John Saul - Nathaniel

"What night?" Janet asked at last. "What are you talking about?"

Laura turned back to her, and when she spoke, her voice was unsteady. "Didn't Mark ever tell you about it?" Then, without waiting for Janet to reply, she sighed heavily. "No, I suppose he didn't. No one ever talks about that night. Not mother or father, not even me. So why would Mark?"

"Do you want to talk about it?" Janet asked, her voice gentle, sure that whatever had happened that night must account for the odd haunted look she had seen in Laura's eyes.

There was a long silence, and then, finally, Laura shook her head. When she spoke, it was in a whisper. "I'm not even sure I know what happened, really. Isn't that strange? I think it was the most important night of my life, and I'm not even sure what happened." Again she fell silent, then finally nodded toward the twin doors she had been staring at a few moments before. "I was in there. Right in there, in the cyclone cellar."

"Here?" Janet asked, her voice reflecting her puzzlement.

Laura's eyes came back to Janet. And then she suddenly understood, and a harsh laugh emerged from her throat. "My God, they didn't even tell you that , did they? This was our house. This is the house Mark and I were born in."

"But I thought-their farm-"

" This was our farm until that night. It was in the summer. I was nine, and Mark must have been sixteen. And mother was pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Janet repeated. "I thought there were only the two of you."

"There were," Laura replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The baby-well, mother lost it. At least, that's what they always said." Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she seemed almost to disappear somewhere inside herself, into some dark corner Janet knew she couldn't penetrate. And then Laura's expression cleared again, and she began speaking once more. Something in her voice had changed, though. It was almost as if she was repeating a memorized story, reciting carefully rehearsed words.

"It was hot that day," she said, "and Mother had been trying to do too much, and her labor came on early. Father was furious at her. It was almost as if he blamed her for the early labor. And then a storm came up, and they sent me to the cyclone cellar. And I stayed there. All afternoon, and all night. I stayed there," she repeated. And then, once more, "I stayed there."

Janet wondered what to say. There was more to the story, she was sure. But she was also sure that Laura didn't want to talk about it. Still, she had a certain feeling that she needed to know the whole story of that night, needed to know not only what had happened to Laura, but what had happened to Mark, as well. "And that was the night Mark left home?" she asked.

Laura nodded. "The next morning, Father came for me. He told me the baby had been born dead. I didn't believe him. There was something inside me that didn't believe him, but I don't know what it was." She smiled weakly at Janet. "It's still there," she said. "Even after all these years, I don't believe that baby was born dead, but I don't know why I don't believe it. It's as if there's something in my mind, something I know, but can't remember." She sighed. "Anyway, after that night, Mother was crippled, and Mark was gone."

Janet stared at her, speechless.

"You're still wondering what happened, aren't you?" Laura asked at last. "Well, I can't tell you. I've always wondered, but Mother never spoke about it, and neither did Father. It almost seems as though Mark must have done something, but I know he didn't." Her voice changed, became almost pleading. "I know he didn't, Janet. Mark was a wonderful brother, but then, after that night, he was gone." She reached out and took Janet's hand, her eyes taking on the look of a hunted animal. "For a while, I didn't hear from him. Then he wrote to me-he was in college. Just one letter, and then, later, another one, from New York. I wrote back. Oh, I wrote so many letters! No one knew, not even Buck. But he never answered my letters. Maybe he never even got them."

Janet slipped an arm around the distraught woman, cradling Laura's head against her shoulder. "How awful," she whispered. "How horrible for all of you."

Laura nodded. "It was as if our whole family came to an end that night. And I can't remember why. A little while after that, we moved to the other farm, where Mother and Father still live, but it never really made any difference- ever since that night, I've been so terrified. When Ryan was born, I was sure it was all going to happen over again. And now-" Unconsciously, Laura touched her swollen torso.

"It'll be all right," Janet said.

Laura's eyes met Janet's. "If I could only remember what happened that night, what happened to Mother. I-I'm always so scared now, Janet. Every time Buck wants to make love, I'm afraid of getting pregnant. And then, when I do, all I can think of is that horrible night." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "Did-did Mark ever talk about it?"

Janet shook her head. "Never. Never so much as a word. And you mustn't worry about it, Laura. There's no reason why what happened to Anna should happen to you."

"Isn't there?" Laura whispered. She swallowed once, then spoke again. "Oh, Janet, I wish I could believe that. But I can't… I just can't."

Wordlessly, Janet took her sister-in-law's hand in her own, and for a long moment the two young women sat silently, staring at the innocent-looking doors to the storm cellar, each of them wondering just what of Laura's past had been hidden away in that dark room beneath the earth so many years ago.

Michael stood at the window of the smallest bedroom, his eyes fixed on Ben Findley's barn. If he'd been asked to describe what was happening to him, he wouldn't have been able to. But one thing he knew: he was home.

This house, this room, this view of the limitless prairie from the small dormer window, all of it felt familiar, all of it right. His father was here; he could almost feel his presence in the empty room.

And the barn. Old man Findley's barn, clearly visible from this window. It was almost as if he could see into it, and yet he couldn't, not really. Still, if he'd been asked what was inside that barn, he'd have been able to sketch it out: ten stalls, five on each side, facing each other, none of them occupied. Two of them, though, seemed to have been put together into some kind of workshop. Above the stalls, a hayloft, with a broken ladder its only means of access. At the back, a tack room, still filled with rotting leather, bridles and harnesses long ago stiffened and dried from lack of use and attention. And below the tack room, something else, something Michael could feel as he could feel the rest of the barn.

It was as if there were a presence there, calling out to him, whispering to him in a voice he could feel, but couldn't quite hear…

"Michael? Michael, are you all right?"

Startled, Michael turned. Standing in the doorway, looking at him oddly, were his mother and aunt.

"Didn't you hear me?" he heard his mother say. He frowned.

"Hear what?"

"Hear me calling you. We're ready to go."

"But we just got here." He saw his mother and aunt glance at each other.

"We've been here for an hour and a half," his mother told him. "We called you, and when you didn't answer, we thought you must have gone outside. I looked in the barn, the loft, even the tool shed."

"Why?" Michael asked. His eyes drifted back toward the window, and Findley's barn, but though he could still see it, he could no longer feel it. Then, as he heard his mother's voice, tinged with anger now, he forced his attention back into the room where they stood.

"Because we couldn't find you," his mother was saying. "I was right here," Michael explained. Why was she mad at him? He hadn't done anything. "I've been right here all the time." And yet, even as he spoke the words, he wondered. Had he been there, or had he gone out, gone over to Mr. Findley's barn? Suddenly he was no longer sure.