James Salter - Light Years

“Yes, it does,” Nedra said.

“You think so?”

“Certainly.”

“No, not for me,” she decided. “You have to believe in it.”

Here she sat, alone in the country. In the orchard were the trees; in the cupboard, clean glasses and plates. It was a house built of stone, a house that would stand for centuries, and within it were the books and clothes, the sunny rooms and tables necessary for life. And there was a woman as well, her eyes still clear, her breath sweet. Silence surrounded her, the air, the hush of the grass. She had no tasks.

“I’m not staying out here,” she said abruptly.

Some of his clothes were hanging in the closets, his canvases were still in the studio above their heads. She could not stay. The ending of days was too long, the darkness came and crushed her, she could not move.

“It isn’t fair,” she said.

“No.”

“What can I do?”

“You’ll meet someone,” Nedra said. How am I so different from this woman? she was thinking. Am I that much more sure of my life? “How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Thirty-nine,” Nedra said.

“Katy’s eighteen.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

“I spent my life looking after him,” Nora cried. “I can remember when I first met him. He was marvelous-looking, I’ll show you some pictures.”

“You’re still young.”

“Do we really only have one season? One summer,” she said, “and it’s over?”

IN THE MORNING, WITH THE FIRST light, a great wind—a wind that slammed doors and broke glass—devoured the silence in sudden, overwhelming claps. Hadji lay huddled in the blankets. The rabbit, his ears back, was crouched beside his box. There were periods of ominous calm and then, lasting sometimes for half a minute, the awful roar of air. The walls seemed to creak.

All day, though the sky was clear, even warm, the wind blew, tearing at the shutters, ravishing the trees. The vines stood erect in frenzy, shrieked and were pulled away. In the greenhouse there was a musical crash of panes. It was a wind that had no edge, a huge, open-mouthed wind which would not cease.

In the late afternoon there was a call. It was from another city, there was a strange, mechanical tone. “Mrs. Berland?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Burnett.” He was calling from Altoona. “I thought I had better advise you,” he said. “Your father is in the hospital. He’s quite ill.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re not familiar with his condition?”

“No, what is it?”

“Well, he’s asked for you, and I think it might be a good thing if you could come.”

“How long has he been there?”

“About five days,” the doctor said.

She drove that night. She left an hour before the light began to go. Sibelius was thundering on the radio, the wind battered her car. She passed shipyards, refineries, throbbing, ugly neighborhoods she did not even glance at, the industry that supported her life. Cars streamed in both directions, their lights becoming brighter. Darkness fell.

She drove without stopping. The radio stations faded; corrupted by static, they began to devour each other. There were gusts of music, ghostly voices; it was like a vast, decaying canopy, like leaking roofs in a poverty-stricken town, a town awash in cheap advertisements, sentiment, mindless noise. The chaos filled her ears, oncoming headlights stung her eyes. The sky glowed with cities beyond the black trees.

She drove into darkness, the darkness of an old land, weary, close-held, sold and resold, and passed into the zone of deep night. The roads emptied. She was crossing the Susquehanna, still as a pond, when the first waves of sleepiness struck her. The drive became a dream. She thought of her father, of the past she was reentering. She knew the helplessness and despair of beginning again an endless journey, a journey that had been taken already, once and for all. The long white tunnel at Blue Mountain swept by like a hospital corridor. Then Tuscarora. The names had not changed. They were waiting for her, certain of her return.

Finally she slept for a few hours, the car solitary in a blue-lighted service area. When she woke, the sky to the east was faint. She was in country vaguely familiar to her: the slope of the hills, the dark trees. The road had become visible, smooth and pale, the woods as far as one could see were without a single house or light. She was thrilled; may it always be thus, she thought. The early day, like dawn at sea, stunned her and gave her new life.

Soon there were the first farms, barns beautiful in the silence, the radio giving prices, the number slaughtered of sheep and lambs. Old houses of faded brick that struck the heart, white pillars on the porches, the occupants still asleep. The sky grew more and more faint, as if washed away. Suddenly everything was colored, the fields turned green. Helplessly, she recognized her source, though far from it for years, the vacant, illiterate country, the hills that were long to walk up, the vulgar towns. She passed a single car, just as the cows were coming in, a lone Chevrolet, silent as a bird in flight. A boy and girl were in it, seated close together. They did not seem to see her. They drifted behind in the brimming light.

Small gardens, churches, hand-painted signs. She felt no warmth of recognition; it was desolation to her, ruin. What failure to someday crawl back; it would erase everything in a single day.

Morning in the heartland. Early workers driving. Near a farmhouse two ducks wandered dazedly in the road where, amid white feathers, a bloody third lay, killed by a car.

Greenhouses, ancient schools, factories with their windows broken out. Altoona. She was turning down streets she remembered as a girl.

The hospital was just awake. The newspapers of the day before were still in its vending machines, the schedules for surgery had not yet been typed.

She was quickly stopped. “I’m sorry, you’re not allowed in,” the receptionist said. “Visiting hours begin at eleven.”

“I’ve driven all night.”

“You can’t visit now.”

At eleven she returned. In a room with two beds she found her father near the window. He was asleep. His arms outside the covers seemed very frail.

She touched him. “Hello, Papa.”

His eyes opened. Slowly, he turned his head.

“How are you?” she asked.

“All right, I guess.”

She could see it plainly. His face seemed smaller, his nose large, his eyes worn.

“I’ve been in here a week now,” he said.

There was nothing to show it. On the table were a waterglass and tray. There were no books, no letters, not even a watch. In the next bed lay an old man recovering from some sort of surgery.

“He never stops talking,” her father said.

The old man could hear them. He smiled as if praised.

“Never shuts up,” her father said. “Where are you staying?”

“At the house.”

Outside was clear, sunny morning. The room seemed dark.

“Do you want a newspaper?” she asked.

“No.”

“I’ll read it to you, if you like.”

He did not reply.

She stayed until two. They spoke very little. She sat reading. He seemed half asleep. The nurses declined to comment on his condition; he had a strong heart, they said.

The doctor spoke to her, finally, in the hall. “He’s very weak,” he said. “It’s been a long struggle.”

“His back hurts him terribly.”

“Yes, well, it’s spread.”

“Everywhere?”

“Into the bone.” He explained the loss of weight and strength, the inanition that was taking its course.

At the house she made herself some tea and rested. It was the house in which she had been brought up: papered rooms, the curtains gray. Near the back door the earth was packed hard, the grass never grew. She called Viri.