William Gay - Provinces of Night

It was cloudy but there was a pale glow rising from the icy earth. He could feel snowflakes melting on his cheeks and hear their soft faint hush falling into the leaves. He moved as swiftly as he could while still maintaining his balance toward the arbor of vines and trees where the line of darkness lay like the border of a foreign country he could slip across and vanish into. He was listening for the back door to open and death to come down the steps after him but all he heard was the idling of the car in his mind, a long low hearse with the rear door sprung open, a faceless man in a black coat standing on the doorstep with a folded paper in his hand.

He paused only a moment to catch his breath in the clearing where the sitting room was. He could see the pale snowy outlines of the lawn chairs. He angled toward the slope of thickening woods, with only a vague idea of where he was going; he figured it was Brady at the door delivering another load of craziness and he had no need for it. It occurred to him that he might cut through the woods and come out on the road and into the field where the cedar row led to the house. If he was at the cedar row there was no way he could miss the house, even in the dark. Besides, a light would be burning, he could almost see the yellow light flaring across the smooth icy field.

Climbing the snowy slope he had a thought for the spotted horse clambering up the hay bales long ago and smiled a small sardonic smile to himself, thinking of flesh calling to flesh not across distance but across vast gulfs of time. He wondered what he would say, what he would do. He had no idea what the circumstances would call for but he had no doubt that he would be able to handle whatever was required, throw his fate on such mercy as they possessed and make amends, kill them all.

SOMETIME AFTER midnight Julia’s eyelids trembled as if jerked from the turbulence of some unsettling dream. Then the lids opened, though at first there was nothing to see save darkness, and she lay trying to get a fix on where she was, on when she was.

Time seemed wormholed and faulted, honeycombed in mazes that crossed and recrossed. She knew there was someone in the room with her. A hand had lain on her forearm. Gentle but cold as ice, and a voice had said: Julia.

She raised on her left elbow, felt on the nightstand for her glasses. Even before she found them objects were beginning to surface from the purplegray murk the room was drowning in: a chifforobe, a cedar wardrobe, the worn dull pewter of a mirror. The objects tilted and swirled, rocked once and righted themselves.

She fumbled for the lamp, but in her haste to put an end to all this darkness her hand knocked it off the table and the glass base shattered and she struggled up, swung her feet off the side of the bed, her glasses on now and her eyes already searching the wall for the lightswitch.

There was just a ghost of light through the window, just enough to lighten the walls, to make the black rectangle of the open door even darker, to suggest an exit into who knew what, a world so unfeatured and undimensioned that it was beyond her power even to conjecture upon it. She turned toward the window: beyond it everything was pearl-white and glowing, the diametric opposite of the world of darkness the doorway had become.

When she found the lightswitch and clicked it on objects in room sprang at her with an otherworldly clarity, gaudy and vibratory and larger than themselves, but the dark monolith had become the doorway to the living room. She passed through it and went through the house turning lights on then she came back to the front door and opened it and stepped onto the porch.

For a moment the cold took her breath away, a wind with teeth sang off the eaves and rattled beads of sleet onto the floorboards then swept them away and sucked from her such meager warmth as the shift provided and mourned like something grieving in the pine branches. Across the field the snow was already sticking and blurred by white motion it shifted with the wind. In the garden dead weeds clashed softly against the barbed wire and she thought of the pale figure stooped to cross it so long ago. When the wind stilled momentarily the snow sifted down through the pine branches, falling thickly, falling faintly in its eternal almost nosound through the trees.

A rush of warmth struck her when she went back in and closed the living room door. She thumbbolted it against the cold and turning saw that the floor was smeared with blood, bright and wet against the white linoleum.

E.F. has been here, she whispered to herself.

She had no word for what she felt but she knew the world or her perception of it had altered and that it had altered forever.

When the lights finally woke Brady he rose to see why they were on and the first thing he saw was a bloody footprint on the living room floor and he rushed into the bedroom. His eyes took in the broken lamp, the floor strewn with glass, Julia standing before the mirror. Her feet were bloody and she was clutching before her a black dress, an old crepe with three-quarter sleeves, and she was studying her reflection with a look of speculation on her face, as if trying to decide did the dress fit her anymore.

THE WHITE BUICK had been parked with the left front wheel driven up onto the sidewalk, the driver’s side door swung wide. Fleming stood for a moment studying the house Neal had rented in Ackerman’s Field in bemused speculation, then turned and started up the cracked concrete sidewalk. Halfway to the porch he saw a dropped purse, its contents strewn on the frozen grass. He stooped and picked up a compact, a lipstick, a handful of coins. He looked for an uncertain moment as if he might take them on to the house but then he dropped them back on the earth where he’d found them and went on.

The house was a two-story clapboard with the paint peeling away in great yellow slashes. He went up the stoop and crossed the porch and hammered with a fist on the edge of the screen door. The door rattled loosely on its hinges. The front door was open behind the screen but the house seemed steeped in silence and he could make out nothing through the dirty screen wire.

Neal, he called. It was very cold and he stood hugging himself and stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing through them. He grasped the door by its handle and slapped it loosely against the frame repeatedly and when that drew no response he opened the door and went in.

He was in a hall that apparently ran the depth of the house. A door on the left hand, a door on the right, both standing ajar. Dark paneled doors razed with dull opaque varnish. There was no one in the room on the right, only stacked cartons of what looked like fruit jars and old newspapers.

In the room across the hall a naked girl lay atop the tousled covers of a bed fashioned from gleaming tubular brass. He turned away in awkward haste and made to close the door but something about the girl drew his eyes back to her. She was very still. She lay profoundly still and seemed not to feel the cold though there was no heat in the room and his breath plumed in the air like smoke.

He approached the bed. The room smelled like vomit, on some level he’d been aware of it since coming through the front door. The girl had vomited on the bed and on herself and there was vomit in her curly red hair. Her eyes were open. They were blue. A vase had been overturned on an old sewing machine cabinet set beside the bed for a night table and five roses lay on the bed and a single longstem rose lay across the rounded marble of her abdomen. Its stem was woven into the snarled red tuft of pubic hair. It was very cold in the room and nothing seemed to exist anymore save this room. He could hear himself breathing. He leaned to study the girl more closely, as if to see was she sleeping. She lay staring at the ceiling and as motionless as if she were holding her breath. Thorns on the rose stem had indented but not pierced the alabaster flesh of her stomach and when he clasped her ankle it was as cold as the curving tubes of brass.