John Saul: Nathaniel

He let his eyes wander away from the coffin, to scan over countless unfamiliar faces that all seemed to look alike, and then gaze out toward the horizon. Never in his life had he been able to see so far. The town, more like a village really, was behind him, and beyond the low stone wall of the cemetery, the plains stretched endlessly to the horizon, broken only by the slowly flowing river that curved around the town, giving the community its name, and the farmhouses, scattered here and there in the emptiness, each of them surrounded by a few huddled trees planted as protection against sudden prairie winds. And above it all the enormous sky, not the flat kind of sky he was used to, but a three-dimensional sky that seemed to cover the world like an enormous blue bowl. It was all so much larger than anything at home. At home, the city was always close around you, and even when you were out of the city there was a smallness to the countryside, with the forests crowding in and the profusion of low hills cutting off the view in every direction. But out here, on the plains, everything was open. He felt as though he could breathe more deeply than he ever had before.

He sensed movement next to him and felt his mother's hand squeezing his own. The service was ending. The minister had stooped down to pick up a clod of the black earth, which he was now holding over the open grave. It was all over, and his father was gone.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" Strong fingers squeezed the clump of earth, and as Michael stared, it broke up, dirt drumming onto the casket with a hollow sound that made Michael's throat constrict. A snuffling next to him told him that his mother was crying, and suddenly his eyes, too, filled with tears. Self-consciously, Michael let go of his mother's hand, pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, and blew his nose. He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder, pressing gently. Then it was over. He turned away from his father's grave.

And as he turned, something caught his attention. A glint. A movement. At first he wasn't sure what it was, but as his eyes scanned the plains again, he realized it must have been the sun flashing off the weathervane that stood perched high on the ridgepole of a weathered barn about a half mile away. Yet, as he watched it, he realized that there was no wind today. The vane wasn't moving. Then what had flashed? Maybe it was just his imagination. He started to turn away once more, to follow his mother toward his grandfather's car, but once again his attention was caught by the flash. No, not quite a flash. It was something else, something he couldn't quite focus on. He examined the farm and frowned. There was something different about it, something he couldn't quite figure out. He cocked his head, shading his eyes with his hand, and then felt an unfamiliar touch on his shoulder. He looked up to find his grandfather frowning at him.

"You all right?" Amos Hall asked.

Michael nodded. "I thought I saw something. Out there."

The older man followed his gaze, then shrugged. "That's Ben Findley's place. Not much to see out there. Man doesn't keep it up like he should. It comes of living alone."

"Doesn't he have a wife?" Michael asked.

His grandfather hesitated, then shook his head and started leading Michael away. "Had one years ago, but she left. And you'd do well to stay clear of that place."

Michael stopped, turning back to stare once more at the farm which had suddenly become fascinating. "How come?"

His grandfather offered him a faint smile. " 'Cause Ben Findley doesn't like kids," he said. "He doesn't like anybody, but especially, he doesn't like kids." Then his voice softened, and he took Michael's hand. "Now come on, son. Let's get back to the farm. This is all over here, and we've all got to get back to living." He started walking slowly away, and his arm fell across Michael's shoulders. He was silent as they moved through the sunshine, but before they got to the car, he paused and turned to face Michael.

"You sure you're all right?" he asked, and Michael knew that this time Amos was talking about his father.

"I think so," he said uncertainly. "I-I just can't get used to it. I keep thinking he's going to come back, even though I know he's not."

His grandfather glanced back toward the grave, then pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped at his eyes. "He should have come back a long time ago," he said in a voice that made Michael wonder if he was supposed to be listening or if the old man was talking to himself. "All of you should have. But now that you're home, we'll see that you stay here."

Then, once more, he moved toward the car, where Anna, brushing off Janet's attempts to help her, had swung herself out of her wheelchair and into the back seat of the Olds, then folded up the chair and pulled it in after her.

"See?" she asked Janet when she was done. "It's just a matter of deciding what you have to do, then doing it." A few moments later, when Janet had joined her in the back seat, and Amos, with Michael beside him, had pulled away from the little cemetery, she reached out and took Janet's hand. "That's what you're going to have to do now," she said. "Decide what to do, then do it. But don't you fret about it, dear-we're all here, and we'll all help."

Janet lay her head back against the seat, and closed her eyes, offering a small prayer of gratitude for the family Mark had left behind him. He may not have needed them, she thought, but I do. Dear God, how I need them…

Janet glanced at the clock in the corner of the living room and wondered how much longer it could go on. It was already four-thirty, and it was becoming harder and harder to fight off the exhaustion of the day. The room was hot and stuffy, and overfilled with people, and Janet was beginning to think the situation, for her, was hopeless. She could remember the names of Mark's sister, Laura, and her husband-Buck Shields-and their son, Ryan, who seemed to be about Michael's age, but that was all. And the introduction to them had been terribly awkward, for she hadn't even been able to utter a polite "I've heard so much about you." She'd hoped that when she saw Laura, she'd recognize her, that something about her would jog her memory, but it hadn't. What had struck her immediately, though, was the fact that Laura, like herself, was pregnant, but much further along. Though Janet had not commented on it, and was relieved that Laura had not seemed to guess, the coincidence had made her feel an immediate bond to the delicate-looking woman who was her sister-in-law. Nevertheless, Janet had finally come to the conclusion that in all their years together, Mark had never mentioned his sister to her.

Why?

Each time she saw Laura-an ethereal wisp of a woman whose eyes, even when she smiled, seemed oddly haunted- the question of why Mark had never spoken of her came into Janet's mind. Each time, she rejected it, shifting what was left of her concentration to someone else.

But there was only a sea of nameless faces, people whom she hoped were not offended by her inability to greet them with the same familiarity with which they greeted her:

"So you're Mark's Janet."

Mark's Janet.

Over and over again, the same two words. " Mark's Janet ." At first it had upset her, the casual reference to herself as if she were nothing more than her husband's possession, but as the afternoon wore on she had grown used to it, discovering that the phrase wasn't truly offensive; indeed, there was a strangely comforting quality to it. It wasn't that she had been owned by Mark, it was simply that she was a part of him. To these people-so different from her New York friends-she and Mark had, upon their marriage, ceased to be individuals. Had these been her family instead of Mark's, had Mark been here instead of herself, the words would simply have been reversed.