James Salter - All That Is

The year he had the house, the spring of that year and the summer were the happiest time of his life although some of the earlier times he had forgotten. There hadn’t been the money to do much except buy a little furniture for the upstairs, but in the bareness, the simplicity, was ample room for happiness. There were the seasons, the trees, the grass that was a little too long sloping down to the water, the sun a mirror on the windows of the houses across from them.

Summer mornings, the light of the world pouring in and the silence. It was a barefoot life, the cool of the night on the floorboards, the green trees if you stepped outside, the first faint cries of the birds. He arrived in a suit and didn’t put it on again until he went back to the city. The house couldn’t be locked—the catch on the kitchen door was misaligned. The sills were cracked by the weather and peeling, he’d scraped and filled some of them but hadn’t gotten around to the painting. Buying the house had meant a cash payment of more than fifty-five thousand dollars. He had managed to scrape it together. He had never been much concerned about money. He earned thirty-four thousand a year, and that didn’t include lunches and often dinners that were on the expense account. His apartment was rent-controlled, and he was paying less than half of what the rent should really be. Going to Europe twice a year was at no expense to himself, and occasionally that was true of other places, Chicago, Los Angeles. In almost every way his life was comfortable.

Beatrice had left nothing, the long illness had used up everything she had. He expected to be his aunt Dorothy’s heir, but he had no idea of what that might amount to. Dorothy lived in a small apartment with the piano that Frank had liked to sit at in the afternoon and play the light, tinkling music she loved. She lived on a little income she had and Social Security. Every summer for a couple of weeks she visited Katrina Loes, a childhood friend who had a house in the Thousand Islands. She had never asked for anything—her needs were modest. If you ever need anything… Bowman had said. The answer was always, she didn’t.

When Anet came back from school that summer, she had changed, although she was still loving towards her mother and even-tempered. She had felt the pull of common life, of others, a particular person perhaps, though she seemed not to have a boyfriend. She was conscious of being attractive. She was trying it out, not on Bowman. She was used to Bowman and called him Phil. She was not much in evidence through the summer, she was off with her friends, playing tennis or at one of their pools or endlessly, it seemed, talking.

One hot afternoon, she was up in her room and they suddenly heard a terrifying scream. Christine ran to the stairs.

“What is it? Anet!” she cried.

Anet had rolled over on a wasp. The sting had awakened her. She was in pain and weeping. It had been so sharp and unexpected. Christine was trying to comfort her. Bowman came with a washcloth soaked in cold water.

“You’ll be all right,” he promised. “Hold this on it. Where did it go?”

“Where did what go?”

“The bee.”

“I don’t know,” Anet said, sobbing.

“When they sting you, they lose their stinger. It tears loose. It has barbs on it. Don’t try and pull it out.”

It had not been a bee though no one knew. Anet had been sleeping in shorts that were now half-pulled down.

“You’ll be all right,” he said.

“It hurts.”

She was breathing in hitched, uneven breaths.

“Do you see it?” she asked.

As if they were campers, she pulled the waistband still lower, turning her head to look down at herself as she did. She was perfect except for a small area of redness.

“It doesn’t look bad,” Bowman said with some understatement. “Now let’s see the other one,” he joked.

“The other one is fine,” she said cooly.

But he felt comfortable with her, treating her like a child, even his own child, and perhaps she felt it as well.

Early one evening he sat outside smoking a cigarette and looking at the smooth surface of the pond that was absolutely still and across to the other houses where lights were already on and a car was slowly making its way, half-hidden by trees, to one of them. The sky was clear and a deepening blue. To the west he could see a bank of clouds filled with occasional blooms of light. There was no sound, it was too far off. Only the darkness of the clouds being eerily lit. Finally there came a first faint rumbling.

Christine came out on the porch.

“I thought I heard thunder.”

“Yes. Look over there.”

She sat down beside him.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.

“Just once in a while,” he said. “I only smoke Gauloises, like the French movie stars, but you can’t get them here. This is just an ordinary cigarette.”

“Oh, look at that,” she said.

In the sky there had been a jagged line of intense white that went to the ground. After what seemed a long interval came a soft, muttering thunder.

“There’s going to be a storm.”

“I love storms. I can hear it.”

“If you count the time you can tell how far away it is,” he said.

“How do you do that?”

“It’s about one mile for every five or six seconds between the lightning and the sound.”

She waited until there was another flash of lightning and began to count.

“What was that, about twelve seconds?”

“Just about.”

The thunder had been indistinct, it was hard to tell. There was now a clear bank of dark clouds, and the thunder became more threatening, like the roar of an enormous beast. The storm was coming closer, it seemed to be coming with greater speed. The sky was dark and lit by erratic flashes and voltage. A wind had risen. It smelled of rain.

“Are we going to stay out here?” she said.

“Just for a couple of minutes.”

The great storm cloud, the front edge of it, was already moving over them. It was almost black and of immense size, like the side of a mountain. It seemed to cover the world. Lightning struck about half a mile away with a tremendous crackling and almost immediately it struck closer with an ear-splitting crash.

“We’d better go in.”

“Come with me,” she pleaded.

“I’m coming.”

They were barely inside when there was another great flash of lightning. The thunder seemed overhead. From where she had been let out on the road, Anet came running towards the house and in by the kitchen door. She was frightened.

“You should have stayed in the car!”

It had become night. It was almost completely dark. They sat together in the living room and amid the thunder heard the first distinct sound of rain. Soon it was a torrent. It poured down. Suddenly the lights went out.

“Oh, my God.”

“Are we all right here?” Anet cried.

There was a loud, violent crack and the room went bright as lightning struck just outside. In that instant he could see the two of them, their arms around one another and their faces white.

“No, no, it’s all right,” he said.

“Can it come inside?” Anet cried.

“No. It can’t.”

From time to time as the rain fell he saw them in flashes that were less intense. Then almost abruptly the rain lessened. The thunder was further away. The earth seemed calmed. Finally Christine said,

“Is it over?”

“I think so.”

“How long do you suppose the lights are going to be out?” Christine said.

“We have some candles.”

“Where?”

“They’re in one of the kitchen drawers,” he said. “I’ll get them.”

He found and lit one. In its faint light they sat shaken.