca said in earnest. "Best to keep one's privates private."

Zach nuzzled the side of her neck but kept his hands in his lap. "To be shared in private."

She nodded. "Shared in private—some things shouldn't be cheapened."

"Good luck getting that genie back in the bottle."

"Never got out—not in this girl."

Zach gazed down at the lovely girl reclining beside him and striking an easy pose in perfect balance between wholesome beauty and overflowing sexuality. He restrained his impulse to engage her abundant gifts. "Thank you for being here."

She rolled her head slowly against the soft cushions of the low couch back and smiled up at him. "No place I'd rather be."

Marie stood in the doorway with a blanket over her shoulder looking so much like the vulnerable little girl she was but tried so hard to hide during the day. "I had a bad dream," she said softly.

Zach jumped up and jogged to her. He squatted down to her height. "Are you scared?"

She shook her head. "Not anymore."

Zach nodded. "That's good. You want to sit with us a little while?"

She nodded sleepily, rubbing her cheek with her baby blanket.

Zach picked her up and carried her to the couch with her head resting on his shoulder. He set her on the couch next to Becca. Marie looked surprised at the presence of this stranger in her house. "This is my friend Becca," Zach said. "She came by to help me watch over you."

"Where's Allison?" Marie asked, staring at Becca.

Zach blushed. "Allison doesn't live with me anymore."

"She does?" Marie asked.

"No," Zach said. "She's just a friend."

Marie studied Becca with a serious stare.

Becca smiled and opened her arms to the stern little girl.

Marie hesitated just a second then nodded. "O.K.," she said and leaned back against Becca, tucked her head against Becca's near shoulder and pulled her baby blanket up under her chin.

Becca wrapped her arms gently around the child.

Zach sat next to Marie but remained upright on the couch, not leaning toward the reclining girl. He patted Marie's knee with his far hand. After a moment, he reached above the child, extended his arm along the back of the couch, and brushed Becca's hair and cheek with his fingers.

Becca glanced across at him. Above the little girl, their eyes exchanged the love of innocents—that pure, that fleeting.

Beneath their gaze, Marie said without looking up, "It's O.K. to touch her. Boys and girls who love each other can touch."

Becca offered a quiet laugh and nodded.

Zach said, "Thank you"—barely a whisper, directed to all within earshot.

Simple Gesture Bearing Life

All thoughts empty into this—you pausing before your door, turning, waving as I swing the car around and leave. Waiting, waiting that instant, waiting for me.

It's a gesture as natural to you as breathing, warm blood through veins, heartbeat. You wouldn't guess, couldn't guess, the meaning it holds for me—burning life into cold lungs, gifts offered freely, open hands palm up, touching, touching across yards, miles, mere skin bearing simple heat, kindness, generosity.

It is now, days later or years, you standing and waving but only memory and scratches on paper. You read my words, look up from the page, wonder at my response, think the gesture but simple courtesy, common as falling leaves in autumn. I forgive you that but tell you this—thank God you've never been alone; trust me as one who has stood in that void and knows saving light when offered, you being that light, light people spend long years, whole lives, searching and not finding, dying famished. You spare me that end, and I thank you, again.

Tall trees bend before humble gods—I bow before you, ask only to live within the comfortable radiance of your life.

32

They entered the Chapel through a lesser-used side door and snuck down the side aisle and slipped into a pew beside one of the massive carved stone supports for the roof just as the service was starting. An elderly couple in the pew slid a few feet toward the center so that they'd be able to see past the stone column to the chancel and choir and pulpit in the distance at the front of the sanctuary.
Zach was still helping Becca take off her wool coat when the huge baroque pipe organ at the rear of the Chapel played the introduction to the processional hymn and everyone in the cavernous space stood at once and began singing:

Wake, awake, for night is flying,

The watchmen on the heights are crying,

Awake, Jerusalem, at last!

Zach laid Becca's coat neatly on the pew behind the pillar. By the time he turned, Becca had already found the hymn in the hymnal and offered him one side of the book, that they might sing from it together. He was deeply touched by this simple gesture (as natural and effortless to her as breathing or blinking those soft eyelids) and knew, that fast, that all the effort invested to get here—rising early after staying up late, showering quickly, sharing the bathroom's mirror and vanity, dressing in their Sunday finest, driving up the hill and struggling to find an open parking spot, then all but running up the hill through the woods to the side entrance to the Chapel—was already justified. He took his half of the hymnal with his far hand and gently slid his other arm around her waist. She responded by softly leaning into his touch, pressing her whole right side against his left—calf to calf, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, waist to waist. Zach sang a few verses of the familiar hymn in a low deep voice, barely above a whisper, almost as if singing just to himself and God.

The procession drew abreast their pew, led by the crucifer holding aloft a large brass cross mounted on a wooden pole. An acolyte with a pole with a flame at its tip followed the crucifer, then choir members in blue and white robes, then ministers in white albs, then clergy in white vestments with blue stoles. Once past their pew, Zach could no longer see the procession through all the congregation standing and singing; but he could mark their progress by the movement of the cross down the center aisle as it seemed to float above the crowd on its slow way to the front of the sanctuary.

They reached the end of the hymn before the procession was complete and all the ministers and choir members in their places, so the organist improvised by playing another verse. The congregation remained standing, facing front, some in taut reverence, others glancing around in confusion or impatience, a few singing the first verse all over again. Finally, with the procession completed and all participants in their places in the chancel, the organist ended the hymn with a window-rattling flourish. The presiding minister offered a liturgical greeting, the congregation responded, and everyone sat down.

Zach couldn't keep his arm around Becca as they sat down (much as he wanted to, it would've been awkward and uncomfortable), but he found her near hand as they settled into the oak pew and twined his fingers into hers and laid their joined hands and their merged arms into their common lap, their hips and shoulders as tightly pressed together as possible without drawing attention.

From his seat of utter contentment, far from the readings and gestures and ritualized forms unfolding at the front of the sanctuary, half-hidden by the column at the end of a pew two-thirds of the way back in the massive nave, Zach could let his mind float. He didn't hear the readings or the anthems or the sermon. His mind floated up to the peak of the nave, high, high above the floor, into the groin vaults cast by craftsmen imported from Italy some fifty years before. He floated like a little balloon way up there, bumping against the stone ceiling. And from way up there, from that spot of cherished perspective in this space of sanctified purpose and portentous ceremony, gazing down on all those worshipers in all their finery, all their hopes, their suffering, their fears, their failings, blessed with this moment of divine perspective—Zach saw only his hand in Becca's: nothing else in this whole wide space, nothing else in this whole wide world. What's more, in those joined hands he saw not eight fingers and two thumbs together palm to palm, not two fleshes or even one merged flesh, not sinew taut or blood pulsing—he saw consecrated love. In this holy place surrounded by these holy people, blessed by God and blessed by these masses, he perceived—for the first and perhaps only time—what he and Becca were together, that shining light through the ages—on the mountaintop, in the stable, out of the darkness: the Creator's joy.

Becca squeezed his hand (even tighter) and nudged him lightly with her shoulder. Emerging from an open-eyed daze, he looked around him and saw everyone with their heads bowed. Becca also had her head bowed and her eyes gently closed. That glimpse of her—perfect angel in perfect angelic pose—took his breath away. How had he come to find this Heaven? What had he done to earn this gift? He joined the congregation and bowed his head and closed his eyes.

He heard the minister praying, the words amplified through the sound system with one of its speakers mounted high on the column beside him. The minister would conclude each prayer petition with the phrase, "Lord, in your mercy," and the congregation would respond, "Hear our prayer."

Zach well knew that the world needed a God of mercy—boy, did it ever. But at that moment his heart was far, far removed from any sense of needing or wishing mercy for himself, so caught up in absolute touch-the-sky elation and thanksgiving for this perfect creation beside him, her hand in his, that for a minute the very word itself—mercy—seemed without meaning, two syllables without context, history, or relevance.

Yet everything about this place and this day and his life reinforced the fact of a creator, and of a division between the creator and the created, and of circumstance beyond the control of him or anyone except God. So with the minister's prayers echoing around him, he formed his own spontaneous prayer, spoken in a firm whisper inside his head—Thank you for Becca. As you brought her to me, I know you can take her away. Please don't take her away. Just as he finished, the minister's Lord, in your mercy rang out over the congregation. Zach suddenly knew the word, had deeply and intimately rediscovered its meaning after his momentary blindness of arrogance and presumption, knew well his need for mercy, now more than ever. He joined in the congregational response with an almost desperate plea—Hear my prayer.

As the organist played the postlude and the congregation filed toward the doors by the center aisle, the elderly couple stood patiently behind them while Zach helped Becca with her coat. The woman, with her white hair in a tight perm and wearing a navy-blue dress with white lace trim and a mink stole draped over her shoulders, asked, "You kids checking this place out?"

Zach finished straightening Becca's coat collar but left his hand brushing her neck under her hair. "Checking what place out?"

"The Chapel," she said. "For your wedding."

Zach and Becca both laughed. Zach said, "We're a long way from that, ma'am. But thank you for asking."

The woman's smile was bright and her eyes kind through her heavy make-up and strong perfume. "Well, don't wait too long. You're a beautiful couple." She turned to her husband. "Aren't they a beautiful couple, Harvey?"

Harvey smiled and nodded but seemed confused. "I'll get the car," he said and turned toward the crowded center aisle.

The woman laughed and shook her head and shooed him away, then turned back to face Becca and Zach. "Deaf as a post but the only man I've ever loved. Sixty-two years this April since we were married, sixty-five years since we met—wouldn't trade a-one for all of Liz Taylor's diamonds." She laughed to herself at the thought—passing on Liz Taylor's diamonds for Harvey. But she didn't retract the claim. "Don't wait too long," she said then shuffled off after her Harvey.

Yielding Faith

It comes from this:

She alive,

Breathing somewhere,

In view or not,

But that he only know

She is real,

Walking life—

That knowledge alone

Reason enough for him

To have faith,

Faith in a world that,

Having created her,

Must be kind.

33

Zach sat opposite Barton in their usual orientation in Barton's living room on Tuesday afternoon. Barton had arrived home early the morning before after taking the "red-eye" from San Francisco. He'd taken a cab home since Zach had class that morning. After a long nap, he'd spent that day going through the mountain of mail Zach had left on his breakfast table, and trying to readjust to life in his quiet empty country house that looked to have survived his absence and Zach's oversight in good condition (though he did notice the receiver was set to an unfamiliar radio station). He'd talked with Zach on the phone last night, but this was their first meeting since his return, their first time together in sixteen days.

He was happy to see Zach, had missed him and thought of him often while away, sent him two postcards and one rambling hand-written letter. But he also felt a fleeting moment's reluctance on first seeing Zach and giving him a firm and prolonged handshake—a reluctance to resume full emotional guardianship of this one who, despite the external appearance of calm and stability, was being whipsawed by powerful needs and demands, most of them of his own choosing and blind quest.

But no sooner had he felt that reluctance then he felt the pang of guilt—how could he shy from the care of this hapless searcher who'd recklessly offered—thrust—his whole self and life to Barton's personal care and well-being? And hadn't he asked for as much, not only from this new-found and watchful attendant but for years before his arrival, howling in despair and longing into the dark and lonely night from that dark and lonely corner of his being where soul-partner and life-mate were supposed to reside? Was Zach the one to fill that void, sent by, as Dottie said, "the Lord?" And if he was or might be, how could he now shrink from the reciprocal attentions required? Decades of entanglements in the emotional firestorms of his students had left him jaded and wearied by the prospect of immersing himself in another such tempest. But he was already there, wasn't he? Besides, Zach was no normal student. The gifts he offered and the needs he displayed—the devotion and its obverse, the hunger—were deeper and more complex than any he'd known since his mother died, and all apparently outside the possibility of physical intimacy (though he'd not fully given up on that score). Well, here the kid was, big as life, and he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Barton silently handed a flat parcel loosely wrapped in a single sheet of folded white tissue paper across the sunlit gap between them. It was late afternoon. The December sun, liberated from summer's screen of dense foliage, poured unabashedly through the wall of windows.

Zach accepted the parcel with a questioning tilt of his head. "Early Christmas?"

Barton shook his head once. "Late thanks."

"None required," he said, then added with a grin, "But gladly accepted." He peeled aside the tissue paper to expose a thin volume titled Divine Instruction. He immediately recognized the custom binding and top quality printing and paper.

"A limited edition," Barton explained, "Of some of my Bible translations. Max just completed the printing. You're the first to receive a copy."

"It's beautiful, Barton." Zach leafed through the pages with great care. He paused at the inscription:

To Zach

at the start of a new life: his, ours

with love and high hopes

Barton Cosgrove

December, 1979.

"Thank you, Barton—for the book and the inscription."

"The thanks is all mine, Zach. You've helped me in ways you'll never know, in ways I didn't know until I had a chance to get away and gain a little perspective."

"As I've said all along, that blessing goes in two directions."

"I know. I just don't want either of us to forget how important you are to me."

Zach nodded and set the book gingerly on the glass-topped end table beside the chair.

They spent the next half-hour catching each other up on all the news, babbling like two schoolgirls reunited after summer vacation—that garrulous and effusive. Zach filled Barton in on all the happenings around campus, on his classes and schoolwork and progress on the novel, on Thanksgiving at Larry and Celine's, on the weather. Barton gave Zach a day-by-day account of his entire time in California—five days at Max and Dora's, two-days at Berkeley, then a week at the Clift Hotel in downtown San Francisco. He told him about all the fine meals he'd had, about the two plays and the two operas and the one recital (Leontyne Price, his dear friend, in a solo performance) he'd attended, about all the old acquaintances he renewed (hinting that a couple of those acquaintances were of something more than the platonic variety).

During this exchange free of expectation or demand—just two schoolgirls gabbing, not bouncing on a frilly pink twin bed with the BeeGees droning in the background but close enough—Zach had a chance to notice just how good Barton looked, how rested and relaxed and happy, quite different from any Barton he'd known or seen, with the possible exception of that afternoon with Sir William.

So it was with this full knowledge and understanding (for better or worse, as they say) that Zach responded to Barton's comment "You seem surprisingly calm and relaxed, Zach; a lot happier than when I left" with this difficult but necessary confession: "I think I've fallen in love." How many more bombshell sentences will he be forced to utter? How many more can one poor soul handle? (Patently ignoring—nowhere in this picture, not even the wide-view version!—the personal choices that armed these exploding bombshells.)

Barton's face instantly lost its smiling calm. His eyes flinched as if struck; his lips compressed into a tight straight line. "Who?" he asked in a low voice.

"A girl from my Russian Novels class."

"Since when?"

"Since you left."

Barton's expression lightened a tad. "Kind of a whirlwind affair."

"Nothing whirlwind about it, Barton. I've known since the beginning of semester, just didn't"—he paused, choosing his words carefully—"realize the full depth of my feelings till after Thanksgiving."

Barton sat back on his seat. "Mighty soon to be jumping back into love, Zach."

"It's done," he said quietly.

"You can choose not to. You have that choice."

"What's done is done. It can't be changed."

Barton stared at him in silence—nothing to say to that, least not today.

34

The sun fell behind a low wooded hill and drained away what little warmth had clung to the brittle air of the clear December afternoon. Becca and Zach sat in silence in the cooling car, listening to the engine's metal contract in subtle clicks and absorbing what residual heat lingered in the close space. Zach sat in the passenger seat and watched the side of Becca's beautiful face, her golden hair flowing over her neck and spreading out across the shoulders of her dark blue down vest—that shimmering hair like a calling to some perfect rest, a balm to every ache of longing. He was here at her invitation and prepared to follow her lead wherever it took them; but at the moment her lead held them motionless in the car parked to one side of the church's back lot in the gathering twilight. He wondered what she was thinking about, what held her normally animated features so still.

Across the parking lot, two teens—a boy and a girl—broke free from the clutch of bundled up figures blowing on their hands under the lit portico to the large church's back entrance. This pair raced toward them with their arms outstretched like gliding eagles. Their long, drawn-out shouts of "Bec-ca!" rolled across the empty lot and through the cars laminated glass and padded steel frame.

Becca turned her face toward the swooping teens and laughed. "Duty calls." She faced Zach and smiled. She retrieved a white knit stocking cap and mittens from the backseat and pulled the cap down over her head till it covered her ears, then slid her hands into the matching mittens. "Are you ready for this?"

Zach could laugh now. "I'm just following the leader."

"Stay close," she said, though her voice couldn't have been more relaxed or self-assured. She opened her door and stepped out into the cold dusk.

The two teens reached her simultaneously and, with their hands joined on one side, crashed into Becca and let their momentum wrap their bodies around hers. The two giggled and shrieked into Becca's vest. Becca laughed above the blur of their bodies, wrapped her arm around the girl's neck like a scarf and gave the boy's tow-headed scalp a quick tussle.

"Where've you been?" the girl asked.

"Why'd you park over here?" the boy panted, his words accompanied by frosty breaths.

"To give y'all a chance to run off some of that steam!" Becca shrieked and did a quick twirl with the two still holding onto her and spinning outward from her center.

The boy finally let go and waved toward the far end of the parking lot where a tractor and a wagon were waiting. "Come on, Becca. John has the tractor started and he says he'll only stay out till his toes get froze."

"And he says they're half-froze already," the girl added as she tugged on Becca's near arm.

"You leave John to me—he'll drive us long as we want."

The girl said, "He likes you."

The boy shouted, "Everybody likes Becca," before racing ahead toward the tractor and wagon.

Becca turned to Zach standing on the far side of the car, shrugged in hopeless surrender, then smiled broadly, her face aglow with a light and warmth to rival the gone sun's power, before stumbling along behind the girl's furiously tugging arm.

Zach could only nod agreement and follow in that whirlwind's wake.

They were at Becca's home church on a clear and cold Sunday afternoon a few weeks before Christmas chaperoning a youth-group hayride through the quiet neighborhood streets around the church. Becca was the group's college-aged advisor and had agreed to lead the hayride back early in the fall, before she and Zach had started dating. She could've easily fulfilled this obligation without bringing Zach along, but decided earlier in the week to invite Zach—to give him a break from his reading-period rigors and share with him an important if fading aspect of her BZ life; that is, before Zach.

By the time Zach caught up, Becca was standing beside the tractor tire almost tall as she talking up to a man in his late twenties sitting on the open-air seat with one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand on the tire as he leaned toward Becca to hear her above the purr and pop of the Deere's barely muffled two-cylinder engine. From across the parking lot Zach had identified the tractor's make and model from its appearance and distinctive engine noise. His dad once owned the same model, and its widely spaced piston strokes made a singular popping sound while idling. He also recognized from afar that the tractor and wagon were from a "gentleman's" farm, with the bright green and yellow paint of the tractor and smooth-planed boards of the wagon too perfect to be off a working farm with its constant demands on limited resources of time and money.

"Now, Miss Coles, a loop around Wilson and onto Springvale should be trip enough to get everyone froze solid as an ice cube," the tractor man said from beneath his plaid wool cap with the side flaps pulled down over his big ears.

"Mr. Abernathy, I had my heart set on one last ride around Wedgewood before the houses start going up," Becca shouted back over the popping of the tractor.

"Too far, Miss Coles. Give all these young'uns p-neumonia before the holidays and what will their parents say about that?"

Becca laughed. "Mr. Abernathy, these young'uns got God's own furnace burning inside them." She glanced back at Zach and gave him a quick wink before turning to look up at the tractor man again. "I'll be forever in your debt if you would take us through the Wedgewood development."

John shook his head in petulant resignation. "At your service, Miss Coles; at your service."

"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy." She brushed his near hand with her mittened one before turning to Zach and taking his hand to lead him to the wagon.

By then the clutch of youth—fourteen in all—that had been huddled under the portico had meandered across the parking lot in groups of threes and fours and were climbing onto the wagon and staking out spots on the bales of clean straw arranged around the perimeter. Two boys were tossing fistfuls of straw into one girl's long brown hair as she screamed in protest but made no effort to flee their attentions. Another couple—they couldn't have been more than fifteen—were already snuggled together in a corner at the back of the wagon. Random others sat on bales and shivered or stood atop the straw with their arms extended toward the rose-colored sunset.

Zach lifted Becca onto the wagon with his hands holding her hips, then she reached down and pulled him up beside her as he used the wagon's hitch as a step. The two stood at the front of the wagon facing the mix of motion and stillness displayed on the platform that seemed to float above the pavement now almost invisible in the deepening shadows.

Becca raised her free hand above her head, the white mitten catching thin rose-colored light and radiating like a beacon. Almost instantly the kids stopped their rough-housing and babbling and faced her in silence. "Thank you," she said in a firm natural voice that seemed louder and clearer in the crisp twilight with the tractor popping in the background beneath their new perch. "First things first—I trust you've all availed yourselves of the church's facilities, since there will be no facilities available on the hayride."

"Yes, Becca," the kids responded in unison.

"Very good. Now I've asked Mr. Abernathy to take us for a loop around the development at Wedgewood and he has generously agreed. Are you all properly attired for a ride of this duration?"

"Yes, Becca."

Becca let Zach's hand go and did a slow review of the teens arrayed on the bales. They all seemed reasonably dressed for the ride—all in down vests or parkas or thermal sweatshirts, some with gloves, some with scarves and knit caps. She returned to Zach and caught his eye (and his heart) with a subtle smile and nod that only he could see (assuming John wasn't looking their way). She then turned again to her cohort. "This is my friend from school, Zach Sandstrom. He has kindly agreed to assist me in my efforts to keep you rabble-rousers in line. I trust you will treat him with respect and kindness."

"And not throw me off the wagon," Zach added quickly.

Becca turned and playfully punched his shoulder.

Zach feigned losing his balance and stumbling toward the edge of the wagon before righting himself at the last second.

"Only Becca can push Zach off the wagon," one boy shouted.

"No one can push anyone off the wagon," Becca said sternly then added, "Please."

"Yes, Becca," they all responded.

"Anything else before we set out?" Becca asked.

"No, Becca."

"Then let us pray," she said and bowed her head. "Dear God, thank you for this beautiful day and this beautiful night. Please keep us safe on this journey. Amen." She lifted her eyes to the now turquoise western horizon before facing John and saying, "Mr. Abernathy, we are at your disposal."

John pulled back on the hand-controlled accelerator. Small flames leapt from the silver muffler pointed toward the emerging stars. The popping of the cylinders sped up and blurred into a single constant roar. John eased the clutch out and the tractor lurched forward, towing the wagon behind. Becca and Zach, steadying each other against the sway and creak of the wagon, took short steps across the length of the wagon before turning and sitting clumsily on an open spot in the bales at the middle of the back, the prime seat clearly saved for them by Becca's adoring charges. At first Becca left a space of several inches between her leg and Zach's but gradually closed that gap over several minutes till her jeans were touching his, their hips and shoulders soon pressed tight. They swayed as one from side to side, forward then back, with the gentle rocking of the wagon.

Once the ride was underway, Becca felt no further need to address the group but simply watched them with a caring attention that was no less alert to their needs for its natural ease. She knew all of them well, had been a group member with the older ones before graduating and going away to college, and had gotten to know the younger kids while chaperoning two outings last summer. She wasn't an ardent church-goer, but she loved these kids and enjoyed helping them through the challenges of adolescence. In return, each of them would've listed Becca as the first older person they would call on in a time of personal need. Zach saw all this in under five minutes of observation; further, he knew Becca had no idea how much she meant to these kids—which was exactly why she meant so much to them.

As they left the church parking lot and entered the quiet residential street, John switched on the tractor's headlights and flashers, sending an arc of white light before the tractor, flashing orange around the tractor and its driver, and flashing red directed back toward the bales and the wagon and its passengers. The kids used this humble event as an excuse to release a loud cheer, then one of them started singing "Jingle Bells" and soon all seventeen riders (even curmudgeonly John) were singing at the top of their lungs out into the dimming evening. Porch lights flickered on as they rolled along the street, and a few hardy souls stepped outside their doorways and cheered or waved or sang along.

A middle-aged woman in sweatpants and a housecoat jogged down off her porch and out to the road and handed one of the boys a large pottery cookie jar loaded with cookies. "Merry Christmas," she shouted as the wagon rolled down the street.

Becca turned and waved. "Thank you, Mrs. Johnson."

All the kids paused in their singing and echoed, "Thank you, Mrs. Johnson!"

Becca shouted to the fading figure. "I'll leave the cookie jar at the church."

Mrs. Johnson's reply, if there was one, was lost beneath the tractor's roar and the playful hubbub of singing and shouting.

A half-mile farther down the road, past several inviting but short cul-de-sac turn-offs and after the carol singing had progressed from "Jingle Bells" through "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and "Deck the Halls," John turned the tractor and wagon into a freshly paved but deserted street labeled as Wedgewood by a lit plywood sign, the fanciful script letters in Wedgewood blue on a white background. The street was fully paved, the traffic lines painted, the curbs and gutters installed, the sidewalks and driveway turnouts poured; but there were no houses. For the first quarter mile, streetlights lit their way and shined down on wooden signs in front of open treeless lots—future home of the Bernard family, the Robertsons, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Leslie. For some unknown reason, the kids switched from secular carols to sacred ones after they'd turned into the unoccupied development; and they lowered their voices from their prior shouting to offer high-pitched but melodious versions of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "Away in the Manger," as if the sacred songs were somehow more appropriate for these deserted environs, might better appeal to the spirits of farmers past still trapped in the torn up soil, or of families future implied in the signs' hope and promise.

The streetlights ended, the last one's glow following them into the night like a trailing puppy too young and short-legged to keep up; then they rode on into the dark, their path lit only by the tractor's headlights and the orange and red flashers. This limited light revealed unadorned poles reaching to the night sky, signposts sunk in the ground but no owners yet committed, sidewalks and driveway turnouts formed but not yet poured. The unfamiliar third verse of "Away in the Manger" dwindled away along with the streetlight, and the entourage continued in a deafening silence marked only by the tractor's unbroken roar. In this new and surreal realm of darkness and cold and red flashing light, a blonde girl with her face and head wrapped in a long knit scarf that covered all but her eyes broke free from a clutch of girls at the head of the wagon and rushed to the back and sat beside Becca opposite Zach. She leaned her head into Becca's chest and Becca pulled her close with her free arm. Then another of the younger kids, a boy this time, drifted back from his band of mates and sat at Becca's feet with his legs crossed on the hard oak boards of the wagon's platform. Becca took her knit cap off and placed it on the boy's bare, crew-cut head.

She said to Zach in a low voice barely audible above the tractor, "This is Daphne," nodding toward the scarf-wrapped child. "And this is Kendall," she added while touching the boy's shoulder. "They're both first-year members of our Youth Group."

Zach nodded. "The pleasure is all mine."

Neither child looked at him, but Kendall said to the night, "Is it O.K. if we share Becca with you?"

"More like—can I share her with you?"

Becca laughed. "Plenty of me to go around." She pulled the two youngsters closer—to warm them, to warm her.

Zach found a gap between her sweatshirt sleeve and her mitten and lightly brushed her wrist, the skin warm and incredibly soft.

As they pushed farther into the development, the combination of deepening dark and diminishing signs of progress made it seem to Zach that they were going back in time. He leaned over and whispered this thought into Becca's ear, then added, "If we go far enough, I wouldn't be surprised to catch a glimpse of a brontosaurus munching swampgrass at the fringe of the tractor's lights."

Becca laughed. "Be a mighty cold brontosaurus."

"A wooly mammoth then, with a stalking long-toothed tiger."

"And Neanderthals with clubs."

"We can hope."

Becca's smile faded. "But don't come back here next year."

"Don't worry; I won't. Probably couldn't find it even if I wanted to."

"What—no desire to settle in Pleasantville with a wife and two-point-five kids?"

Zach grinned. "Got all the family I need right here."

Becca nodded. "Then let's never leave."

"O.K. by me, but I'm guessing your tractor man might have something to say about that."

As if on cue, the rolling ensemble ground to a slow halt where the pavement ended and switched to gravel. The tractor's roar dwindled to its earlier purr and pop. John stood amidst his orange flashing and faced the wagon from his lofty perch, looking all the world like a backwoods politician about to deliver a stump speech. "Froze enough yet, Miss Coles?" he intoned.

Becca remained seated amongst her embracing fold. "Ask them," she said and waved her free hand over the attentive teens.

"Farther," they all shouted.

"The road turns to gravel," John pleaded.

"Farther," the kids shouted again.

"I believe you have your answer, Mr. Abernathy," Becca said.

John shook his head and mumbled something about needing a weather canopy before sitting and putting the old tractor in low gear for its crawl over the rougher gravel trail.

Before he revved the engine and let the clutch out, Becca suggested, "Let us all thank Mr. Abernathy for his patience and support."

The oldest boy, a high-school senior named Rick with long dark hair and thin sideburns, jumped atop one of the bales and shouted, "Three cheers for Mr. Abernathy."

Everyone joined in—"Hip-hip-hooray. Hip-hip-hooray. Hip-hip-hooray."

The tractor man took the tractor out of gear, faced them again, took off his cap, and gave a deep bow. He then returned to his task of guiding them deeper into the development, farther back in time.

With their progress slowed to a crawl and the wagon swinging from side to side and rocking in the ruts, their entourage donned an aspect of vulnerability and the full night a kind of foreboding couched in its star-studded, chill indifference. They might've been pilgrims in route to a Himalayan monastery or colonists buried in the hold of a frigate on the Atlantic blank except for the pungent smell of the tractor's exhaust and the silhouettes of trees now etched against the sky to either side. Even the older youth, in the full gale of their hormonal firestorms, fell silent and still in mute testament to the solemnity of the moment and the setting. The tractor pushed on into the dark. Pine trees closed in from either side, blocking the stars, shading what little natural light pressed down from above. Zach summoned in his mind the closing verses of Paradise Lost he'd memorized months before:

The World was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow,

Through Eden made their solitary way.

Then the trees suddenly parted and the pilgrim train entered a large clearing with nothing but sky above. John directed the train to the middle of the broad clearing and stopped, powered the engine down, then turned it off. The sudden stillness was almost too much to bear, though the lights kept flashing, winking back in colors to the white steady light of the stars.

"End of the road, Miss Coles," John said in a voice volume high as if still in competition with the tractor's motor.

"So I see. Where are we, Mr. Abernathy?"

"Future clubhouse and pool, Miss Coles, to be built once the development is over fifty percent sold."

"And we just passed through—?"

"Golf course, Miss Coles—cart path between the ninth and eighteenth fairways, I believe."

"To be built when?"

"Same time as the clubhouse, Miss Coles—fifty percent sold."

"And when might that be?"

"Soon—my mother is in real estate and she says they passed forty percent before Thanksgiving."

"So this is the last Christmas it'll be wild here."

"Hardly wild, Miss Coles. But it'll be getting a lot tamer and soon."

"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy." Becca stood slowly, releasing Zach's hand and easing from under Daphne and around Kendall. "Can we kill the lights for a minute, Mr. Abernathy?"

John switched off the tractor's lights and flashers and it was instantly and massively black. Several of the youth gasped and one girl screamed then shouted, "Michael!" Daphne slid across the open bale and pressed up against Zach's warm side.

After a minute, Zach's eyes adjusted to the dark and he could see the outlines of the kids seated on the bales, the silhouette of John on his tractor seat, and the head and shoulders of Becca standing in the middle of the wagon and making a slow 360-degree turn in the dark, taking in either the imperiled woods or her timid charges or both, it was impossible to say which. Then she stopped her slow spin with her face, aglow from some hidden light, pointed directly at Zach. "I don't know what presents y'all will receive this Christmas," she said in a quiet reverent voice. "But I doubt any of you will receive a gift more special than this pause in this place." She stood at their center a moment, as if contemplating saying more; then she walked in silence with short cautious steps to the back of the wagon, lifted Kendall to a seat next to Daphne, and sat at the feet of the three lined up on that bale. She tilted her head back onto Daphne's knees to take in fully the heavenly panorama unfurled above.

Then Kendall began in an unwavering falsetto—Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.

The rest of the pilgrim chorus chimed in.

Zach's far hand found its dark path to the cool cheek of his Christmas gift, more perfect than this Eden on this perfect night.

35

"Your Transfer Advisor!" Allison hissed at him in a shrill voice stoked in anger and passion.

Zach looked up at her from his seat behind the Archives circulation desk. He reflexively raised an index finger to his lips.

"Your Transfer Advisor!" she growled in still louder and more furious voice. If the half-dozen researchers dispersed at work tables around the reading room hadn't looked up at the first outburst, they did now.

Zach glanced desperately over his shoulder to Larry seated at his desk beyond the open door to his office. Larry nodded a silent approval for Zach to take this personal discussion to a more private location; he'd keep an eye on the desk.

Zach stood and came around the desk and gently but firmly took Allison's elbow and led her toward the paired glass entry doors. She didn't say anything more but her fiery glare fixed on the side of his face screamed a litany of incrimination. This should be fun Zach thought, having braced for this moment for weeks. He pushed the left-side door open with his butt and held it open as he guided Allison clear of the reading room, then made sure the door closed firmly. He glanced quickly up and down the currently empty hall and spotted a wooden bench a short distance away by the restrooms. He led Allison there, sat, and gestured for Allison to sit.

She paced back and forth in front of him, as if contemplating whether to sit or go. Finally she sat at the far end of the bench. She faced him as if to speak but couldn't get the words out. She turned away, stared down the hall furiously chewing her bottom lip with her upper teeth.

"I'm sorry," Zach said, his voice barely a whisper.

Allison faced him suddenly and leaned close to his face. "Did she give you good advice on how to get rid of your wife?"

"She had nothing to do with that."

"Here I thought you maybe wanted to travel, study abroad, visit famous writers. 'Partake fully in my college education' you said; and naïve and gullible me believed it. What a joke. What a jerk. All you wanted to do was get in your Transfer Advisor's pants."

"We weren't involved when you and I separated."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

"You can believe whatever you want to believe. You can believe I was sleeping with a different girl every night if you want to."

"I could handle that better than you sleeping with one girl every night."

Zach ignored her and continued. "Our marriage had problems. We were holding each other back. We're trying a separation. Becca had nothing to do with any of those decisions."

"Don't say her name," Allison barked.

"You know her name."

"I don't want to hear it in your mouth. I don't want to hear anything from your mouth right now." She stood and left.

36

Zach followed a half-stride behind Becca down the long left-center aisle of the grand old auditorium. She kept pausing to wave to some familiar face or couple already seated in the nearly full theater. Zach would stop every time she stopped, his hand pressed lightly to the waist of her camelhair coat, and nod in the direction of her wave. He was never quite sure who she was waving to, as everyone in the auditorium seemed to be looking in their direction and smiling. Normally he was delighted to be seen with Becca in public, proud to show her off. But on this occasion he felt uncomfortable, sensing that everyone was checking him out, not her, and evaluating whether he was a worthy escort for this local belle. He stood tall and tried to strike a pose between amiable and aloof, but secretly hoped they'd soon be at the high-dollar seats Becca had secured through family connections.

They were in Memorial Auditorium in Becca's hometown attending a weekend production of The Nutcracker performed by the Carolina Ballet, an annual holiday gala for the region in general, and especially for the upper middle-class society that Becca grew up in. Becca'd invited Zach several weeks earlier and made it clear that it was an important occasion. Zach was dressed in a dark suit and Becca wore a black knee-length, sleeveless evening dress under her open coat. Everyone in the auditorium, including the children, was dressed in their holiday finest.

They finally made it to their row and slid past numerous seated patrons to their seats near the middle. Zach helped Becca slide her coat off. He draped it over his right arm as she slowly, confidently surveyed the crowd in all directions. She was stunning in her black dress, the color highlighting her perfect fair skin and her thick blond hair that she'd left loose this night and flowed halfway down her back. She knew everyone was looking at her but didn't give off the least sign of haughtiness or conceit. Her welcoming smile and relaxed manner was totally disarming. She was so comfortable in her own skin that she made all those around her feel comfortable in theirs. Zach could've happily watched her all night except he felt that as the crowd was watching her, they were also watching him. And as good as she made him feel about himself, this unfamiliar crowd more than countered that confidence. He didn't know what they were looking for in him, didn't know what they saw; this uncertainty made him feel uncharacteristically insecure. So he finally sat down and draped her coat across his knees. He would've rather draped it over his head, but that would've caused even more attention. So he shrank into his cushioned rocking seat and hoped Becca's shine blinded them to his awkwardness.

Becca soon sat and took his near hand and turned those eyes on him. "Thanks for coming, Zach," she said firmly but in a voice that only he could hear. "I wanted you to see my world." She looked over his shoulder at the rows upon rows of patrons receding into the dimness beneath the double balcony. "And I wanted them to see you."

"Why?" By this time he was more curious than peeved.

"Because you're the cutest guy in the whole auditorium." Her eyes settled on his and remained there.

From that moment, Zach no longer cared about the thousands of eyes critiquing him. Far as he was concerned, the rest of the crowd ceased to exist.

The lights in the hall flickered off and on, off and on. Spectators that were still standing scurried to their seats. The murmur in the hall quickly faded to silence. Then the lights went out. After a long and pregnant pause, the curtains opened on a scene of Christmas gaiety and excited preparations as dancers ran back and forth carrying tree ornaments and candles and presents and garland to place on and under and around a tall Christmas tree at the center of the stage. The sheer energy and enthusiasm and number of dancers in coordinated mayhem combined with the array of colors and lights and costumes captivated the audience, which responded with a mixture of gasps of wonder and cheers of joy. The show had begun.

Zach had seen excerpts of the ballet over the years and was familiar with the more famous pieces of Tchaikovsky's accompanying music, but he'd never sat through an entire performance. Earlier in the week, he'd borrowed an audio tape of the ballet's music from Barton and read the notes on the ballet that came with the tape, so he was somewhat familiar with the storyline. He was prepared to dismiss the whole performance as a children's play performed for and largely by children. And the first couple scenes, while dazzling in their combination of endless motion and myriad colors, seemed to bear out his assumptions—the dancing wasn't dancing at all but running and rough-housing, and the subsequent march and the partygoers response to it seemed clichéd.

Then the real story began, and the star of the show emerged. The petite blond dancer that played the part of the child Clara was, even to Zach's untrained eye, far and away the best dancer on the stage. Further, as the dramatic action unfolded—with the toymaker showing his opulent wares but leaving only a modest wooden nutcracker in the shape of a man, a toy that Clara grew attached to despite, or perhaps because of, its humble nature, only to have it broken by her jealous brother Fritz—Clara was allowed to become not only the central dancer of the scene but the narrative center as well, rivaling even the eventual transformation of the restored nutcracker into the dashing Prince. Zach assumed this was a directorial choice, as whoever had put this production together identified his greatest performer and used her to elevate the whole show. Throughout the fantastic scenes that followed in Act One—gingerbread soldiers succumbing to mice legions; tin soldiers and dolls thrown into the breach; the wounded nutcracker, saved by Clara, then slaying the Mouse King; and the Act's closing scene of the nutcracker become Prince dancing with Clara through dancing silver snowflakes—Zach's eyes never left Clara. He had discovered the beating heart of the ballet.

After the curtain fell on Act One to great cheers, Zach and Becca stayed in their seats as children and their parents and grandparents headed for the aisles leading to the restrooms and snack bars in the lobby. After an initial burst of noise and commotion, the hall became fairly quiet and relatively empty with so many patrons outside.

"So the toymaker is God?" Becca asked.

"Or human ingenuity," Zach said, being more contrarian than convinced.

"And the Nutcracker?"

"Resourcefulness? Heroism? I don't know."

"Then where does the life come from?"

He loved Becca's inquiries. He loved everything about her; but at just that moment, he loved her passionate curiosity most of all. "Think about it, Becca. The toymaker makes the toys, but they're just wood and cloth and horsehair—whether in the real world or the fantastic world. He's powerless to bring them to life."

"Clara? A child?"

"Love—the universal life-giving force, child or adult."

Becca's look of surprise and incredulity slowly transformed into an indulgent grin. "Zachary Taylor, you are the world's worst romantic."

"Or best."

"The best." She leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead—her helpless romantic.

If he hadn't already been brought to life by this princess, that kiss would've done it. As it was, that touch simply cemented him in surrender to the life-giving force of this divine child.

"Becca, that'll get you sent to the principal's office," a stranger's voice said from nearby.

Zach looked past Becca to a dark-haired beauty in a full-length cobalt-blue satin gown held in place by silver-sequined spaghetti straps over her lily-white shoulders. She winked suggestively at Zach before Becca had a chance to turn around.

"Janice Oldham," Becca said in surprise. She stood and leaned over and gave the dark-haired girl a brief hug.

"Hey, Girlfriend. Long time, no see. Now I know why." She gazed over Becca's shoulder at Zach.

Becca shook her head. "Same old Janice." She turned and introduced Zach to Janice, "A friend from high school."

"Now going to State—go Pack," Janice said with a little shimmy of her hips.

Zach stood and shook Janice's hand lightly. "Nice to meet you Janice now of State."

Janice said, "Likewise, of that I'm sure."

Zach tried to look interested as Becca and Janice exchanged information about past acquaintances, but he couldn't help feeling like an outsider—which, of course, he was. Normally, such a feeling would not bother him—Zach was an outsider in almost any circle he found himself in. He actually enjoyed the condition, had cultivated the persona. But this time he was an outsider in the world Becca came from and enjoyed, if not fully revered. And from this vantage point, it was hard seeing himself ever joining that world, or Becca ever leaving it. Thus, in this particular instance, being an outsider was a very big problem.

Janice extended her hand again to Zach, and held his hand for some seconds longer than would be considered polite. She leaned forward and whispered (knowing Becca could hear), "If you ever get tired of Becca, come by State."

Zach nodded. "I'll take it under advisement."

Janice laughed a wicked laugh, touched Becca's shoulder, and said, "Later, Girlfriend," before heading back down the row now refilling with the returning audience.

Becca faced Zach. "One of my shier friends."

"Regular wallflower."

They both laughed, sat down, and waited for the show to resume.

The second act, despite its elaborate choreography—including the signature Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy—and inclusion of all the familiar orchestral pieces, seemed anticlimactic to Zach, as Clara took on the role of observer, rather than dancer and actor, in the Land of Sweets. Zach quickly grew bored with these elaborate fantasies danced mostly by children. He was wrenched out of his torpor by the haunting denouement, as Clara was suddenly left alone in the original parlor beside the unlit tree holding the wooden nutcracker in the moments before dawn, bereft of her Prince and his fantastic world, awaiting her return to everyday life. Set against nearly two hours of non-stop bright lights, constant movement, and fast-paced action, this momentary pause before the curtain dropped was powerful and poignant. As the entire audience leapt to their feet in cheers and applause following the curtain drop, Zach remained glued to his seat, briefly stunned by the image of the young Clara trying to make sense of what had just happened to her.

He finally stood beside Becca and added his applause. He felt an odd surge of relief and hope as the smiling woman that had danced as Clara was presented to the audience, generating the loudest cheers and applause of any of the performers. Zach was glad to see her performance properly recognized by the crowd, and even more grateful to be reminded that Clara's pause on the threshold of grinding reality was not the final word—for her or him. It was, after all, just a performance, right?

He posed that question to Becca as she drove them through the deserted backstreets of the city on a short cut to her parents' house, where he'd left his truck parked. "It was just a performance, right?"

She laughed. "The ballet or the audience?"

Zach hadn't thought about that. Maybe the ballet, Clara's story, was the transcendent reality, the promise; and the crowd—the affluent and highly structured society that opened the ballet and the affluent and highly structured society watching the ballet—was the passing and corrupt illusion. "When did you learn that?"

"Zach, I grew up in that world. It's one continuous performance—costuming, make-up, dialogue, props, stage design. If you took away the performance, nobody would know what to do."

"And you're O.K. with that?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'O.K.' I've never tried to fight it. I'd only lose and end up hurting a lot of people in the process. Besides, they're my family—you accept family as they are. But you notice I don't spend an awful lot of time here. I'd rather be in Shefford. I'd rather be with you."

"An austere world compared to all that opulence."

"Most of that's fluff, Zach, as you well know. And your world has a different kind of richness, as you also know."

"How'd you get so smart?"

"A good teacher."

She turned into the cul-de-sac, switched off the headlights, and coasted to a stop behind Zach's truck parked along the curb. The front-porch light of her parents' house was on; otherwise, the rest of their house and the other houses on the street were all dark. They sat unmoving and unspeaking in the car, letting the new darkness and the new stillness settle over them.

Becca turned toward Zach. "Thanks for coming tonight. I know it wasn't easy for you."

"It was O.K. You took care of me. I hope I didn't cramp your style."

"You didn't cramp my style, Zach." She leaned across the car's console, put her arm around his neck, and pulled his face to her. Their mouths locked together and they kissed for the longest time, exchanging back and forth the air they needed.

Eyes closed, Zach's hand found Becca's hair and brushed slowly over its full rich length in repeated invisible passes, seeing the map of his future through his fingertips, through his lips, through the air of her lungs giving him life. For him at that moment, there was no gap between illusion and reality, no tension between what he would wish and what he could have. It all resided in the flesh and soul of this girl now joined to him, this one who had found him wandering out there in the darkness and brought him to this home.

Somewhere in the cul-de-sac, a dog barked twice then was silent. When they opened their eyes, they saw the spotlights of the house behind them glaring. Becca laughed. "Can't even make out in private in my world."

Zach said, "Then let's go make out in mine."

Becca leaned forward and gave him a brief kiss then said, "Later."

She walked him to his truck then went on alone to the beacon of that front-porch bulb. She stood in that pool of light and waved as he drove past on his way to the main road. He waved back then drove on into the night, his long ride home.

That Which Touches

Light falls from above to define the angle where your shoulder meets your neck, the cool skin fresh across ten feet of stale air. If you turned, you'd see the gaze of stark wonder I lay against your back, blind eyes searching clue to your mystery.

Looking now, perhaps my answer lies in your skin, couched in the smooth exterior of your body, that layer of cells which touches—touches air, cloth, people. The possibility seems viable enough. I've searched the halls of psyche and returned dry, no answer apparent. Staring at you in the half-light of morning, I need search no further—the surface texture of pale skin is answer enough, speaks of life and substance beyond words, a healthy alternative to the endless love musings that invariably circle on themselves in futile spiral inward. I'm satisfied with my discovery, even relieved—answer at last, the simplest possible answer: love is where we touch, skin to skin.

You turn to face me, have sensed my gaze all along but waited it out—another gift. You find my eyes and grasp the love they speak. You smile at that, pleased, but don't move to bridge the few yards between us. Exchanged across that gap is whole love, a thing as undeniable as the air we breathe, the sun we praise. Love without touching.

My recent solution crumbles. I'll have to start all over again.

37

Allison flunked her first driver's test the Wednesday before Christmas—something about an illegal lane switch in a turn. She was devastated and embarrassed. Fortunately, Sue had driven her to the test, sparing Zach the heartache and Allison the humiliation. She called Zach that evening to give him the news. She sounded as low as he'd ever heard her.

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Zach. I have no life, no future. I can't even get a driver's license. Any idiot can get a driver's license. I flunked."

"Lots of people miss it the first time."

"You didn't."

"No, but my brother did."

"Justin?"

"Yeah, Justin. Richard Petty himself got red-flagged the first go-round."

"That makes me feel a little better."

"You'll get it next time."

"I have to wait thirty days."

"You've waited four years; you can wait another four weeks."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Drive Anywhere, Do Anything, Student Superstar!"

"It'll all work out for you, Allison. Just hang in there."

"I'm so lonely, Zach—stuck here by myself."

Zach's voice caught in his throat. How can the very help you want to give be the very thing you shouldn't give? He stared at the kitchen's flecked vinyl floor. Bobbi brushed his legs on her way to the food bowl under the counter. He remembered Christmas two years ago and how happy the kittens made Allison. He suddenly found his voice. "I can bring the cats to you. They'll cheer you up."

"Pisser and Bobbi?" Her voice was alive again.

"Only cats I got."

She hesitated. "But I'm leaving for Connecticut in three days." She was going to spend Christmas week with her family.

"Then I'll take them back while you're away."

"That's not fair to you or to them."

"Think of it as an early Christmas present."

"When?"

"I'll be there in half an hour."

"Remember the little stuffed mice!"

Zach laughed. "And Tweety and the catnip ball."

"I can't wait! I'll go make a place in the bathroom for their litter box."

"We'll be there quick as we can." He started to hang up.

"Zach?"

He returned the receiver to his ear. "Yes?"

The voice on the other end of the line cracked then was followed by a brief silence before the line went dead and the dial tone filled the void.

He managed to bring everything in one trip up her stairs—the cat carrier in one hand and all their necessities in a large box under the other arm. He kicked at the door with his foot.

Allison opened the door and shrieked in glee as she took the cat carrier from his hand. Then she said, "Oops!" and put her free hand to her mouth. "Don't want to rouse the landlady," she said in a whisper as she backed into her kitchen.

Zach followed and pulled the door shut and put his box on the counter.

Allison bent over and opened the cat carrier. She wanted to snuggle each cat in turn, but they both bolted as soon as the carrier's lid was open enough for them to escape. Bobbi headed down the hall toward the bedroom; Pisser disappeared into the bathroom.

Zach looked at Allison and shrugged. "A little freaked out, I guess. They'll calm down after a while."

Allison nodded, her obvious joy undiminished. She slid the carrier under the kitchen counter and turned to unpack the box. But she suddenly paused in that movement, spun around and stood on her tiptoes in her bare feet and hugged Zach around the neck and kissed him on the lips. Then, without a word, she returned to unpacking the box.

Zach went into the living room and sat on the tube-frame canvas couch she'd got for free from a work-study student in her office who was studying abroad next semester. It was maybe the most uncomfortable couch he'd ever sat on, with no support for his upper back or shoulders and his butt in sagging canvas that sunk almost to the floor and the circulation to his thighs nearly cut-off by the press of the steel front frame. But he figured he wouldn't be there long; he could tough it out.

Allison finished distributing all the cats' gear then came and sat beside him, a foot or so away. She tucked her legs up under her and leaned a little sideways against the back. She looked quite comfortable. "Thanks so much, Zach, for saving my day."

"That's what friends are for."

"And husbands?" Her accompanying smile neutralized the loaded word.

He smiled back. "That gets more complicated."

"Then let's just be friends."

Zach nodded. "Sounds good to me."

They exchanged a little small talk about Christmas plans—Allison's flight schedule and Dover plans; Zach's staying in town, spending time with Barton—and a few words about Allison's job and Zach's writing. They carefully avoided any mention of classes or Avery. Then they ran out of safe things to say. So they sat there in silence, watching together to see which cat would weaken first, peak into the living room, brave the unfamiliar territory to claim a familiar lap.

At some point in their watch, Allison shifted her legs such that she was tilted toward the depression Zach's weight made in the couch's canvas sling. She twice tried to straighten herself upright then gave up and slumped toward Zach's upright torso. He raised his arm so she could lean her head against his shoulder and chest. As they already knew, she fit quite well there. Their eyes remained pointed outward, scanning for the cats.

Zach said, "I'll put my money on Bobbi being the first out."

Allison nodded. "I'll take Pisser."

But the truth was they both hoped the cats would stay hidden awhile longer.

38

Barton handed Zach the graded copy of his hundred-page novella Innocents in Paradise then retreated to the chair across the room. He silently gestured for Zach to take the time to look over his comments and corrections then sat back with his hands folded up under his chin and a set of worry beads dangling from that grasp.

With the end of classes, term papers due, reading period, and final exams filling his schedule, Zach saw Barton only occasionally in the weeks following his return from San Francisco. While Zach's busy schedule provided ample excuse for Barton's reduced requests for his physical presence (Zach, from his side, would've and always had made every effort to meet any invitation Barton extended), Zach couldn't help but wonder if there were something else implied. But if so, what? Was Barton punishing him for his relationship with Becca, or granting him space to explore it? Was he angry? Jealous? Dismayed? Disappointed? Zach wasn't sure. And though they'd always talked about anything and everything that was on their minds since the start of their friendship, they never once mentioned Becca in their occasional meetings and regular phone conversations. The Thursday before Christmas they met in Barton's living room for the final independent study evaluation.

Zach nervously and hurriedly leafed through the first half of the graded draft. There were a lot of red marks, an inordinate number of red marks, many accompanied by red comments in miniscule handwriting in the margins. His novella was awash in red. He flipped through the pages at an ever increasing rate. The red marks seemed to be jumping off the pages and lodging in his throat, choking him. He felt he might vomit, regurgitate all that red onto Barton's cowskin rug. He didn't know whether to flee or lash out. He mainly wished he could melt into the fabric of the sofa.

But when he got to the final day (the chapters were designated by days), "June 28," he paused and took a deep breath and flipped through those last twelve pages at a pace that permitted him to note each mark and read each comment. He quickly discovered that a majority of the proof-reading marks were for the removal of commas and insertion of implied conjunctions, and most of these were accompanied by question marks indicating they were suggestions, not demands. And the comments, it turned out, were more complimentary than critical. One note in particular caught his eye—I wouldn't have tried such a risky transition but you accomplished it with almost effortless grace! A relieved grin affixed itself to Zach's face as he finished reviewing the last handful of pages. The comments were by no means all positive, but they were balanced and carefully considered and indicated a sincere respect for his effort and skill. The large red "A" on the last page accompanied by the words a fine first attempt left Zach beaming, and also afraid to look up for fear he might betray too much joy, too much of a student's happy reprieve.

From his seat across the room, Barton patiently observed the drama that played itself out on Zach's face and in his all too transparent body language. He saw the initial alarm followed by anger followed by the silent sigh of relief followed by the grin of reward. The novella was a decent first effort, not great by any means. Zach, in typical Zach fashion, had set himself ambitious goals, and failed to realize any of them; and there were many minor mistakes as well. But he'd decided against giving Zach a full and honest critique, adhering to his policy of "not telling a young writer all his faults." And though he strived to keep his personal feelings separate from his teaching responsibilities, in this case he might've softened his comments just a bit, and given a grade more indicative of the effort than the result. Such latitude was permitted within the vague guidelines for independent study projects and grading.

Zach straightened the sheaf of pages in his lap and looked up. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the child's helpless grin from taking charge of his face; but his words and voice were measured and professional. "Thank you for taking the time to read it so carefully and closely."

Barton laughed. "And deface your perfect pages with red ink."

Barton's laugh and playful look (the skin around his dark eyes pinched into little creases when teasing or joking) released the tension that had locked Zach's jaw and neck and shoulders not only this afternoon but in all his meetings with Barton since after Thanksgiving. Finally the look on Zach's face and the posture of his body and the words from his mouth all aligned in a single focused desire—to continue the rich and varied bond he'd enacted with this man in the six months prior to their separation last month. "It was a bit of a shock at first—I didn't know if it was your pen or my heart that was producing all that red. But I survived the blow and see now that the comments and suggestions are all well-considered and fair. I'll look them all over more carefully later."

"And let me know if you have questions or objections."

Zach smiled at this last—as if he'd be ballsy enough to challenge the comments under an "A" grade. Then again, maybe he would—with this teacher, just maybe he would. "I will. But in any case, Barton, I'm deeply grateful for your taking the time—not only to look over this draft but for the whole independent study. I know it's something you would not normally take on during an off semester."

"Even a stodgy old curmudgeon can make an exception to his hard and fast rules."

Zach hooted loudly. "I'll take that as a stodgy old curmudgeon's 'you're welcome'!"

"Properly received, but don't you dare tell anyone else."

"Our secret," he said and made a zipping motion across his lips.

Barton nodded and stood. "Bourbon on the rocks?"

Zach thought a minute. "Got a beer?"

Barton looked at him with a questioning glance.

"Got my last final tomorrow morning—need to stay halfway sober tonight."

Barton chuckled. "Ever the conscientious student! Beck's O.K.?"

"The best."

"Coming up."

When Barton had returned and handed Zach his beer foaming high in a frosty pewter mug, they toasted the waning day (one shy of the solstice) and the careful navigation of their first course together. Implicit in that toast were thanks for all the blind guidance and care they'd received since meeting. They both knew—were exactly on the same page, to use an apt metaphor, in this regard—they couldn't have forged this complex union alone, wouldn't have dared try. Fortunately, they didn't have to.

Barton lowered the blinds on the thickening twilight and twisted the slats shut before sitting down. "Now about Christmas Day," he started. He knew Zach was staying in town over the holidays and would be alone (he presumed) for most of that time.

Zach nodded. "Yes?"

"You have no plans, right?"

"Right."

"Normally I'd go to my brother's in Raleigh, and I'm sure you'd be welcome to join in those festivities." He paused and looked up. "But I'm wondering if we should stay here this year—make dinner together and sing carols along with Leontyne and have us a big time."

"Just the two of us?"

Barton nodded. "Just us."

"Sounds perfect," Zach said without a moment's hesitation.

Barton nodded slowly. "It does, doesn't it?"

39

Zach woke with his head on Becca's bare stomach. He heard the faint gurgle of life rising up from her intestines, and the deeper pulse of her heart resounding through her torso. He looked up and saw her face cushioned on the two pillows at the head of the bed. She had on one of his old shirts as a nightshirt, but it was fully unbuttoned and her breasts rose and fell with each gentle breath. He felt her cotton panties against his neck, and his arm extended down the full length of her left leg. His fingers brushed the arch of her foot. He knew that if he moved those fingers just a little bit, her body would respond instantly—first with a shiver, then with a semi-conscious giggle, then with lots of other good and welcome gifts to be discovered and explored. Before initiating this cycle of sharing, Zach found his watch with his free hand and checked the time.

It was 8:30 AM and their Russian Novels final was at 9.

Zach sat up quickly. He checked the alarm clock on the desk. The alarm was switched off. Had he forgotten to set it? They'd been studying together late last night (really, early this morning), first in the living room, then in bed. Then other needs had made themselves known, and been addressed. Had he forgotten to set the alarm? He couldn't remember. Maybe he'd set it and turned it off without waking. It didn't matter. It was now 8:32 and their test was at 9.

He reached up and shook Becca's shoulder lightly.

She opened her eyes slowly then rolled her face into the pillows.

"Becca, it's 8:30!" he said in a sharp whisper.

She sat up suddenly. "It's what?"

Zach checked his watch. "8:33."

Becca threw off the bedcovers and raced into the bathroom, Zach's shirt flying out behind her like a cape.

When she emerged from the bathroom four minutes later, Zach was already fully dressed. He slipped into the bathroom and completed his essential hygiene and bodily functions. When he emerged, Becca was tying her shoes while sitting on his desk chair. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. She had on a flannel shirt and jeans. She didn't have any make-up on, but she rarely wore make-up. She really looked quite lovely.

Zach walked over and knelt on the carpet beside her. "Sorry, Bec. I don't know what happened with the alarm—if I didn't turn it on, or if I turned it off without waking."

She finished tying her shoes, sat back in the chair, and took a deep breath. Then she looked at him. "If I flunk, will you take the class again with me?"

Zach leaned forward and hugged her with all his strength. "I love you," he said into her shirt. Then he stood. "Remember—Pushkin, Tatyana; Lermontov, Pechorin; Gogol, Chichikov." He grabbed an unopened box of Girl Scout cookies as they passed through the kitchen on their way to the parking lot.

They slid almost silently into the classroom just as their Slavic Studies professor was starting to close the door. This bald, hawk-nosed Count of Stoicism and Understatement shook his head once and released the faintest of grins as the two of them flew past and took their seats.

After completing their exams (Zach finished first and waited in the lobby downstairs, Becca joined him about five minutes later), they walked across the Main Quad to the Shake Shoppe in the basement of the Student Union for a late breakfast, early lunch of chili dogs, fries, and chocolate milkshakes. It was the last day of finals, the last day of term prior to the long holiday break; and the campus was nearly empty. It was also the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year; and the gray skies, damp cold air, and cutting wind reminded them of this astronomical nadir as they scurried across the Quad and down the stone stairs and into the close warmth of the Shake Shoppe. They ordered their meals from Valera, one of the friendly and ageless keepers of this student emporium, then sat down with their food at a table along the wall, under a high narrow window that looked out on the Quad turf above and the gray sky beyond. They were the only customers in the Shoppe.

"How'd you do?" Zach asked.

Becca shrugged. "It's done," she said with an ironic chuckle.

"Yeah, it's done. So what now?"

"For me? Home to a buffet dinner tonight then family commitments far out as this eye can see—past Christmas, anyway. It's kind of hard for me to think about at the moment."

"You'll have fun once you're there."

"I'm sure. I love everything about Christmas. But it'll be different this year."

"How?"

"I'll be missing you."

Zach nodded. "We'll survive."

"I hope. I'm more worried about you. It doesn't seem right to be alone over Christmas."

"I won't be alone the whole time. Larry and Celine have invited me for dinner tomorrow night; I'll spend some time with Barton. It'll be fine. I'm actually looking forward to the solitude."

"Tell me again why you're not going home to see your family?"

"I don't know, Becca. It just doesn't feel right. I haven't been home at Christmas for three years. And now with the separation and all that's going on, I just don't want to deal with the questions. The spoken ones I could probably handle; it's all the unspoken questions, the whispered comments and indulgent looks, that would drive me crazy."

Becca laughed. "I know a little about those looks—the raised eyebrows, the pursed lips, and the knowing grins." Becca seamlessly transformed her lovely youthful face into that of a judgmental old aunt, complete with cocked eyebrow, pinched lips, and indulgent grin.

Zach threw his arms up in surrender. "I've seen enough. No more, please."

Becca smiled. "I guess I have a higher tolerance for that kind of stuff than you."

"Or are at a different place in your life."

"Maybe so, but it's hard for me to see a time when I wouldn't be with my family over Christmas if I were free to be there."

Zach shrugged. "Maybe we are different in that way. So what about today?"

"I've got a few hours before I need to leave. I want to spend them with you."

"Want to take me to the Driver's License Bureau? I've got to get this provisional license made permanent."

"Becca's Taxi at your service."

They finished their meals, discarded their paper plates, cups, and trays, and headed back up the stairs and out into whatever waning light this shortest day of the year had left to offer.

The Driver's License Bureau was on the other side of town, a twenty-minute ride through inner-city streets with countless turns and confusing intersections. Becca said she knew the way, and in any case was far more familiar with the town than Zach; so he left the driving and navigation to her and closed his eyes and let his mind drift. It didn't drift far.

By any measure, Zach's life was in a heightened state of transition and upheaval, some might even say chaos. He was pursuing a new major at a new school in a new town in a new section of the country, practically a foreign land. He was separated from his wife of two years but still seeing her on a regular basis, trying to provide for her practical and emotional needs—as a way of honoring their long relationship and assuaging his guilt at precipitating the separation—while being careful not to mislead her regarding the permanence of the separation. He was in a deep and complex relationship with his faculty advisor and writing mentor, and had many other new friendships and academic relationships, each with its own set of demands and rewards. He was writing a first novel, short stories, poems, essays, and several journals, taking an expanded load of courses, all with heavy reading requirements, and working three part-time jobs. Oh, and yes, he was in the middle of the most intense love affair of his life, a love that had seized him months earlier, drawn him into its swirling vortex, and not let him touch ground since.

And it was into the heart of this love that his mind, free to roam, drifted now. More specifically, it was into the heart of this girl driving beside him—the source of this love from the start, before she was the object of this love—that his drifting mind and spirit and soul descended now. The storms of his world, even the tempests of this love, raged out there somewhere. But inside here, within the generous and kind heart of this beautiful and abundantly graceful girl, in this time-bound space that was somehow outside of time and space—in here, it was completely calm; in here was perfect consolation, eternal life.

Becca slowed the car and turned, and they lurched back and forth across several deep potholes. Zach opened his eyes on the parking lot of the Driver's License Bureau. They were in a rough section of town, and the parking lot and building were surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with three strands of barbed wire. Zach wondered who in their right mind (or even in their wrong mind) would try to break into this facility, a division of the State Highway Patrol? He was reminded yet again that he was in a different land, with a different set of rules and standards. Becca pulled into an open space not far from the entrance to the modular building and switched off the car.

"Should I wait out here?"

Zach looked around. "Might not be safe." He was only half-joking. "Besides, it's too cold out here. Come wait in the warmth. It shouldn't take long."

Becca nodded, locked the car, and walked with him up the steps and into the building.

The large open room they entered directly from the outside was divided into three spaces. The front section had chairs lined up against two walls and a receptionist's desk with a highway patrol officer behind it to one side near the door. Beyond a low wooden railing was an area with a double row of wooden chairs with attached right-hand writing desks (identical to the desks they'd used earlier in the day while taking their Russian Novels final). Beyond this testing area, at the far end of the room, were three desks manned by Patrol examiners taking information, doing eye exams, and preparing license documents. Hanging on the far wall was a red screen with a camera in front of it for taking license photographs. Zach turned to the receptionist and Becca took a seat in one of the wooden chairs along the near wall.

After checking his provisional license and verifying his identification through his student ID card, the receptionist sent him back to the desk of the last examiner in the row. There a stern, heavy-set woman with close-cropped dark hair flecked with gray shot a series of rapid-fire one-word questions at him like bullets at a firing range. Birth?—Race?—Sex?—Height?—Eyes?—Hair? The fact that some of the answers were self-evident didn't seem to interest her. She wanted the answers from him, and she wanted them fast. He offered a qualified answer to the question about his height—some measurings listed him at six-four, some at six-five. She frowned and growled, "One or the other!" as if she might cuff him and throw him in the holding tank if he didn't give her the correct response and soon. "Six-four," he said.

She typed all his answers onto his license card, then stood and silently pointed him toward the screen hanging on the wall. Zach walked over there and stood in front of the screen, half-wondering if the camera might transform into a machine gun under the hands of this drill sergeant. The examiner walked behind the camera, inserted Zach's license card, then cursed and walked back behind her desk without a word to Zach. He remained standing in front of the screen while she rooted through her drawers.

Then he looked up and saw Becca, still seated in the same chair against the wall at the far end of the room, reading a newspaper someone had left behind. He was almost surprised to see her there—in this room, in his life. His first response was one of bottomless thanks, for whatever unlikely sequence of events and good fortune had placed her in his life. But his thanks quickly gave way to pure joy at this profound gift from above—her and their love, his now and forever, come what may.

The examiner barked, "At the camera!"

He lowered his gaze about two degrees and the camera's strobe flashed.

Zach threaded his way back past the examiners' desks and the testing area and through the opening in the low wood railing with his new laminated license in his hand.

Becca stood at his approach and said, "O.K., let me see it."

Zach handed her his license. He'd not looked at it yet.

"Zach, you're adorable!" Becca exclaimed. "You're glowing. Nobody glows in their license photo!"

Zach took the license back and looked. Sure enough—he was glowing. It was the happiest photo ever taken of him, and for good reason—this was the happiest he'd ever been. He well knew the reason why, and he'd do his best to communicate that knowledge to her from this moment forward.

Dear Becca

Tonight, I have no poetry begging to be written, no bold philosophies clamoring against my skull. I don't wish to cry; I don't wish to laugh. I only want to talk to you through these words, utter simple devotions that are too often hidden beneath my rhetoric.

Bec, I miss you when I'm not with you—always. It's not a desperate loneliness, just an emptiness where there shouldn't be any emptiness, a vital thing missing that should be there.

I love you, Becca, feel alive and at peace in your presence. I make myself vulnerable to you, trust absolutely both you and the love we have. You see, this love was given to us. Whoever or whatever gave it to us will not abandon us now.

I will care for you in every way available to me. This is, finally, the main gift I have to offer. I extend it without condition.

Just as I miss you every minute I'm away from you, I delight in every minute I'm with you, never wish to be anywhere except in your presence.

I'm completely devoted to you and your well-being, desire your happiness above all else, will use all my resources to insure that end.

Selfless? I suppose. That's what my love is. That's what you call forth in me

With all my love,

Zach

40

Zach carried the suitcase in one hand and the box with the cat's supplies under his other arm down the stairs and to the truck. Allison followed with her carry-on bag over her shoulder and the cat carrier with the two cats moaning inside cradled at her waist.

"Zach, they're crying. They don't want to be moved again," Allison groaned.

Zach opened the doors to the truck's empty rear compartment and slid the box and the suitcase into that hold. "They'll be fine once they get back to the apartment," he said as he tried to take the carrier from her arms.

"No, I want to hold them in my lap." She slid the carry-on off her shoulder. "But you can put this back there."

Zach shrugged and set the carry-on beside the suitcase and closed the truck's doors. They'd swing by his apartment to drop off the cats before taking Allison to the airport for her flight to Hartford. It was the Sunday before Christmas. Sue had been scheduled to take Allison to the airport, but her car her car had broken down last Friday. So Zach was not only picking up the cats (as planned) but also taking Allison to the airport. He didn't mind; actually, he was glad for something to do.

With her attention focused on the cats, whose paired wailing howls had only grown in volume during the short ride over here, Allison stepped briskly into the apartment, sat on the couch with the carrier on the floor before her, and waited for Zach to close the door. Then she lifted the top to the carrier and the cats both sprung out, Bobbi first. They disappeared around the corner into the bedroom.

Only then did Allison breathe a sigh of relief and take the time to survey the apartment. She'd not been in here in nearly a month, since before she'd got her car (which she still couldn't drive alone). The place looked unchanged, but it felt dramatically altered. She wasn't sure if it was a scent in the air (though there was no obvious smell) or some subtle changes in how things were placed, or completely derived from inside her. This was the first time she'd been back here since she'd found out about Rebecca Coles, Transfer Advisor/Home Wrecker. The apartment had the unmistakable feel of another female—a sexually active one, sexually active in this place that had once been hers: her space, her husband. She vowed not to go near the bedroom, no matter what, not even rushing past on the way to the bathroom. She'd hold it till she got to the airport. But the bedroom was coming to her. The wall across the way dissolved and she saw, in her mind at least, the rumpled blankets and sheets of Zach's makeshift pallet on the floor, still warm with their exchanges, their lust, their screaming adultery.

Zach finished distributing the items in the box—food bowl, water bowl, litter tray—to their former locations and stood in the entry to the kitchen with the three blind mice on their string dangling from his hand. "Looks like the cats took their stress out on these poor little fellows." One had its tail torn away, its stuffing leaking out like a poop; another had an ear missing.

Allison looked up at him. "Maybe I encouraged them a little," she said sheepishly.

"Then y'all got your stress out." He turned and tossed the mice into the bedroom, to the voracious, stressed-out felines lurking in those shadows, then stepped into the living room. "Ready to head on?"

Allison's initial impulse was Yes, the sooner the better! But something made her pause. She checked her watch—her flight wasn't scheduled to depart for two hours and traffic should be light. She held her place. "If it's O.K. we can wait a few minutes here—better than in the over-crowded departure lounge."

Zach shrugged. "Whatever you say. Can I get you something to eat or drink? I've got juice or soda, and some leftover pan bread."

"No, but thanks."

Zach sat down in the chair. "You looking forward to seeing your family?"

"Should be interesting."

"How so?"

"First time without you."

Zach nodded. "Hope that's not too hard on you."

"I've survived worse."

Zach was silent.

"My mom hates you."

Zach looked closely at his estranged wife. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"What'd you expect?"

"I didn't expect anything, Allison. I hoped both our families would try to be supportive and understanding."

"As if that would be possible."

"Anything's possible, if you try."

"With my mom?" Allison shook her head emphatically. "Not that."

Zach shrugged. "Give her my regards."

"I defend you to her all the time."

"That's nice."

"I'm not sure why I do it."

"I'm grateful all the same."

"Sometimes I feel like such a fool."

Zach stared at her calmly, but on the inside he felt the wound of his regret and guilt torn fresh open.

She looked at her watch. "Probably should be heading on."

Zach nodded and stood, waited for her to get several strides ahead before following behind and locking the door.

41

In the early dark of a foggy Christmas Eve that had been spent alone, would be spent alone in its entirety, Zach sat at his desk with the long-armed lamp casting a focused circle of light on the tabletop in the otherwise dark room, illuminating a blank pale-green page in his Poem Journal notebook. He took up a pencil and wrote the following lines:

Question for the Long-Awaited Child

Did you know my want before your arrival

Or after or not yet? Did it pass across your

Seeing in rival to meteor streak

Descent of fallen angel or silent

Blinding flash at creation's birthing?

Did you hear it alongside whispered

Wave-lapping before dawn of time or young

Girl's breathless yes to Gabriel's fraught pause?

Where does it rank, this want of one lost soul,

Long hidden answer to unending quest

Of one hapless creature frayed by the search

Waiting to drown in your longed-for promise?

Zach set the pencil on the table. It rolled slowly into the desk's dark shadow. Every poem he'd ever written—prose or verse—had been written to someone, typed and delivered to the intended. But this one would stay right here, Christmas gift to himself, burning plea into the still silent night, his rapacious overflowing heart.

42

Zach arrived at Barton's in the warm (62 degrees) early afternoon under a pale sun presiding over the winter woods from behind high thin clouds. He trudged up the hill with his sport coat, slacks, and tie in a suit bag slung over his shoulder and his black dress shoes (purchased for a brief busboy stint back in Boston) in a plastic department store bag along with his two wrapped presents.

Barton opened the front door and came out on the stoop in his writing clothes—jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt and well-worn loafers with no socks. "Santa running a little late?"

"Traffic around the North Pole was hell."

"So I heard on the news."

"But I made it," Zach huffed as he reached the steps and mounted to the stoop.

"Merry Christmas," Barton said with a broad smile.

Zach nodded. "Merry Christmas."

Barton had laid in all the supplies for their Christmas feast, but they'd agreed ahead of time to share the preparation tasks. Zach would do the biscuits, corn pudding, and peel the potatoes (for mashed potatoes), all prepared early in the afternoon, freeing up the kitchen for Barton to make the chestnut stuffing and the orange glaze, stuff the duck, and get it in the oven to roast by mid-afternoon. They'd boil and mash the potatoes (Zach's job) and braze the spinach (Barton) just before serving the meal at around five.

Zach ran upstairs and deposited his clothes and gifts on the guestroom bed, then returned to the kitchen. Barton had carefully laid out every ingredient and utensil and pot and dish he would need on the long counter, down to the potato peeler, measuring spoons, and salt and pepper.

Zach laughed at the meticulous display. "Where's my scantily clad helper?"

Barton eyed him with an unamused stare. "She has Christmas off."

Zach tried to gloss over his misstep. "Guess I'll have to do it all myself."

"It'll be good practice," he said. "Self-service can do wonders for one's peace of mind, not to mention calm of body."

"Tried chasing that phantom for years."

"Try again—might find it works this time." He backed his command with a sage nod then asked, "Do you need a biscuit cutter?"

Zach shook his head. "I can use a glass."

Barton pointed to a beautifully turned ash biscuit cutter at the center of the other knickknacks on the windowsill. "I got this one from a Moore County craft shop, but it's never been used."

"We'll keep it pristine—probably wouldn't know how to use it anyway."

"Pretty complicated," Barton agreed, then turned to go back upstairs to finish his day's stint at the writing desk. "Holler if you need anything." He paused in the doorway. "And there's the fire extinguisher, just in case."

Zach nodded. "I'll do my best not to need it."

Barton waved and was gone.

Since getting married, Zach had grown to feel at home in the kitchen—he enjoyed planning meals, buying the ingredients, and preparing the dishes. But he didn't feel at home in this kitchen—he'd never done more than help Barton transfer the finished meals onto their platters and serving dishes, and clean up afterwards. And having all the supplies laid out in advance was an unfamiliar approach. Normally he'd work his way through a recipe, acquiring each item when needed and returning it to the shelf and cleaning the utensil before moving to the next ingredient or dish. Finally, Barton's intimidating presence was everywhere he turned, though his body was upstairs out of sight and presumably otherwise occupied.

And then it was Christmas, a holiday already loaded with emotions and traditions and nostalgia. He couldn't help but wonder what his family was doing at this moment, the traditional Swedish feast—lutefisk, korv, pickled herring—still burdening their stomachs from last night, with a more American meal (turkey? ham? roast pork?) baking in and simmering on the range. And Allison—part of every Christmas for the last six years, the only part for the last two—so far away now, in more than just miles. And his newest love, fresh-found harbor to all his hopes for home—not a place but a person and a lifelong pursuit—back in her world, a world that would never include him (by his choice, theirs) and would she return to him, stay awhile or permanently? All these thoughts and feelings crashed over him in great waves, swept through him, reshaped the ever malleable sands of his heart into parallel ridges, intricate whorls—then again, then again. And all while trying to fulfill his assigned tasks, his Christmas dinner preparations, without sullying Barton's kitchen or making undue noise (thus bothering the world-famous author at work or, worse, summoning him to check on the racket).

And yet, and yet . . .

Despite all these distractions, these multi-layered perils and hidden traps, Zach slowly came around to finding a place for not only his mind—his focus—but also his heart and soul in the present—in this warm and bright kitchen, this spacious and inviting house, this hillside beyond the windows. It started out there, while he was mindlessly peeling potatoes at the sink. His eye spied and followed a Cooper's hawk slicing through the naked trees like an arrow's shaft, interrupting its streak, alighting on a beech limb—calmly surveying his domain, affirming his proprietorship. Zach assumed the hawk's vision, saw the ripple of leaves where the field mice rummaged, the flash of striped brown where the chipmunk darted to safety, the flick of a squirrel's tail high in the hickory behind the mistletoe with its white berries, the skitter of junco and wren there in the gully's thicket only partially cleared last summer, the scratchings of quail in the hedgerow along the field.

Zach saw all this and more pass before his sight from his perch at the kitchen window, saw the brim leave their swirls in the pond's glassy mirror, the muskrat dive sleek as a bullet off the dam, the two mallards—gaudy plumed drake, dutiful hen—trolling there at the far shallow end. And the vultures rounding high above in the soft sun, the seedlings sprouting far below in the fetid warmth of the decaying leaves of the parent, the tiny juniper berries dense and slate blue in the mistakenly named cedar along the drive, the holly bush beside the stoop weighed down by its red berries' shine against its glossy green and prickly tangle.

And once Zach saw all that out there, he could see all this in here: his rightful place in this house, this welcoming hearth—electric range, fireplace, woodstove, home: all the same, all open to him. He belonged here, had been both invited (by God, the owner of all; by Barton, the current owner of this: house and hill) and earned the right (through love and care of both the place and its owners). There was nowhere else for any part of him—neither head nor heart—to go, not this day: right where he was supposed to be, no doubt about it.

The biscuits were kneaded, cut, and rising on their cookie sheet, the potatoes peeled in the pot and covered with salted cold water, and the corn pudding mixed in its covered casserole and ready for baking. Zach washed and dried all the utensils by hand and left them spread out on the counter—for Barton to reuse or put away as he saw fit. Then he retired to the back patio—it was that warm a day—to read further in Barton's copy of Sewell's biography of Emily Dickinson (a fellow New Englander that Zach had barely known till he and Barton began sharing, often in memorized recitation, her stunning poems last summer; now he couldn't get enough of "the belle of Amherst"—a misnomer of the highest order for the homely recluse).

Barton poked his head out the back door twenty minutes later. "The kitchen looks pristine and all the food—"

"Ready for oven," Zach finished, looking up from metal patio lounge.

"I'm impressed."

"You knew I could cook!"

"Yes, but not so neatly."

"When in Rome—"

"Wear a toga."

"Forgot mine."

"Darn. Guess I'll just have to take out my frustrations in the kitchen."

"If you run into that helper, send her my way."

"If I run into a toga-clad helper, he's mine."

Zach shook his head. "You can have him."

"I will." Barton looked up the hill toward the field. "What a beautiful day."

"Hard to believe it's Christmas—but then I have to remind myself it is the south."

"This is warm even for the south. We should go for a walk after I get the duck in the oven, before we dress for dinner."

"Sounds like a great idea. I can set the table while you're cooking."

"The plates and silver are all on the sideboard."

"Can I decorate the table?" Zach asked. Barton hadn't put out the first piece of Christmas décor, unless you called the stuffed elephant dressed as Santa Claus on the fireplace hearth a Christmas decoration (Zach didn't).

Barton laughed. "Don't know where you'll find Christmas decorations at this late hour."

Zach grinned. "You'll see."

"Good luck," he said and headed for the kitchen as Zach brought his book inside and scooted down to the basement dining room.

Awhile later, with Barton busy stuffing the duck with the steaming dressing, Zach came into the kitchen and got the pruning shears and package twine out of the utility closet. "You mind if I borrow the squirrel rifle?" They'd used the .22 (the only gun the thieves hadn't stolen) together a few times in the fall, taking target practice at the rusting hulk of a car in the back woods; and Barton had shown Zach where both it and its ammunition (hidden separate) were kept "in case of an emergency."

Barton looked up from the pasty white duck's carcass. "We've got dinner already—what're you going to shoot?"

"A surprise."

Barton shrugged. "Help yourself. But remember—those bullets can travel a mile."

Zach saluted with the pruners in his hand. "Eye-eye, Mr. Safety Instructor," then he disappeared back down into the basement.

Ten minutes or so later, as Barton slid the beautifully trussed duck into the oven, he heard the .22's sharp crack from the direction of the carport, then another about thirty seconds later, then another. Then he heard Zach open the downstairs door and come inside.

"No bullet wounds?" he shouted toward the basement.

Zach was suddenly standing in the kitchen doorway, hands spread out in front of him. "No wounds—not on Christmas."

Barton nodded as he shed the gray apron he'd worn while cooking. "Then assemble the troops for a forced march," Barton barked.

"How about a leisurely stroll?" Zach negotiated."

"Agreed."

And off they went—out the back door and up the hill and through the woods and into the field for a meander along their jogging path around the field's perimeter, the grass beat down in a three-foot wide trail.

Walking side-by-side in silence, peering deep into the dormant and still winter woods to their left, Zach felt the calm assurance that had sprung up in his soul in the kitchen extended and deepened. Not only was he a deserving guest, welcome to stay long as he wanted (and fulfilled his ever-evolving obligations), here in this field on this hilltop he'd become an integral part of the life of this place, for once (the first time, in fact) not a mere passerby. What Zach didn't know and didn't try to decipher just then (knew enough to know he couldn't) was if this intimation was a fulfillment or a further calling, an end or a new beginning.

"Look!" Barton whispered urgently and pointed.

Ahead, in the slightly taller grass between their path and the rusty barbed-wire fence along the edge of the field, was a black calf lying so still with its legs tucked under its body it seemed a statue though its eyes blinked once at their tentative approach. Zach smiled and whispered, "Trained by instinct not to move." He'd found many such young calves hidden in the underbrush of the riverbank, frozen by eons of evolutionary shaping—though none quite so conspicuously visible.

Barton said, "Should we go back and leave him alone?"

Zach grinned at Barton's assignment of sex to the little one with its privates well hid but said, "If we walk at a steady pace and don't pause, it won't move even if we pass very near."

Barton looked at him doubtfully.

Zach shrugged. "And if I'm wrong, its mother is over there"—he pointed to a cow looking their way from the far side of the field—"and will come running if her calf stirs."

Barton looked doubtful but said, "Farm boy's call."

They resumed their walk, striding along in feigned nonchalance, with Zach trying out a careless idle whistling. The calf never budged though Zach's left leg (he was on the outside) passed within a foot of the frozen figure's head and big brown eyes.

When they were twenty yards beyond, Barton audibly exhaled and said, "I'll take that as a favorable omen."

Zach nodded, "On a day so far full of them."

"Calves aren't usually born in the winter."

Zach shrugged, unfamiliar with local standards of animal husbandry. "Bring more at auction in the spring, if you can get them through the winter. With days like this, that may not be much of a challenge."

"I'll ask Earl next time I see him," Barton said.

And the rest of their day unfolded beneath the auspices of this newborn's blessing—the calf's intent gaze, silent and still.

They changed for dinner (Barton showered and shaved, Zach just swapped attire), did the last-minute preparations together in the kitchen with only a few minor collisions and momentary confusions, and laid out the feast on the table. It was then that Barton saw Zach's Christmas decorations—a large oval of loosely woven holly sprigs complete with their shiny red berries, a fan of tied cedar branches in a borrowed milk-bottle vase with a red-ribbon bow at its neck, and a claw of real mistletoe hanging from the overhead light fixture, shot down from the lofty reaches of the old hickory beside the carport, its horny stem showing the splinters from the rifle's slug.

Barton stood to one side and admired the beautiful table as Zach lit the two tall candles in their polished brass holders. "I didn't know you had such talents."

"I don't think I do," Zach said as he shook out the match burning close to his fingertips. "Credit it to the day and nature's bounty and beauty."

"The calf did it," Barton joked.

Zach paused for a second. "Maybe truer than you think."

"I'll tell Earl not to sell him."

"I'll contribute," Zach said.

"You're serious?"

"Let him, or her, grow to an old age before our eyes, reminder of this day."

Barton nodded. "I'll look into it."

Then they sat and ate. It was all delicious. The duck l'orange was especially tasty, with the faint citrus wonderfully balanced by the earthy chestnut stuffing. And the side dishes were all well prepared and filling, though the biscuits were a tad dark on the bottom (baked on the lower oven rack, too close to the element, with the duck and corn pudding filling the upper rack). And the light red wine—a Beaujolais from the previous spring, its airy effervescence only slightly muted by the ensuing months—seemed a perfect echo of the meal and the day: a moment's spring cheer inserted into this ponderous holiday and the encroach of winter.

After dinner and clearing the food and plates, stocking the food in the fridge and rinsing the plates and silver and setting them carefully in the dishwasher, they both raced upstairs and ducked into their separate bedrooms only to collide seconds later in the narrow hall at the head of the stairs, their arms laden with presents. They laughed at their accident, their childlike excitement. Barton backed into the doorway to his bedroom and let Zach pass then followed him down the stairs and into the living room.

It was now dark outside; and for once, Barton hadn't lowered the blinds against hidden watchers in the night. When he moved to do just that, after setting his armload of gifts on one end of the loveseat, Zach put his hand out to intercept him and said, "Can we leave the blinds open this evening? Nothing going on in here we wouldn't want to share with out there."

Barton started to object. There were plenty of things in here he wouldn't want to share with out there—the gifts they were about to exchange, the riches hanging on the walls, tucked in the corners. But he swallowed his objection unspoken—the clear window on this night seemed to matter to Zach and he could suppress his anxieties for him, for these few minutes. "Candlelight O.K.?"

Zach nodded and laughed. "Keep the boogeymen at bay."

Barton didn't laugh at the joke as he struck a long wooden match and lit the five candles distributed around the room.

And in that flickering glow augmented by two table lamps on their lowest setting, their ghostly shadows both cast out into the night and reflected back on them in the glass, they exchanged their gifts.

Zach opened his three gifts first. The smallest contained two cassette tapes, home-made mixes of Bach concertos and fugues, and of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 and No. 5. The second was a first-edition copy of Hemingway's The Fifth Column and the First Forty-nine Stories. Inside was a note on a folded sheet of white paper—

for Zach—

after a storm—

in the hope of halcyon days

for his life and work

from his friend

Barton

25-12-79.

Zach had a number of Hemingway first editions, acquired on the cheap from a hole-in-the-wall bookstore in Boston. But, as Barton well knew, he didn't have this one—until now. He looked up. "Where'd you find it?"

"Max got it for me—knows every dealer in the country."

"Hard to come by. Thank you so much."

Barton nodded.

The third and largest gift (clumsily wrapped in multiple layers of white tissue paper and what must've been a whole roll of transparent tape) was a beautiful hand-made leather shoulder bag, large enough to use as an overnight bag or a plane-travel carry-on. The rich earthy fragrance of leather filled the room. "This is a work of art," Zach said as he examined the fine stitching and the brass fittings and clasps.

"Designed to be used," Barton said.

"I intend to."

"How about on a trip to Williamsburg next month?"

Zach glanced at him with a silent question. They'd never travelled anywhere together, at least not overnight.

Barton nodded. "I need to go to Jamestown to verify the setting for one of the scenes in my novel. I'll be staying in nearby Williamsburg. I'd like to have a companion for the trip—all expenses paid."

Zach didn't hesitate. "I'd love to go. When?"

"Last weekend of Break? Give us a little treat before classes."

"I'm there," Zach said. "And excited—thank you for inviting me, and giving me a beautiful tote bag to boot!"

"We'll call you my research assistant."

"Ready to assist."

Barton opened the largest of his three gifts first—a bottle of single-malt Scotch. "Hey, hey," he said in glee. "But way too generous!"

Zach shrugged that off. "Don't have to worry about me tapping into that supply." He hated Scotch.

"All mine!" Barton said with a wink.

The second gift was—lo and behold—a Hemingway first edition! Zach had a duplicate copy of A Farewell to Arms and gave it to Barton with the following inscription written on the front endpaper:

For Barton,

On the occasion of this first (of many, I hope) Christmas together, a token here of my permanent gratitude for your unfaltering friendship and support through times of challenge and struggle (and times of joy and laughter). I would not have survived—and I mean those words quite literally—without you.

With love and thanks,

Zach

Barton gently closed the book and left it on his knees, then clasped his hands together and lowered his gaze as if in prayer before looking up at Zach, his chin resting on those clasped hands. "I don't know what to say."

"The great Barton Cosgrove at a loss for words?"

"The humbled Barton Cosgrove at a loss for adequate expression of how much this means to me."

"You knew."

"Of how much you mean to me."

Zach smiled and nodded, then held up his Hemingway first edition. "Ernest would be pleased."

"Ernest wouldn't have a clue."

Zach considered that. "Probably right. But we can teach him, even at this late date."

"I'm sure he's watching."

Zach actually turned, looked toward the window, saw his own intent gaze staring back, Barton in the background—and knew the words were true. They were being watched, and by more than just Ernest.

The final and smallest gift was a weathered cedar branch in the shape of a slightly asymmetrical cross with small barbs at the end of each arm. The cross was a consistent dull gray—no recent shaping by Zach or anyone else, all the handiwork by nature and time. "Where'd you get this gem?" Barton asked as he turned it over in his hands.

Zach gestured over his shoulder. "Back there in the woods, down by the spring. Come to think of it, maybe that's why I wanted to keep the blinds up—let the woods share in the gift: really, its gift, to both of us."

"Or His."

That seemed a fitting amen to the sharing that had somehow exceeded the lofty hopes and anticipation from both sides.

Barton set his bounty aside and said, "Dessert's on me, but it'll take a couple minutes." He rose and disappeared into the kitchen.

Zach stayed in his chair and closed his eyes and descended into the exotic wonder of it all, set himself adrift in the present and discovered—felt not thought—he was securely anchored and safe, and anchored by more than Barton or this house or this hill, by more than the woods watching or Ernest or the calf, by more than Becca or Allison or his family sharing Christmas in his absent presence: anchored—no, held gently, cradled—by God. What had he done to earn this reward?

The sound of footsteps stirred him from his trance. Barton stood over him with a tray laden with dessert and coffee. Zach took his share—a cup of black coffee and a small plate with a generous portion of a dark and dense square of cake topped with a spoonful of solid white frosting and coated with a clear sauce. Zach's nose knew even before his eyes that it was suet pudding with the standard hard and clear toppings, a Christmas tradition in his family far back as he remembered. "Did you make this?" Zach knew from watching his mother over the years that the recipe was complex and time-consuming.

"Heavens no! William brought a tin from England in October."

"It's my favorite Christmas dessert."

"I know. That's why I saved it for tonight."

"How long will the happy surprises keep coming?"

"Enjoy them while they last."

The phone rang in Zach's apartment at 3 AM. Zach reached up from the floor and dragged the telephone off the desk. He was already awake, having just returned from the bathroom after his third round of vomiting.

"Hello," he croaked.

"Are you sick?" Barton asked, his deep and resonant voice sounding like it had been run over and left in a roadside ditch.

"As a dog."

"Me too."

"Too much Christmas cheer."

"The duck, I'm afraid. I thawed it on the kitchen counter. I'm sorry."

"That's O.K. I was worried about gaining weight over the holidays."

"Not anymore."

"No."

"Check-in tomorrow to let me know how you're feeling."

"I will."

"Sorry for making you sick."

"Still the best Christmas I ever had," he said, though his puny voice undermined the words.

"But the hangover is hell."

"Can be sometimes."

43

Becca drove from Greensboro, where she was spending the holiday break with her family, to Zach's apartment to spend New Year's Eve and Day with him. She'd told her parents she'd be spending the time with "a friend." That they'd not asked for further details indicated that they knew which friend was her destination. She was grateful to them for granting her privacy and freedom. Though she was twenty-one and ostensibly living on her own at school, she was still very close to and dependent on her family. The process of gradually establishing independence was a tricky one, with a long history of messy failures among her peers. Becca took pride in the fact that, so far at least, she and her parents had negotiated this perilous transition with no blow-ups or confrontations and few awkwardnesses. Today was one of those awkwardnesses—she felt guilty about telling only a half-truth—but it had been handled with smiling faces and a wink toward acceptance if not outright approval of her choice.

Now her older sister Sarah was another matter entirely. Becca told Sarah everything; and Sarah freely and liberally dispensed advice, as older sisters are wont to do. But Sarah's advice when it came to boys and sexual relationships was tempered by the overtly present fact that she'd conceived a child out of wedlock, married the father, lived with the father for a year after the child's birth, then left the father and moved with the child back to her parents' house. That ebullient and gregarious year-and-a-half old child, Katie, was a blessing to the house and all who lived or visited therein; but she was also a conspicuous reminder of the permanent cost of a mistake.

So when Becca told Sarah she'd be spending two days with Zach, she gave a fairly neutral reply. "Have fun; be careful."

But Becca thought she wanted more. "Tell me what you really think."

"How do you feel about him?"

"I like him a lot. He makes me feel special."

"You're special to everyone, Bec. It's your gift to the world."

"He makes me feel more special than I've ever felt. He makes me feel like I'm all that matters."

"That bad, huh?"

"I may be falling in love."

"You're already there, Sis. No point in denying the obvious."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"And?"

"You don't want to hear my 'and'."

"Maybe I don't, but tell me anyway."

"Well, for one thing, he's married."

"Separated."

"You don't know anything about him—his family, his background, his goals."

"I do know. He's told me."

"And you know it's true?"

"Zach doesn't lie, not to me."

"You know that?"

"I know that."

"And you think you fit into his world?"

"Sarah, I don't know. I can't look that far into the future. Right now I'm a big part of his world, and he's a big part of mine. How all that plays out is way beyond how far I can see or even think about."

"I told you."

"What?"

"That you wouldn't like what I had to say."

"Maybe not, but thank you anyway."

Sarah leaned over and gave her baby sister a hug. "Have fun; be careful."

Becca mulled over Sarah's words on the hour-long drive from Greensboro to Shefford. She had doubts about how she fit into Zach's world, and he into hers, had had those doubts from the start of their relationship. But her attraction to him, and the white-hot attention and love he'd focused on her, had cancelled or at least buried those doubts under the weight of desire. And now she always wanted to be with him. While at school, she'd drive by his apartment several times a day—sometimes stopping, occasionally leaving notes, usually just coasting by without stopping, half-thrilled, half-ashamed of her schoolgirl antics. She'd never been quite so smitten. She was both enthralled and confused. The words Sarah had said that rang absolutely true were that she wasn't falling in love, she was already there.

Zach looked down from the railing at the end of the second-floor breezeway as she walked from the parking lot to his building. He was dressed in black cargo pants, a white dress shirt with a red micro-stripe, and an open charcoal vest he'd picked up in a fleamarket. Other than a crisp wave as she got out of the car, he stood above her unmoving, watching her every step as she walked along the sidewalk and around to the stairs. With any other boy (or girl, for that matter), she'd be annoyed that he didn't come down to greet her, or at least meet her halfway. But she'd gotten used to Zach watching her, was in fact thrilled by his earnest attention, knowing that he was not only watching her but adoring her through his watching, filling an empirical need that only she could sate. She knew this intuitively but also because he told her—in spoken words, in written meditations, and in poems. She'd drawn attention all her life, was familiar and comfortable with it; but she'd never experienced this level of attention, both off-the-charts passionate and eloquent. At first she didn't know how to take it, or if she could even bear it. Now she reveled in the gift and craved it when away, even as she sometimes wondered where the bottom was and what it would feel like when they touched it.

When she reached the second floor landing, he took the shopping bag full of gifts and clothes she was carrying, set it to one side, and wrapped her in his long and powerful arms. That embrace was all she'd been thinking about for days; and as she exhaled straight into his shirt, she felt like she was releasing her heart and soul and all parts of her that mattered into him. She'd maybe, barely, been an independent soul these last ten days; she was no longer. She melted in surrender, melted into him.

They exchanged Christmas gifts while seated together on his couch. Both were unexpectedly nervous, like kids on a first date, at this incorporation of an old tradition with all its old rules into their new and unfettered love. Becca gave Zach an expensive pair of basketball shoes (to replace his tattered pair of sneakers leftover from high school) and a paperback of the letters between Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning. Zach gave her a nineteenth-century clothbound edition of Selected Poems of John Keats and a typescript of a long poem he'd written after seeing a high school portrait of her in a scrapbook at her apartment.

For all the forethought that had gone into the selection of these gifts, and the abundant thank yous and smiles that had accompanied their unveiling, the gifts, even the occasion—belated Christmas sharing—seemed a far cry, a distraction, from the world they occupied now. They sat a moment in silence amidst the crumpled wrapping paper and tangled ribbons and open boxes and heartfelt empty gifts. Separated by that clutter, across a space of a few feet in the fading light of an overcast dusk, they simply stared at each other, smiled shyly and tentatively, and shared more in that silent gaze than those presents—all presents: ever given, ever received—could've hoped to transmit.

Then Zach carefully moved his gifts and his wrapping paper to the coffee table. Becca did likewise. And he slid over to her and she leaned back on the couch and he lay on top of her with his arms to either side and they proceeded to exchange the abundant gifts of their abundantly giving bodies, these gifts in perfect synchronization with the world they now inhabited—a world unto themselves, no one else allowed.

Somehow Becca'd ended up on top in the new dark of their fading panting. Her sweater was on the floor but her shirt was still on though unbuttoned and her bra was down around her waist and her jeans clumped around her ankles—well, you get the idea. Zach too was still sort of dressed, but with his clothes in all manner of uncommon placement. They were for the moment actually entangled in their loose attire and not free to separate. That condition became justification (it didn't take much) for another round of sharing, though this one briefer and calmer.

Becca, still on top, had to figure out the sequence of disentanglement in the dark, which she finally did after several false starts and much giggling and laughter from both sides.

She stood beside the couch. Zach could see her but barely. She started to reassemble her clothing when Zach sat up and said, "Let me." And from his seat on the couch and largely by feel but with a little help from dim sight, he dressed Becca. He slid her panties back into place (with just a few opportune kisses). He got her bra oriented in the right direction then slid the cups over her breasts and the straps over her shoulders. He buttoned her blouse—this all by feel and slow. He slid her jeans up over her calves, her knees, her thighs, her hips. He pulled them up to her waist and (after a few more opportune kisses) zipped them up, buttoned them, and buckled her belt. He found her sweater by feeling along the carpet and picked it up. He turned the sweater right side out (a fact he confirmed by feeling for the collar tag), rolled it up, then stood beside her. She raised her arms above her head. He slid the sweater sleeves down over her arms then pulled the neck opening over her head and pulled the sweater down over her chest and stomach. He used his hands to check all her body, starting at her face and neck and working all the way down to her shoes (which had never come off but the right one needed retying). Then he said out of the dark, "My rewrapped present."

"Waiting the next unwrapping."

"That can be done," Zach said, and found unerring her belt buckle.

"Later," Becca said, intercepting his hand. "Now let me try to rewrap you."

She started this effort by kneeling in front of him and locating his pants and underwear twisted around his ankles. She loosed the boxers and raised them to his knees then paused. After a moment, her hands left the boxers at his knees and continued up over the backs of his thighs, gliding gently over his buttocks and stopping on either side of his waist. Holding on there, she then proceeded to express her own form of adoration of him and his body, a gift that could only have been offered in this dense dark, on this dawn of a new year. She'd not planned this offer or even dreamed it. In the midst she wondered if it were only for him or somehow also for her.

Then she finished pulling up his underwear, straightened and buttoned his shirt (much more proficiently than he'd buttoned hers), pulled up, zipped up, and buttoned his pants, found his vest (wedged behind a couch cushion), turned it right side out, slid it over one arm, looped it around his back, then slid it over the other. She reached up, kissed him, and said, "Good as new."

He said, "Much better than that."

She said, "Yeah, me too."

"Ready to celebrate the coming of the new year at The Depot?"

Becca said, "You bet, but have to pee first."

Zach reached out and switched on the floor lamp. The light was briefly blinding, and both closed their eyes. When they finally opened them, they were almost surprised to discover Zach and Becca standing there, dressed as before though with disheveled hair and faces flushed.

The Depot was an early twentieth-century train station on the south side of town that had been converted into a restaurant by Paul Hoffman, a friend of Barton's and an acquaintance of Zach's through Barton. The now unused tracks still ran past the covered loading platform that provided outdoor seating for the restaurant in suitable weather. Two old Pullman dining cars sat on a side spur at the end of the platform, cars that would one day be turned into a fine eastern-European restaurant called the Orient Express. Inside, The Depot retained the station's original craftsman-style elegance and airiness, with polished hardwood floors, exposed roof decking and rafters and planed beams, clerestory windows on all four walls, and simple square tables widely spaced across the open room. The restaurant had not yet acquired a liquor license (according to Paul, it would be easier to move Mohammed's mountain to North Carolina than push the license application through the byzantine labyrinth of the North Carolina Alcoholic Beverage Commission), but it did allow "brown bagging," a regional accommodation whereby patrons could bring their own beer or wine in a plain brown bag and the restaurant would provide "set ups"—glasses, ice, and refrigeration as needed—for a nominal charge. Zach and Becca bought a six-pack of German beer at a convenience store they passed on the way to the restaurant and carried the beer into the restaurant in its brown bag tucked under Zach's arm.

By the time they got there, the restaurant was fairly full with the lingering remains of the evening dinner crowd mixing with early arrivals of the New Year's celebration crowd. It was a casual, family-oriented, jeans and flannel shirt kind of place, with patrons of diverse social and ethnic backgrounds and children scurrying around and between tables playing tag. Zach and Becca liked The Depot as a relaxed and inexpensive alternative to some of the finer restaurants in town, the kind of place where they could linger all night without running up a big bill or annoying the hostess. They also enjoyed escaping the students-only aspect of some of the cheaper restaurants and bars near campus. Here, on any given night (including this one), you could find patrons from toddlers (or even babes in arms being quietly nursed at the table) to retirees and grandparents. It was a perfect place to spend New Year's Eve.

The smiling hostess sat them at a table near the center of the room, one of the few tables currently open. It wasn't a private location, but none of the tables in the restaurant were; and at the moment Zach and Becca were comfortable being placed in the middle of this cheerful hubbub, in fact were pleased to be absorbed into this sprawling anonymous family. The hostess left them one-page hand-printed menus and said she'd return with glasses for their "refreshments."

Two five-year-olds—a boy chasing a girl—raced around their table, trailed by a stumbling toddler. The toddler tripped and fell as he passed Becca's chair. She stood and helped the boy back up, brushed off his blue overalls, and gave him a gentle push back toward his mother seated with her arms extended at a neighboring table. The mother nodded thanks as Becca sat back down. Becca laughed. "I've had plenty of practice this week with Katie."

"How is she?" Zach had met Katie twice on visits to Becca's home. He adored the exuberant little girl.

"Lively as ever. You've got to keep your eye on her every minute."

"And her walking?"

"She still falls a lot, mainly because she tries to do too much. She has no fear."

"Better that than the opposite."

"Try telling that to Sarah."

"How's she?"

"Other than school and work and a kid?"

"I can't imagine." In fact, Zach could imagine, had long wanted a child and knew he would make it work if he were ever granted such an opportunity. But he assumed he was unique in this single-mindedness about raising a child while still in school.

"She'll be fine. Sarah's got the grit to match her impulsiveness."

"And her sister?"

"I don't have either, Zach. I'm soft and safe."

"A lot tougher than you think."

"I hope I don't have to find out."

"I'll hope that for you, but life is rarely so gentle."

"So I've seen."

The hostess brought their glasses and a bottle opener for the beer. "Can I put the rest in the fridge?" she asked.

Zach shook his head. "Better at room temperature. But thanks."

Zach opened one bottle and split it between the two glasses. Once the foam had settled he raised his glass. "In thanks for the past year, and hope for the next one."

Becca nodded and clinked her glass against his. "So how was it being alone for Christmas?"

"I was only alone Christmas Eve. I went to Barton's on Christmas Day."

"Still, must've been strange—not your own family or your own traditions."

Zach thought about that. "I don't know that I have any traditions anymore. It's been so long since I was home at Christmas, and I've changed so much, those traditions aren't really mine anymore."

"And no new ones?"

"Not yet. Every year's been different lately."

"Sounds lonely, especially compared to the overdose of family I've had."

"There are worse things than being alone."

Becca nodded, though given her family and her background, she couldn't imagine what those worse things might be.

The waitress stopped by their table and took their orders, with Becca getting the lasagna and a salad, and Zach ordering North Carolina barbecue with fries, slaw, and hushpuppies.

Zach suddenly perked up after the waitress collected their menus and left. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"I'm an uncle!"

"Really?"

"My oldest sister had a little girl—Caroline Noelle born on Christmas Eve."

"That's wonderful, Zach. Congratulations."

"She's my parents' first grandchild. Here I was moping around all alone on Christmas Eve—"

"I knew you were lonely—trying to pretend you weren't. I know you better than that."

Zach smiled—he'd been caught. "Anyway, the phone rings and it's my brother-in-law calling with the news—washed all that loneliness right away."

"A birth will do that."

"So I've heard. So I saw."

Becca raised her glass. "To Caroline Noelle."

"And all new births."

With that good news shared, they were content to sit back and rest in the warm glow of each other's company and mutual understanding, a kind of love quite different from the one they'd immersed themselves in a few hours earlier. They watched the life of their adopted community unfold around them. By now the children and young families were gone along with most of the grandparents and retirees, and grad students and young professionals drifted in to take their places. A middle-aged folk singer—a local favorite—was setting up his modest amplifier and speakers on a platform where the ticket counter used to be. The lights were dimmed in stages and the hostess went around lighting votive candles on the tables and bar counters along the walls. The waitress brought their food and they ate it slowly, savoring each bite and the moment—the relaxed atmosphere, both homey and intimate, and most of all their unspoken union within this informal gathering that had so freely accepted them as an anonymous couple and a part of this spontaneous family.

They were just finishing their food when Paul, the owner, walked out of the kitchen, spotted them, and came over and sat at one of their free chairs backwards, his arms draped over the chair's ladder back. Paul was a short, fortyish New Yorker with a square face, dark hair, and intense eyes. He always looked a bit on edge; he looked especially so now.

"How's it going, Paul?" Zach asked.

"Like hell—chef stormed out on the busiest night of the year, left me holding the bag and slinging the hash."

"What happened?"

"Some guy put his cigarette out in the lasagna and sent it back to the kitchen."

"Not good."

"You ain't kidding. Told Lisa that's what he thought of the food and to take it back to the chef. And she did! I asked Lisa why she didn't just throw that insult in the trash, make up some story about how the chef regretted that he didn't like the lasagna, and be done with it. But no, she takes it back and shows it to Larry. So Larry grabs a cleaver and heads for the dining room. Lucky Big Willy—he's our fry cook—was between Larry and the dining room or we'd probably be dealing with a murder rather than a kitchen without a chef."

"So what'd Larry do?"

"Said 'Fuck this' and stormed out the side door and hasn't been seen or heard from since. So Lisa called me at home just as I was getting ready to sit down in front of the T.V. with a bowl of popcorn and a cold beer. So here I am, finally taking a break after a couple of crazy hours in the kitchen. How was your food?"

"Delicious."

"That's good, that's good. I've worked in enough slophouses to know my way around a stove, but damned if I thought I'd be doing it tonight."

"Buck stops with the owner, I guess."

"Buck stopped before it made its way to my door, but what the hell you going to do? Hi, Becca—good to see you again."

"Hi, Paul. Happy New Year."

"Yeah, Happy New Year to you both. Hope it's better than the last fucking one." He stood up like someone just called to a fire. "Better get back to the kitchen. Enjoy what's left of the evening."

Zach and Becca watched Paul scurry back into the kitchen then burst into laughter. At just that moment, the folksinger did a brief sound check, then introduced himself and started playing the set that would take them all the way to the countdown for the new year.

With the music playing and the lights turned down low and the candles flickering all around and their fellow patrons fading to a soft blur at the fringes, Zach and Becca were free to slide into the realm of their best joined selves, a realm in which they were in public but not of it, simultaneously part of the real world and outside of it. By its very nature, this romantic indulgence defied examination. They slid into this world as one, enjoyed its seductive freedom from obligation as long as allowed, would emerge when forced to. Zach slid his chair close to Becca's and occasionally brushed her hand or cheek or hair. But most of the time they simply sat close together, were united without touching, in their own universe with the rest of the universe—at least to the four walls of the restaurant—slowly revolving around them.

The singer finished his final song one minute before midnight. Then, following an acoustic-guitar version of a drumroll, began his countdown. "Ten-nine-eight." Everyone in the restaurant joined in. "Seven-six-five-four." Zach turned his chair to face Becca. "Three-two-one." Everyone except Zach and Becca jumped up and cheered and embraced. Zach and Becca leaned together while still seated and kissed for long seconds.

When their lips finally parted, Zach said, "Best year of my life."

Becca said, "Just ended."

"With more to follow."

"We hope," she said, with a broad smile full of hope beneath those eyes set in that perfect face that was for Zach not hope at all but realization, in and of itself.

Lying in bed in the dark of the youngest hours of this new year, their bodies fully unwrapped and touching full length, Zach on his back, Becca lying atop him with her head on his chest, both tired but not quite ready for sleep, almost reluctant to surrender the gone year by falling asleep, Becca asked, "How can I live without you?"

"You don't have to."

"I mean away from you, outside your presence?"

"I go with you wherever you go."

"I know. Sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes that's the problem."

Zach brushed her long hair in the dark. He loved the feel of her hair in the dark. If he could touch her hair, then she was there; if she were there, then he was completely content.

Becca continued, speaking into the dark. "I feel so empty when I'm away from you. It's like I cease to exist. All I want to do is get back to you and become alive again."

"I feel exactly the same about you. When I'm not with you, it's like a part of me is missing."

"You're stronger, Zach. You can stand on your own."

"You can too. You'll find that strength. I'll help you."

"You can help with a lot. I don't think you can help with this."

He brushed her hair; he caressed her cheek. Intellectually, he understood what she was saying, saw her dilemma as an unprecedented challenge for her—a challenge he had caused, a challenge he could not solve. But at the moment he was enslaved by his heart; and what his heart knew was that the love of his life was lying full-length along his body, her hair on his fingertips. The absolute joy of that reality swept aside any and all warnings and concerns.

And soon Becca joined him in that joy, releasing her doubts to the night beyond their walls, easing with him into the oblivion of love.

Becca

She tosses this question at the camera—"Am I young or old?"

The answer seems obvious enough—hair like gold (try to touch it—absolute beauty burns like fire) tumbling to her waist; a face, skin, fresh as dew, radiant; lips, eyes that dance, don't fear: what could she be but young, still safe?

But wait, stare back at her awhile, see this—eyes mirroring a depth greater than even she knows, a depth like the sea unrolling, unrolling, unrolling.

Last sun touches

the lone human on the

beach—a woman leaning

over a shell half-

buried in the dark sand

near the water's

edge.

She reaches and

runs her fingers along the

ridged white shell but

won't pick it up, won't

even move it. (She knows

she doesn't have the right.)

But maybe through simple

touch she can share in the

knowledge it offers

willingly

to

her

salt fingertips.

The transfer completed

in silence, the sun gone—

she straightens, looks fleetingly

in this direction, turns and

moves on, across white

deserted beach.

She's gone too soon—off

making Spartan dinner (tomato

soup, crackers, cheese) for

herself.

Later to lie down

alone on simple cot, think

about the shell till she passes

into safe rest clutching that

which is hers, will always be

only hers.

Pure teeth through parted lips that taunt with ease: her unspoken words are no longer question but statement—"I am here for you if you can hold me. Please try."

The arm on which she leans, her left arm, easily bears her whole weight. She'll raise it, offer it to you, if you ask.

44

Zach picked Allison up at the airport late on a gray and bone-chilling afternoon the Saturday after New Year's. When he met her at the gate she set her two bulging shopping bags on the concrete floor and gave him a hug and a warm kiss on the lips. He stepped back and said, "Thanks, but what was that for?"

She looked surprised, maybe by the question or maybe by the spontaneous kiss. She giggled and shrugged. "I don't know—greetings from Connecticut, Happy New Year, thanks for meeting me: take your pick."

"I take it all," Zach said, "And more if you're offering."

"More greetings or kisses?"

"Happy kisses are nice."

"They are, but only one allowed per homecoming." She picked up her bags.

"Who made that rule?" He took both bags out of her hands.

"The airline—clog the gate if you have people making out at the exit."

"Be a fun experiment."

"Have to try that with someone else," Allison said, but her smile held through their walk to the baggage claim then on out to the truck parked in the open-air gravel lot. "Colder here than in New England," she said as she climbed in the passenger side and rubbed her hands together.

"Just turned cold yesterday," Zach said as he started the truck and turned the heater to high. "Had a few flurries late this morning."

"Great—come south to get cold!"

"Bound to happen sooner or later."

"Wake me when winter's over."

"It just started."

"I know."

Despite her complaints about the weather, Allison remained in garrulous high spirits throughout the thirty-minute ride to her apartment, telling Zach about all her Connecticut adventures and encounters, including several visits to the farm and unabashed grilling at the hands of his siblings. His mom had remained cool and aloof through these meetings, commenting only that "Zach was a sensitive boy." To which Allison claimed she responded, "And I'm a sensitive girl." All of them—both families—wanted to know what had caused the break-up and if it was permanent, implying but never outright asking if there were other people involved and what was the role of Barton Cosgrove in all this?

"And what did you say?" Zach asked.

"That it was none of their business."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Even your mother?"

"Most of all my mother."

Zach hooted in surprise. "Allison, I'm proud of you. If I weren't driving, I'd give you a congratulatory kiss."

"I'll take a rain check," she said, grinning at the side of his face. "Thing is, I realized soon as I got there that if I didn't stand up for myself and us, they'd run all over me. So I stood up to them. It was easier than I expected, and got easier as time went on. By the end, they'd stopped bugging me."

"Good for you."

"Our marriage is our marriage. What we have and what we've been through nobody can ever take from us or understand. So why start down that road—just keep it to us."

"Couldn't agree with you more; but to be honest, I didn't think I'd ever hear that from you."

"Well, now you have."

They arrived at her apartment and unloaded her bags and luggage. Finished with that task and standing in her kitchen, Zach asked, "Want to go somewhere for dinner?"

"I'd love to. You'd think I'd be tired of company after the last two weeks, but actually I'm a little worried about being alone."

"Then let's go, my treat." And back into the cold dusk they went.

They went to a trendy student hang-out called Not To Be in a shopping center only a few blocks away. Because all the students were still on Break and most of the locals were weary of celebrating and leery of the cold and damp weather (one flake of snow, and Shefford plain shut down), the restaurant was nearly empty. In their old relationship, this condition might've left them disappointed, deprived of the distraction and vicarious energy gained by watching those around them living their uninhibited young persons' lives. But tonight it was just fine—tonight they were focused on each other. They ordered a pitcher of beer and a tray of onion rings to share, and two burger plates.

"So how was your Christmas?" Allison asked.

"A lot quieter than yours, from the sounds of it." He told her about his full day with Barton but left out the part about the food poisoning.

"It was warm enough to go for a walk?" Allison asked incredulously.

"In shirt sleeves!"

"Sounds weird."

"You said earlier you wanted to sleep through winter."

"But not on Christmas!"

"Pretty demanding."

"The new me."

She filled him in on their old school friends—their dead-end jobs or community college drudgery. Some were still hanging out in the high school parking lot, drinking warm beer and cheap wine at their old state forest hideaway.

"It all seems so foreign to me," Zach said. "Like out of a dream."

"Or a nightmare," Allison said. "I realize now how lucky I was to marry you."

She said it so casually it took Zach a few seconds to absorb the meaning of her words. Once he had, he looked at her with his mouth open in shock.

"What?" she asked. "I can't appreciate how lucky I am to get out of there?"

"To marry me."

She nodded. "Yes, to marry you. I wouldn't have gotten out of Dover if I hadn't. Whatever pain we've been through is nothing compared to what my friends are going through."

Zach was dumbfounded.

Allison laughed at him. "Your wife has grown up."

"Overnight!"

She thought about that, with an onion ring dangling from her index finger. "Took a little longer than that—about two months, a very hard two months."

Zach started to apologize, again.

She interrupted him with an outstretched hand. "But it's O.K. Nothing is free."

Their burger plates arrived. They ate and talked and shared like two kids on a first date, suddenly freed of the burden of all that past and impediment. It was all gone, or at least set aside for this night. And it would never again be the looming presence it had been for most of their relationship. They'd never be entirely free of their complex history (nor would they want to be), but neither would they ever again be slaves to it.

When they got back to her apartment, she asked him to come up for a minute. "I've got something for you."

When they got inside her kitchen, she didn't invite him to take off his coat and he didn't ask. She ran off to her bedroom and returned with a package wrapped in Christmas paper. "A late present," she said and handed it to him.

He nodded. "I've got something for you at the apartment. I'll bring it tomorrow when I bring the cats." He then opened the gift. It was an eight-by-ten color photograph of Gina, his Brittany spaniel, on point amidst brown grass. Zach immediately recognized the scene—a fall day before they were married, in the field by the Christmas tree farm, a hunt when Allison had tagged along with her old camera. The photograph was mounted on a piece of weathered gray wood. "It's beautiful," Zach said.

"It's a piece of wood off the old tobacco barn. I persuaded Mark to cut it for me. And I guess you recognize the picture."

"I do—remember it like yesterday."

"But it wasn't yesterday, Zach. It was over three years ago."

"Three long years ago."

She smiled. "Still good memories."

This time he surprised her with a full kiss on the lips. They held the contact for several seconds, the picture of Gina on barn wood wedged between them.

45

From the beginning, Becca wondered what she could give Zach—that is, besides herself, which seemed too simple and easy a gift, however often he declared it was all he wanted or needed from her or the world. He gave her so much. Besides his apparently bottomless adoration, he gave her exposure to all sorts of new experiences, new insights, new ways of seeing the world. She wanted to give something back, something to balance his gifts to her. She finally settled on the gift of regional flavor and color, access to uncommon people and out-of-the-way places from the fast-disappearing Old South. She had an interest in these vestiges of a bygone era and had assembled a sizable list of such opportunities. So she'd share them with Zach, for use in his life and writing.

They were nearing the end of the holiday break, with classes scheduled to start the following Monday. Barton had asked Zach to go to Williamsburg and Jamestown with him the last weekend of Break, so he'd be away then. Becca, bored at home and longing to see Zach before he disappeared for the weekend, called early in the week and suggested they take a day-trip to the folk potteries in Moore and Randolph counties, about a two-hour drive southwest of Shefford. Zach—bored himself despite, or because of, a heavy self-imposed workload of reading and writing, and always missing Becca if she wasn't beside him—was thrilled at the idea and suggested she come the night before for dinner—and breakfast the next morning, and dinner after the outing, and breakfast the next morning (and maybe dinner that third night and breakfast the next morning before he had to head off with Barton).

Becca laughed on the other end of the line. "Zachary Taylor, if I didn't know better, I'd say you miss me."

"What gave you that idea?"

"Just a wild guess."

"Well, should I plan dinner for two?"

"Yes."

"And the rest of the week?"

She said, "I'll do my best to work it out."

Zach knew that meant "yes." He hung up the phone in a state of near euphoria. They'd never spent three days in a row together, and with no school or other obligations in the way—just the two of them.

She arrived on Tuesday shortly after dark. He'd just put the eggplant parmesan in the oven and was drawing water into the big pot to boil for the spaghetti when she knocked on the door. He set the pot aside and ran to open the door. She stood outside on the breezeway with a shy smile, appearing nervous, almost like on a first date despite their well-established intimacy. He felt a little shy himself, a bit coy, and wondered if it was the prospect of three days together that held them back. He took the grocery bag from her arm and gestured for her to enter. She stepped inside just far enough to get past the door, which he closed behind her. He turned and faced her. She stood watching him with that same shy smile. He stared back at her. They both were waiting for the other to make some move, or say something. Then they both started to speak at once. Then they both stopped speaking. Then they laughed. But still they hadn't touched or spoken.

Finally Zach held up one finger on his free hand, gesturing for Becca to wait. He went and set the grocery bag on the kitchen counter, then came back and slid Becca's book bag off her shoulder and set it around the corner in the bedroom. Then he returned to the living room and took Becca's hand, opened the door, and led her back outside. Then he stepped inside and closed the door. He counted to five, then opened the door with a broad smile, took both Becca's hands in his, pulled her inside again, shut the door behind them, and gave her a powerful hug and a long full kiss on the lips.

When he stepped back from her, he took her two hands in his. "Now that's how glad I am to see you."

"That was strange. It was like I didn't even know you."

"I'll get you a key. You having to knock like some kind of saleswoman is way too awkward."

"I won't use it if you're not here."

"That's up to you. But I want you to use it if I am here—to let yourself in, make yourself at home. Far as I'm concerned, it is your home."

Becca shrugged. "Whatever you think."

Zach thought of an Auden couplet Barton often quoted:

And two by two like cat and mouse

The homeless played at keeping house.

How much were they playing at keeping house? Well, time to find out, he thought, with only a wisp of trepidation.

Becca peeled off her coat, tossed it on the couch, and set about unpacking the grocery bag, making herself at home.

They ate the dinner Zach had prepared—eggplant parmesan atop spaghetti, a tossed salad with bottled Italian dressing, and garlic bread—in an easy familiarity and intimacy that contrasted their initial awkwardness. Becca had many stories of her long holiday break at home—outings with her sister and niece, meetings with old high school friends, relatives and acquaintances visiting from out of town. She shared them enthusiastically with Zach, seemed almost intent on using her family experiences to fill the void in his life where family should've been. Zach listened happily, not so interested in her exploits with her family and friends—people he barely knew, if at all—as in just hearing her voice and seeing her so animated. He feared he sometimes overwhelmed Becca with his own passions—his writing, his love of literature and art, his diverse experiences in places near and far—and was delighted to step aside and let her immerse him in stories of her life.

Following dinner, clearing the table, and washing their dishes, they stood on either side of the small kitchen and contemplated their options for the rest of the evening. During semester, there was always something to do or someplace to go—even if it were only to The Inn on campus for beer drinking and conversation with whatever acquaintances they might find there. But campus was closed down for Break. They could maybe find a movie that was worth seeing, or a bar that was open on a weeknight; but the weather was cold and drizzly and there was no strong draw to pull them out into it. So they decided to stay in. It would be the first time they'd spent an entire evening in Zach's apartment.

The reason they never spent much time not in bed in Zach's apartment is that there were few entertainment options available there. He had no T.V., and the only music player he had was a small tape player-radio, with about a dozen cassettes—a mix of classical and rock—in a shoebox beside the player. Besides sleeping, Zach's apartment was good for reading, writing, and cooking. These options were more than enough for Zach, but he wondered if they would leave Becca bored.

But Becca seemed unfazed. She insisted on cooking tomorrow night's meal, and would start by making banana bread from her mom's recipe. She shooed him out of the kitchen—he retreated to his desk in the bedroom to work further on a difficult scene in his novel—and started rummaging through his cupboards and drawers to find the ingredients and utensils she needed for the banana bread.

Sometime later, with the wonderful odor of baking banana bread filling the whole apartment, Zach emerged from the bedroom and found Becca lying on the couch reading My Antonia, a book he'd given her before Christmas. She smiled up at him and raised her legs into the air so he could slide under and sit with her, then lowered her legs across his lap.

Becca held up the book. "She makes a hard life seem so wholesome."

"Antonia or Cather?"

"Is there a difference?"

Zach considered this. "Maybe not in this case—though it's always dangerous to assume any work of fiction is simple autobiography."

"Seems like most good fiction is largely autobiographical. Isn't that where its power comes from?"

"Even autobiography is run through the filter of memory, experience, and nostalgia. Consider 'The Dead' or Look Homeward, Angel—they start at autobiography and end at art, start trapped in time and end up timeless."

"What happens in the transition?"

Zach laughed. "Trade secret."

Becca sat up onto his lap. She kissed his forehead, then his eyes and nose, then his cheeks and lips, then over his neck. "What can I do to get you to give up that secret?" She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and kissed down over his neck to his chest.

"It's a big secret," Zach said.

Becca undid a few more buttons, kissed further down.

"Can't share it with just anybody," he whispered.

She finished unbuttoning his shirt and pushed it around behind him.

From above, Zach was mesmerized by the perfectly straight part—on the left side of her head, coming off her temple—in her beautiful hair. He loved this girl so much. He loved her far beyond the parts of his body that were springing to life beneath her ministrations (he loved her with those parts also, though they sometimes seemed a distraction from the true nature of his love).

Just then the oven timer went off with an awful jangling buzz. Becca laughed into his stomach, kissed around his bellybutton, then stood to go check the banana bread.

Later that night, in the full dark of the bedroom, Zach lay on his back on the thin cushioned pallet, his legs extended straight, his arms stretched out to either side; and Becca lay squarely atop him on her stomach—her legs atop his legs, her feet on his shins, her arms stretched out on his arms, her hands reaching his wrists, her head cradled at his neck, just beneath his chin. Skin touched skin only at her feet on his shins, her hands at his wrists, her face in his neck. Everywhere else their two skins were separated by at least two, in some cases four, layers of cloth, as he had on boxers, sweatpants, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and she had on panties, pajama bottoms, and his old button-down white shirt. They'd never continued the foreplay Becca'd started earlier, and certainly could've continued it here, in this position in this bed in this moment with both awake and yearning toward each other—her hips and groin grinding against his, trying to see how hard they could press together, if such pressure might actually dissolve the four layers of cloth that separated their longing. But then at that most impassioned moment, they both stopped thrusting toward each other simultaneously, and simply lay together—unmoving, unintentioned, just together. Zach held his breath; Becca panted lightly into his neck. Zach finally exhaled in a long slow release of all the tension and desire he had. His muscles went limp, his whole body compressed under her weight. He wanted her to flatten him to nothing, to absorb his body into hers; and she wanted to take him entirely into her. She'd never wanted to bring someone wholly into her before—she wanted him now, all inside her, all swallowed up. She didn't understand this momentary fierce desire. If she were told she had it, she'd deny it. If she tried to remember it, she'd draw a blank. She was outside herself; and she wanted him entirely inside her, all part of her. They lay like that—unmoving, unspeaking—till they both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion in the effort, the weight of the wish, still separated by those layers of cloth.

Zach woke in the middle of the night out of a calm, dreamless sleep. When he slept alone, he had frequent vivid dreams, almost all of them either frightening or, more often, haunting—various renderings of failure, missed connections, abandonment. But he never dreamed when he was sleeping with Becca; and he realized at that moment of waking that she was his dream—of longing fulfilled, of safety secured: no other searching required. She'd slid partly off him during their hours of sleep, had her head on a pillow wedged against his shoulder, her near arm tucked under her head; but her left leg still crossed over his, her left shoulder and breast still rested on his chest. In the dark and with his eyes shut, he did a slow inventory of their bodies, trying to find if their skin touched anywhere. He felt her soft exhalations against his cheek, the rise and fall of her chest on his ribcage, their knees hard against each other but parted by the cloth of their pants' legs. He thought then maybe she really was a dream—a breathing angel withheld, isolated by attire, no skin offered. Then he felt it—the slow pulse of her blood through the veins of her wrist, her right wrist crossing over top of his left, his skin numb from hours of pressure but the blood still coursing, the liquid of her life passing so close to the liquid of his the two almost felt as one.

They woke the next morning to more drizzle and the air even colder—just a few degrees above freezing. The radio's weatherman said there was a chance the temperature would fall still further, producing some areas of freezing rain. Freezing rain or not, the weather was too unpleasant to undertake the long ride to the potteries. Becca said she knew of an old mill just a little outside of town that had been turned into a country store. They could go there in the afternoon without having to travel far or risk being caught in bad weather.

After breakfast she made a shopping list for tonight's dinner, then put on her coat to head out to check her apartment (which had been empty since before Christmas), run a few errands, and get the groceries for dinner, leaving Zach to work on his novel.

Still in his sweatpants and T-shirt from last night, he intercepted her at the doorway. "So when will you be back?"

She smiled. "Missing me already?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Can't be together all the time."

"I know that; but I can still miss you, can't I?"

She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Only if I can miss you."

He nodded. "Deal."

"I'll be back early in the afternoon. That'll give us plenty of time to get to Johnson's Mill and back before dark."

He caught her hand as she turned toward the door. "Take this."

She looked at the key he gave her then laughed. "I guess this is serious."

He didn't join her in the laugh. "For a long time now."

She stared at him and nodded. "I know." She dropped the key in the pocket of her field coat. "But I'll still knock."

"Use the key!"

"I'll try," she said over her shoulder as she headed out into the gray damp day.

It seemed they'd traveled farther than they had. The drizzle of the morning had thinned to a silvery mist that clung to the bare trees, the lofty dark pines, the low pointy cedars, the sere grass of the fields. Though the temperature was above freezing and the roads safe, the mist and low clouds cast the countryside in a surreal aura that seemed caught between welcoming and forbidding.

Becca drove them away from town on country roads. At first Zach recognized the roads carrying them toward the university village to the south; but then Becca turned onto a road Zach had never seen. The few businesses—a convenience store, a gas station, a nursery—fell away behind them; and the brick-sided ranch houses grew spaced farther apart, the gravel drives into them longer and winding. They crossed a one-lane wooden bridge over a broad and swollen creek, Becca stopping before crossing to check for oncoming cars though they'd not seen any for miles. A half-mile beyond the bridge, they turned right onto a narrow road with no lane markings and deep drainage ditches on either side. The road wound off into a mix of thick woods and open pastures. It amazed Zach that they could be in such deep country less than ten miles from campus and the busy town that surrounded it.

Becca slowed and turned left into a narrow dirt drive pocked with deep puddles. She swerved to avoid the worst holes but the car still lurched from side to side.

"Just where are you taking me?" Zach asked with anxiety that was less than half feigned.

Becca grinned. "Should be just ahead," she said then added with less than full conviction, "But it was warm and dry the last time I was here; looks kind of different today."

Just then the car rounded a dense cluster of pine saplings; and a two-story house with dark green clapboard siding, white trim, and a tin roof rose up out of the mist. A wide porch ran the length of one side of the house, cluttered with rocking chairs, a butter churn, a spinning wheel, and other miscellany of household implements. There were no other cars or signs of life in the parking lot in front of the porch. A weather-beaten sign at the base of the wooden steps read OPEN, though that sign looked like it'd been sitting there for years. Becca eased the car to a stop beside that sign.

Standing on the porch, the cold mist clung tightly to their faces and worked its way inside their coats. They gazed across a broad field that sloped to a line of woods barely visible at the bottom of the hill. A single majestic oak rose up out of the center of the field, a rope swing hung from its lowest limb. A small flock of crows perched in the top of that tree like sentinels watching for invaders out of the woods. The crows flew off in silent unison and disappeared into the mist like phantoms.

Zach turned to Becca. "I'd say I'm about ten omens past relaxed."

She leaned toward him and lightly hugged his arm and pressed her face against the fur fringe of his bomber jacket. "Somewhere between spooked and petrified?" She looked up at him with the sweetest indulgent smile.

"More or less."

"If we're going to go, better to go together." She released his arm, turned and strode toward the house, and pushed open the tall and thick wooden door with Zach close at her heels.

They entered a large, two-story open room with exposed rough-sawn framing, unfinished pine paneling, and wide board flooring. To the left was a long wooden counter with glass-enclosed display shelves beneath. Beyond the counter was a flight of open-tread stairs that ran up to a loft that ran along one wall and across the front of the room, above where they'd just entered. There was a woodstove at the back, and they both felt its radiant warmth as soon as they stepped inside. On the walls, hanging from the railings, and displayed on shelves and tables scattered throughout the room was an eclectic mix of Americana from the late nineteenth century and early twentieth—antique quilts, a metal Esso sign from a crossroads gas station, a Bull Durham Tobacco poster, a display of soda-pop bottles, a wooden pitchfork, a hand-crank coffee mill, a stack of Saturday Evening Post magazines, an old stand-up radio in its ornate wood cabinet, an empty pickle barrel. The room was dimly lit by several bare-bulb fixtures hanging from the ceiling and two lit kerosene lanterns atop the long display counter.

A man with thinning gray hair and a weathered face sat against the wall behind the counter in a dark-stained chair with heavy wooden legs and thick carved armrests. "Afternoon," he said.

Becca turned to him with a smile that lit up the room better than all those measly light bulbs. "Good afternoon, sir. How are you today?"

"Be better if this damp weather would move on down the road."

"Got us all out of sorts," Becca agreed.

"Damp weather or damn weather?" Zach asked.

"Call it what you want," the man said. "Has my knees 'bout locked down tight. Paying the price for all that holiday cheer, I reckon."

"Dancing or drinking?"

The old man looked at him with a tilt of his head. "Who's asking?"

"What if I said the church deacon?"

"Then I'd say neither one!" The man roared with a cackling laugh that seemed to shake the walls.

"Your secret's safe with me."

Becca was looking at the ornately painted tins with friction-fit covers displayed on the shelves beneath the counter. "These are beautiful. What were they used for?"

The man pushed himself up out of the chair with his arms, stood a moment to wake his legs, then shuffled forward to the counter. "Best collection of tobacco tins this side of Richmond." He plugged in a fluorescent light that was mounted under the counter and the detailed designs and rich colors of the tins leapt out into the dim room.

"Were they hand-painted?"

"Some were done by printing machines. Others were hand-painted by teams of women sitting at a long table passing the tins from one to the next with each adding her own particular design or lettering or drawing, everyone a little different."

"Sounds like a southern version of a sweatshop," Zach said.

"I guess there was some sweat, especially in the summertime. But there's nothing wrong with good steady work. Mama said they'd line up at the old American Tobacco warehouse downtown whenever jobs came open. Then the tobacco companies stopped the hand-painting and did it all with machines. By the time I came along, they'd done away with tins altogether and started using cardboard and paper packs. Just wad them up when you're done and throw them away."

"Not as beautiful as these," Becca said.

"Or as useful. Nowadays, everything is used once and thrown away. Back then, everything was made to last a lifetime, then handed down to the next generation. Everything in here"—he waved his right arm to take in the entire room—"works as well as the day it was made, even this building—not fancy but well-made, built to last."

The old man might've had the bias of his years, but they could not contest his point. "Slower pace," Zach said.

"And harder work," Becca added, looking at the coffee mill and recalling the butter churn on the porch.

"Better quality," the man said. "Better life."

"At least you have this place," Becca said.

The man scoffed. "That's changing too—going to bring an interstate through the farm."

"Where?" Zach asked.

"Down the bottom of the hill, just beyond the woods." He pointed toward the front porch, the lone oak. "Already got it surveyed. Begin construction next year."

"It'll disrupt your life?"

"That's for sure—split the farm in two and reroute the roads, noise and exhaust fumes all the time."

"You going to move?" Becca asked.

"Nowhere to go," the man said. "Nowhere to hide."

That night in the dim grayness of the unlit bedroom just before he fell asleep on his back Zach felt Becca's hand push his sweatpants and boxers down to his knees. She straddled him and slowly but deliberately rode above him with the covers pulled over her shoulders like a tent and her head pitched back, facing the darker gray of the ceiling. She rode gently at first, her pace gradually quickening over many minutes, her head thrown back the whole time, a rhythmic moan rising from somewhere deep in her chest.

With no blankets over him and only his T-shirt covering his skin from the waist up in the chill room, Zach was cool but not cold, cool enough for his mind to detach somewhat from his body—especially the part of his body that was in full engage with the complementary part of Becca's body. And that detached part of him—clear sight adjusted to the dim light of the room, clear mind in full control of all his senses and sensing organs except that one that was operating by its own rules and will—gazed calmly at the girl rocking back and forth above him. He saw the pale underside of her chin, her neck muscles taut. He reached up and unbuttoned her shirt till it hung loose at her sides. He ran his right hand and fingers downward from her chin, across her neck, gently over her heaving chest, pressing lightly on her breastbone then down over her belly to where her pubic bone ground back and forth against his. Then he ran his hand back up over all the same parts till he reached her chest, paused there, felt her heart pounding inside her. He suddenly desperately wanted to know the person attached to this heart pounding just a thin layer of skin and a sternum's thickness from the pads of his fingers, wished to know and hold the essence of this faceless body riding to fruition over him, with him, on him. If he could just see her face now, her eyes, into her eyes—to that core, that center, that home—would he discover what he craved? Would he know then what she needed from him and find a way to give it to her?

She sped toward her current need, her breaths quickening, her short moans rising in pitch. Deprived of her face and eyes, Zach held his hand over her heart, felt her life pulsing forth from there, returning depleted, pulsing forth again. Then her body froze, her back arched, her head thrown back still further. An unfamiliar sound caught between a shriek and a sigh rose out of her chest and flew forth toward the ceiling then was gone. Her upper body suddenly pitched forward toward him, no strength or tautness in her muscles—pure free fall from far above.

With his hand already on her chest, Zach was able to ease her fall and spare them both some pain and bruising. He slowly brought his hand bracing her chest downward till it was sandwiched between their two chests, a temporary prisoner there. Becca's head flopped down between his left shoulder and neck, her panting exhalations whistling past his ear, fluffing his hair. Her chest heaved against his hand.

He slid his trapped hand free and wrapped both arms around her and pulled her still tighter to him. He rolled his face toward hers and kissed her cheek. He could see her eyes were shut, might remain so now till morning as she faded toward full sleep. He'd just given her something she needed—that much was sure. But he also realized that it alone wasn't enough, not by a long shot.

He pressed his lips lightly against her ear and whispered, "I'll always love you." Her uninterrupted breathing proved she didn't hear his words but also guaranteed she knew their truth at some far deeper level, trusted his pledge of permanent devotion and care at the core that would allow her to fall asleep still straddling his waist, blank vulnerable to any passing harm, harm that he would not let come her way. Her other needs he'd have to seek later, the need at hand challenge enough for tonight.

In her quest to show him more regional color, Becca drove Zach into downtown Shefford for lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner called The Palace. The previous three days' cold drizzle, low clouds, and mist had finally cleared up and given way to bright sunny skies and temperatures rising into the fifties. This was the kind of day Zach had hoped would dominate this southern version of winter, a type of winter day that had been noticeably absent in the season to date, a winter defined by cool, damp, gray weather that was enough to drive even the most effusive of souls into the dark hole of depression.

The sun and the warmth combined with the golden-haired girl beside him and no obstacles in the path of their day together and no overt obstacles in the path of their unfolding love made Zach want to dance and sing (neither of which he ever did unless locked in his room with the lights low and the shades drawn). He rolled the car window down and hung his head out in the warm fresh air like a big shaggy-haired blond dog. He tilted his head back, felt the wind push his long hair out behind him. At a stoplight near the edge of downtown, he pulled his upper body back into the car, leaned across the console, and kissed Becca on the cheek.

She faced him and laughed. "Feeling frisky today, Mr. Sandstrom?"

Zach grinned but shook his head. "Just very much alive."

Becca nodded. "It is a gorgeous day."

"Oh," he added, "and I'm head over heels in love with my driver."

"That right?"

He leaned over and kissed her on the lips—holding the kiss for several seconds.

The driver behind them honked his horn.

Becca turned her attention back to the road and the green light in front of them. "Hold that thought for tonight," she said as she drove through the intersection.

"It'll always be there."

"Always is a long time," Becca said as she turned down a narrow one-way street between tall grimy buildings with boarded up storefronts.

"Not for me when it comes to you." The statement was for Zach a simple truth, planted in his heart for months now. He was pleased to say it to the only one for whom it mattered, in the full light of this fine day.

Becca stopped the car in the middle of the road (there were no cars behind them). "That's sweet," she said, looking calmly at him. "But you don't know that."

Zach gazed just as calmly back at her. "It's not sweet—or if it is, that's secondary. It is primarily a statement of fact. And yes, I do know it, absolutely. It is the only thing I know for sure."

Becca stared at this man of intemperate avowals and passionate beliefs, unlike anyone she'd ever known. Her right pinky touched the corner of her mouth, the way it often did when she'd confronted a confounding realization, and hung there for several seconds. She put her hand back on the wheel but still faced Zach, still held his eyes with hers. "Then I'll always thank you."

Zach nodded and smiled. "And you'll always be welcome."

Becca found a parking spot on the next street up. When they stepped out of the car, they were enveloped in the sweet earthy smell of cured tobacco being turned into cigarettes at the two sprawling factories just down the road. The smell was wonderfully rich and exotic, like a spice from a distant land, about as far removed from the biting odor of tobacco smoke as two odors from the same substance could be. That fragrance combined with the deserted streets and shuttered buildings gave the setting a dream-like quality, as if they'd been dropped down a local version of Alice's rabbit hole. They fed the old-fashioned meter with a pocketful of change (their currency still worked in this surreal world) then walked the two blocks to the restaurant with its floor-to-ceiling windows across the entire front facing out onto an alley with soggy newspapers moldering in the gutters and a mangled shopping cart wrapped around a power pole.

Despite the abject setting, the restaurant was nearly full of mostly construction workers from the high-rise office tower and hotel being built on a city block where a Woolworth's department store had been till a wrecking ball smashed it to oblivion. (This block, including The Palace restaurant, was itself slated for demolition in about a year, to make way for a parking deck to accommodate the cars for the hotel and office complex.) The booths were all occupied, but they found a couple stools available at the end of the Formica-topped, chrome-edged lunch counter.

The small restaurant bustled with noise and motion, the action especially frenetic behind the lunch counter as several servers—they were all men, both black and white, with long white aprons over jeans and white T-shirts—ran back and forth, shouting orders through the pass-through into the kitchen at one end of the counter, then striding back with plates of food balanced on muscular bare arms. Given the cramped space beyond the counter and the number and size of the servers moving to and fro, it was amazing that there were no accidents or harsh words exchanged. It was clear that they'd been doing this for a long time and were comfortable in the chaos.

One of the waiters—a white man with slicked back dark hair and a MOM tattoo on his left forearm—paused in front of them. "What'll you have?" His words and his manner were brusque, but his smile and soft drawl were friendly. Becca ordered the fried chicken platter with collards and okra and Zach got chicken-fried steak (no direct relation to fried chicken) with mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans. The waiter scribbled the order down in an illegible short-hand then raced to the pass-through window and shouted something unintelligible to the cooks beyond the hole in the wall.

"They must think if they move fast enough they won't tear this place down," Zach said.

"Like Superman turning the clock back."

"Yeah. Or maybe if you're always in a frenzy, you don't give yourself time to think about it."

"Or maybe they'll just take what comes and learn to live with it."

"No doubt."

"But I'll miss these old places. They're already all gone in Greensboro—won't be long here."

"The New South has arrived," Zach said.

Becca nodded. "The New South."

The waiter slid their plates full of food in front of them, added two glasses of sweet tea, a small cruet of vinegar (for Becca's collards), and a bottle of ketchup all in less time than it took Zach to unwrap his silverware from the napkin. Then the waiter was gone.

"The New South will be a hurry-up kind of place if these guys are any example," Zach said.

"Got to adapt," Becca said.

"Guess I'll see a slower Old South in Williamsburg this weekend."

"Pretty old, pretty slow. You ever been there?"

Zach shook his head as he dug into the delicious chicken-fried steak slathered in thick gravy.

"I'll be curious what you think—twentieth-century actors playing eighteenth-century people in meticulously recreated eighteenth-century houses and shops. They're very convincing. Don't even try to get them to step out of character—it won't happen."

"Sounds strange."

"It is, at first; but after a few hours, you'll think it's normal. You'll think the traffic rushing past beyond the wooden barriers is the oddity, and the slow and careful life inside the walls a better reality."

"Maybe I'll just stay up there and become a stonemason or a tanner or something."

"You'd be good at it, Zach; you'd fit right in."

"They got chicken-fried steak up there?"

"Doubt it."

"So much for that idea."

"They've got great fried chicken, though."

"Well, I'll think about it."

"Why are you going up there?"

"Because Barton asked me to go along as his research assistant."

"And what does a research assistant do?"

"In this case, keep Barton company, maybe help with the driving."

"And why Williamsburg?"

"Well, Williamsburg is a sidelight, where we'll be staying. The main reason is to go to Jamestown to check some facts for Barton's novel. A key scene takes place at Jamestown."

"But you said the other night that an author runs it all through memory and reflection, turning fact into art."

Zach laughed. "I'm touched. You really do listen."

"To you, yes." She paused with a chicken drumstick held in her right hand. "Well, most of the time." She winked before turning her attention to the drumstick.

"In Barton's mind, you've got to get the place exactly right, then set the characters in that carefully defined place and let them come alive there. In some ways, it's the setting that animates the characters. But what Barton doesn't tell you is that he's reshaping the place even as he defines it—emphasizing one thing even as he excludes another. However literal he would claim it is, it's still the place of his remembrance, reshaped by his memory and experience."

"So what are you going to check out?" Becca'd finished her food and had turned on her swivel stool to face Zach directly.

"The facts of the place."

"So they can be changed?"

"At the author's discretion." He'd finished his meal and turned toward Becca.

"So then is it truth or fiction?"

"Oh, it's always truth; it just may not be fact."

Becca laughed. "You've got me thoroughly confused now."

"I'm just the research assistant."

She took his hands in hers. "Who's being taken from me for the weekend."

"Sorry. I'll hurry back."

"Maybe if we stay here, time will stand still."

Zach nodded. "We could give it a try—chicken-fried steak for all eternity: not a bad Heaven." But he was already reaching for his wallet to pay the check the waiter had left in one of his whirlwind passes.

Lori called Jennifer who called Donna who called Zach to tell him of a "Welcome Back, Kick-off the Weekend Early, Before the Start of Classes" party that Lori and her roommate Megan were hosting that night at their two-bedroom apartment in the same complex Zach lived in (it was a big complex, with dozens of buildings and hundreds of apartments). "Lori told Jennifer to tell me to tell you that she really hoped you could stop by."

Zach laughed. "I barely know Lori."

"Well, far be it for me to read between the lines, but Megan might've had a little input in the invitation. She's had her eye on you since last fall."

"What would Megan say if I brought a guest?"

"Male or female?"

"Female."

"That'll be interesting. I'd like to be there to see how Megan handles that. But the invitation is coming from Lori, and I know Lori would say bring your friend—the more the merrier."

"So you're not going to be there?"

"Wish I was. But I'm still in High Point, won't be back to campus till tomorrow afternoon."

"And I'll be in Williamsburg by then."

Donna sighed. "Story of my life—another cute guy fleeing across state lines at my approach."

"I'll make it up to you, dear; I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

"I'm good as my word. Travel safe. See you next week."

"I'm counting the hours," Donna said and hung up.

Zach told Becca about the party when she got back from dropping groceries off at her apartment to restock their empty fridge.

"Sounds like fun," Becca replied.

"Back to student life."

Becca shrugged. "Can't hide forever."

They ate a dinner comprised of leftovers from the previous two nights then showered and changed and drove up the hill (it was that far) to 49-F around ten o'clock.

Students jammed the living room, kitchen, dining area, and hallway of Lori and Megan's apartment, and spilled out onto the second-floor breezeway in the clear cool night. The doors off the hallway, to their two bedrooms, were both shut.

Lori greeted Zach with a warm hug and shook Becca's hand politely with only a slight raising of her eyebrows, then told them to help themselves to beer in the kitchen and whatever food they could find, if there was any left. Zach thanked her, said they'd already eaten, and waded toward the kitchen to find two beers. Becca looked around the room, greeted a couple of familiar faces with a smile and wave, and searched for a place to sit.

As Zach was shuffling sideways between the kitchen counter and a couple wrapped together in a prolonged and highly intimate greeting, a pair of hands reached around from behind and covered his eyes.

"Guess who?" a smoky voice whispered just inches from his ear.

There was only one who to match that voice. "I think that would be one of the hosts of this party."

"Which one?" the voice whispered.

Zach could feel her breath on his ear. "I greeted Lori in the living room, so this must be the other one."

"Say her name," she whispered.

"Megan."

"Good guess. You win a prize." Her hands still covered his eyes.

"And what would that be?"

"You'll have to come back into my room to claim it."

Zach said, "Can I bring my date?"

Megan spun him around by the shoulders. "I hope you mean 'date' as in a piece of dried fruit from off the date palm."

Zach smiled down at Megan. She looked incredibly sexy with her shoulder-length dirty blond hair in a cascading crimped perm with a single thin braid of hair hanging past her eye and over her cheek down to the shoulder strap of her bright red tank top that may have been out of season for the rest of the world but not for Megan. "I mean date as in Rebecca Coles waiting somewhere out in the living room for me to return with her beer." Zach looked over the heads of the crowd and was relieved that he couldn't see Becca from where they stood.

Megan's frown curled into a mischievous grin. "You would've had more fun if you'd come alone."

"My loss."

"You can still collect your prize, if you ditch the dried fruit." She had on lip gloss and long, dangling earrings.

Zach grinned. "The dried fruit stays."

Megan paused then made him one last offer. "You can have the prize anyway, back in my room. We'll go look for the beer there." By then her arms had circled his waist.

Zach reached around and pulled her arms apart and held them in front of him by her wrists. "I'm incredibly flattered, Megan; and sorry not to be able to take you up on your offer. But I'd better get back to Becca."

Megan shrugged. "Suit yourself." She turned and waded into the crowd, toward the living room.

By the time Zach found Becca, she was sitting in a large, upholstered chair tucked into one corner of the living room. Zach handed her the bottle of beer then leaned over and kissed the crown of her head.

Becca smiled up at him. "What was that for?"

"No reason."

"Well, thank you for no reason." She sat up on the wide armrest and patted the cushion for him to sit.

Zach sat down and Becca leaned back against his shoulder, still seated on the armrest.

They sat and watched the party unfold in front of them. On the few occasions when they had something to say, Becca could simply turn her head and speak softly into Zach's ear, or he into hers, insuring that they'd be heard in the noisy room, and that no one else would hear them. It allowed them a degree of privacy that was in short supply in the crowded room of jostling and jostled bodies.

That sense of privacy was important for them at the moment, as each felt a kind of culture shock at this sudden immersion into renewed undergraduate life and its complex energy and demands. This return was especially jarring for their relationship, as they'd been mostly alone, and completely away from students, throughout the holiday break, a break that effectively began for them at the end of classes over a month ago. They'd thoroughly enjoyed their solitary time together, had made it the foundation on which they'd built their relationship, and had come to take it for granted. This return to student culture as a couple was a new and uneasy transition, especially given the expectation of sexual availability that dominated, and largely fueled, these sorts of social gatherings. Zach had already experienced first-hand this expectation; and the two of them didn't have to watch the crowd for long before they saw numerous examples of such negotiations.

Becca rolled her face toward Zach's ear. "Is it just me, or is everybody in here on the make?" She'd just watched a hulking guy with a ball cap turned around backwards on his head approach a petite blond girl, talk for a few minutes, then lead her toward the door with his meaty hand sliding down her back and under the waist band of her tight jeans.

Zach nodded. "At least two aren't."

"Thank God."

"I guess everybody's feeling energized after the long break and with the start of semester."

"Staking their claims."

"Something like that."

"And the last undergraduate semester for some."

"Probably for most here—Lori and Megan are both seniors."

"Need to sow their oats while there's still time."

"Sow something, anyway."

"Seems a little depraved."

"Modern times."

Becca nodded. "Probably a sociology paper in this somewhere."

"Yeah, but who'd want to write it?"

A few hours into the party and with the crowd thinning just a bit, one of the starters on the school's top-ranked basketball team ducked his head to clear the front door jamb and walked into the living room amidst much buzz and fanfare. Guys gave him high-fives and girls gave him hugs. He'd scored twenty-eight points two nights before in leading their team to victory over a national rival. He loved the attention, and everyone around him loved showering it upon him. He moved slowly across the living room toward the kitchen with a bevy of sycophants trailing along.

Megan suddenly appeared from the hallway and stood directly in front of the star. She threw her arms around his neck and stood on her tip-toes and he bent over a little and they exchanged a long and open-mouthed kiss. They maybe knew each other, or maybe not. In any case, Megan clearly wanted to get to know him better. After their mouths parted, she said something into his ear. He shrugged then followed her lead down the hall and out of sight, leaving the small crowd that had been following with nothing to do except continue drinking and chasing whatever members of the opposite sex remained unclaimed.

Awhile later, Becca rolled her face toward Zach. "Everyone's so passionate and full of life tonight," she said, her lips brushing his hair.

"I'll say."

"But a year from now, no one will remember any of this."

"Some of them won't remember any of it tomorrow morning." He checked his watch. "I mean, this morning."

"But even for those who do remember, it'll fade eventually. As far as the world is concerned, none of this will have happened."

"Clearly it happened."

"But it won't exist," she said.

Zach nodded. "Unless I tell them."

"So tell them."

"If I do, will it be this?"—he waved his free hand over the room—"Or something else?"

Becca grinned into the side of his face, nibbled on his earlobe, then whispered, "'It's always truth; it just may not be fact.'"

Over her shoulder, Zach saw Megan emerge from the hallway, her hair rumpled and her face flushed. She smiled in Zach's direction then disappeared into the kitchen. The basketball star emerged a couple strides behind her, still buckling his wide leather belt.

In the pre-dawn light of that morning, Zach and Becca lay together in his bed, both on their sides, Zach behind with his arms around her, she cradling his hands with hers up under her breasts, clothed in their sleepwear, covered by Zach's blankets, skin touching skin, cloth touching cloth, his lips on her hair, neither one awake or asleep, paused in their life, in their love, in their singular union, in this moment of perfection that would never fade or suffer decay.

Visitation

Call down descending ages like

time-darkened corridors in the

abandoned schools of our youth

and she will appear.

She has for centuries, blessing

with smile and voice and eyes

and touch countless generations

that sought her light.

She's here again, has come at

night this time to stand before

you when the sun breaks the

back of darkness.

Don't fear her presence. She's

the one true gift you'll ever

receive. Rise and take the

life she extends

Before the change occurs and

she becomes memory or dream

or just a thing that maybe you

once were offered.

Return kindness. She's tired

of traveling through ages, wants

to remain here, this place, with

you. Hold her.

Welcome her. Say Stay.

Say the word.

Stay.
