David Gates - Preston Falls

"Correction," says Carol. "He does not want to talk to you. He is, in fact, heading upstairs. Just a sec. Rog?" she calls, muting the phone somehow. "Would you just knock on Mel's door and tell her it's time to get up or she'll never get to sleep tonight?" Jean doesn't hear Roger answer. "Sorry about that," Carol says.

"What's wrong with Mel?" says Jean.

"Just taking a nap."

"Really? She never does that."

"Well, we had a pretty good hike. And I think she's a little bummed, to tell you the truth. Nap will probably fix her up. So what's your plan?"

"No idea. Turn around and come back, I guess. I don't know."

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"But don't you think you better get the police going on this?"

"Oh God."

"WeUj^tf^…"

"I mean yes, I've thought about it. But it's like, what are the limits? He's perfectly within his rights to just, you know, go somewhere."

"When he has to be back at work tomorrow'^ Come on. He could be in some kind of really serious—"

"Look, can I call you later?"

"Jean, I'm only—"

"I'll call you later."

Jean goes to the broken eyebrow window, gets down on one knee and looks out. A squirrel moves along the stone wall, flowing from one frozen pose to the next. Carol is right: what's she waiting for?

For this not to be happening.

She goes back downstairs to the front hall and sits on the sofa. She folds her hands in her lap, closes her eyes and begins to say One, one, one in her mind. It was Carol who got her into meditation, back when Jean was eighteen and going through stuff and Carol was living with her hippie princeling in Central Square. (This was before Gid the mountain man, or whatever he thought he was.) Carol doesn't know she still does this; she doesn't want to encourage Carol in anything mystical. And she would certainly not want it known around The Paley Group. She did tell Willis, back when they told each other things. Since they were in confession mode, he said, he might as well admit that he sometimes prayed. She asked what his prayers were like; he said they always began "Dear God," like a little boy's. And in fact, when they were first married they tried saying this sort of nondenominational grace for a while. In a way, she's glad she never took Mel and Roger to church, or even taught them the Lord's Prayer or talked about God, probably because deep down she takes it all too seriously and didn't want to offer it to them unless she could absolutely get behind it herself. Though you could also look at it as the absolute worst form of child abuse, to starve the spirit. One more reason she's an unfit parent: she doesn't know what to think about anything.

All this self-talk is totally screwing up her meditation, of course, though you're not supposed to worry about that but simply go back to the one, one, one. When she opens her eyes again, the hall is darker and she feels slowed down. She cranes her neck and looks over her shoulder

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out the little windowpanes at the sides of the front door: darkness is muting the green of the haylike grass, as if their neglect of this place were being forgiven.

So many days he'd spent here alone. Seeing these changes in the light.

She really needs to go outdoors and catch the very last of the day. She hears a crow caw: warning of someone's approach? She freezes and listens harder into the silence. No, nothing. Please, she thinks, stop scaring yourself. Walking through the dining room, though, she hears a car pass by on the road — rumble of motor, rush of tires and stab of electric guitar. Then it's gone.

She takes the path that leads up the hill behind the house. The sky's a deep ultramarine, clouds still backlit by the last orange glow. It gets warmer as she climbs. From the hilltop you can look out at other hills across the valley as it fills up with mist. Gentle, rounded hills: wooded except for one clean-shaven patch: somebody's farm. What a wonderful place this could have been.

But it's really not warm up here. She pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head and ties the drawstring in a bow, then puts her hands in the kangaroo pouch in front. She takes a last look: fuzzy horizontal stripes of cloud near the horizon, fat piles of whipped-cream cumulus bulging above them. Ultramarines, golds, oranges, magentas — she wishes Mel and Roger were seeing this with her, though Roger would be bored and Mel ostentatiously silent. She starts back down, watching her footing. God, look at this: somebody left a bottle up here. So the locals are cUmbing their hill. Though she's not even sure it's actually on their property. A plastic Polar Seltzer bottle, but with brownish gunk clinging to the inside. God knows. She tucks it under her arm and starts down.

Back in the dark, gassy-smelling kitchen, she pulls the string and on comes the fluorescent ring Willis was always planning to replace, except Renovator's never had quite the right fixture. She drops the bottle into a Grand Union paper bag they use for recycling. Then she goes into the pantry for the electric space heater and sets it on one of the wobbly oak pressback chairs, plugs it in and turns the knob; it gives a rattle and a buzz and starts turning orange inside. Wasteful compared to the wood-stove, but she's only going to be here half an hour or so, just long enough

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to rest up for the drive back. Besides, the woodstove takes forever to warm things up, though she has to admit it is lovely once wood heat takes hold.

She shuts the door to the dining room so it'll be warmer in here, and fills a saucepan with water enough for a cup of tea. The gas flame looks weak — maybe it's running out, which might explain the smell— but it should be able to boil this much water, no? She looks through the CDs, though she should really just drink her tea and go. Nothing much to tempt her anyway. A bunch of that truly offensive rap music Willis belatedly discovered a couple of years ago: bitches and pussies and guns. Neil Young, the big-browed burnout. The Rolling Stones, of course, with the sainted Keith Richards that every man secretly wants to go to bed with. Various bands she's vaguely heard of, which basically break down into your dark unshaven ones and your blond pouty ones — not that they aren't cute, but for a presumably straight man it's like what's the deal? And of course Bob Dylan, prince of woman-haters. Just a mean little insecure boy, and all his women either ballbusters or cock-teasers or oh-so-incomprehensibly mysterious gypsy queens. Don't get her started on Bob Dylan. She flips the switch on the boombox to FM and gets violin music, though it's stupid to allow this to make you feel less alone.

Now it's completely dark outside. She checks and sees little bubbles forming in the bottom of the saucepan; in the cupboard she finds a box of Earl Grey with the cellophane still on it. Willis is strictly a coffee man: that is, a man. Not much else here. Box of Cheerios, two small cans of water-packed tuna, can of Chicken & Stars Soup, package of dried black beans that Willis would never in a million years take the trouble to fix. About an inch of Dewar's. She puts the beans on the table to take back to Chesterton, sticks a tea bag in the JOE mug and pours in just enough Dewar's to make it float. Then she holds it down with a spoon and pours in the hot water. Is this stupid, with that drive ahead? She lifts the tea bag out on the spoon and winds the string around it to squeeze out the good strong stuff. Her stomach growls. She pictures opening the can of Chicken & Stars and the yellow fat floating. Instead she reaches into the box for a fistful of dry Cheerios. She sits down facing the heater, both hands around the hot cup. Earl Grey spiked with Dewar's and classical music playing: this could pass for one of those precious woman moments, nurturing and strengthening yourself before you have to go back