John Gardner - October Light

~ ~ ~

Sally Abbott set the page number in her mind, closed the book and laid it on the blanket beside her. She’d reached a chapter end; she needed to relax her eyes.

The room was bright and cheerful with early afternoon, yellow glints in the faded wallpaper, the leaves outside her window colorful and gently fluttering, stirred by a faint breeze; yet for all the light and warmth, she discovered she was being drawn down, for no reason she could pinpoint, by an undertow of anxiety. She closed her eyes for a minute — the brightness still came through — and for a time, perhaps half an hour, she rested. If she dreamed, she was not aware of it.

When her mind rose toward thought again, she found herself brooding, eyes still closed, on Peter Wagner’s marijuana dream. She could have no idea, of course, whether or not the description was true to life, never having smoked or even seen marijuana, so far as she knew. She had never even been drunk, in fact, though sometimes she and Horace had had a drink or two, Canadian Club, or sherry with Estelle and Ferris Parks. She felt the draw of anxiety building in her, an emotion that seemed to be groundless, yet increasing rapidly; and then, abruptly, as if the emotion had summoned the image instead of the reverse, she saw the open door the night of Horace’s death. She saw, in sharper detail than in any photograph, the red and yellow leaves, the crooked sidewalk, the streetlamp, the lighted jack-o’-lanterns on the porch across the street, and in memory she heard again the stuck needle on the gramophone, a phrase like an ironic question. The whole scene was caught in her brain as if snatched out of time. She knew that in a moment she would turn and see Horace in his chair, his mouth forming an O as if of slight surprise, and she would cry out and run to him. But she didn’t turn yet, perhaps knowing already that Horace would be there, unless the prescience had crept into the memory later, after she knew. Every line in the room was as sharp as a razor cut — books, glass-topped table, hat-rack by the door — and for an instant it seemed there was a smell, exaggerated by memory but elusive as ever. Someone had been there, someone from her past, perhaps her childhood. All this she had told the police, later, going over it and over it in meticulous detail. “What did it smell like?” “I don’t know. The woods,” she said. “Decaying leaves. Like a zoo.” In the end they had concluded, and she had agreed, that he’d died of natural causes. She believed it still. But she was filled, again now, with anxiety, and she suddenly believed she knew what, all along, she’d been afraid of.

She had at one time understood her brother as fully as she understood herself — though she didn’t always, perhaps, understand him now. When they were children she’d been more like a mother to him than like an older sister, at least most of the time. It was because she could control him when no one else could that Ariah had called her, the night he burned the house. Ariah had been sick at the time; in fact — though Sally had not known sarcoma could be so swift — Ariah had been dying. That had been partly what had made James snap, that and his son’s death a year before, and the whiskey. Ariah had said on the phone, feebly, too drugged even to be clear-minded about her fear, “If you could just come up and … talk to him … Sally—”

“Where is he?” she’d said.

“He’s at the house.” A pause, then: “Richard’s.” Another pause, her voice growing weaker: “Burning it.”

She’d said that earlier, but only now did Sally understand that it was true. “I’ll send the police,” she’d said.

“No!” Ariah begged. Sally waited, and across the ten miles of telephone wire she could feel Ariah fumbling, struggling to clear her wits, unclog her tongue. At last she said hoarsely, “Don’t send … police.” There was a silence for a moment, or silence except for the roar of the line, and then there was another sound, which it took her a moment to identify: Ariah’s crying.

“Is Ginny with you?” Sally asked in alarm.

Ariah tried to answer and at last brought out, “Yes.”

“Are you all right, Ariah?” And then: “Has he hurt you?”

The answer was unintelligible, and she broke in, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay where you are, and keep Ginny with you. Do you hear me?”

She could catch no answer, only Ariah’s crying — hopeless, not quite human — and the roar of the line. She hung up. She threw her coat and hat on, pulled on her overshoes, grabbed her purse, drawing the keys out as she walked, and hurried to the car. It was dark, lightly snowing, and there was ice on the roads. She drove as fast as she could, wondering all the way whether she should have called the police, whispering to herself, listening with intense concentration, for some reason, to the grind of the motor and the almost inaudible swish of windshield wipers. Halfway up the mountain she saw the glow of the burning house. Her heart chilled. She had believed Ariah, but it was as if she hadn’t understood her. She drove more slowly, accelerator-foot shaking, and she was deathly afraid that by some accidental jerk of her arm she’d swerve the old Buick out over the drop-off.

When she came abreast of the burning house she saw there were cars there, parked beside the road, watching. One of them belonged to Sam Frost, from a little down the mountain. She slowed as if to stop, looking over at the house and the lighted trees, and by one of the trees she saw her brother, standing with his hands over his face. The sight so shocked her — the look he had of brute sorrow and confusion — that she pressed down hard on the accelerator, swinging and skidding, then driving on. Half a mile higher, when she came to the family house, she pulled in, turned the motor off, and sat for two minutes breathing deeply. She had a pain in her chest, like fire.

Inside, Ariah was in the downstairs bed, Ginny tucked beside her. Ariah was wasted to a skeleton, her arms like sticks, eyes enormous.

“Ginny, you go sleep upstairs,” Sally said, taking off her coat. The child opened her mouth to protest, but Sally snapped, “Go!” and drew the covers back. Ginny slipped out and went quickly toward the door. “And brush your teeth!” Sally said. She took her hat off, then pressed her palm to Ariah’s forehead; it was warm but not hot. “Ariah, we’ve got to change these sheets,” she said. She drew them away, gently, and prepared to lift Ariah to the chair.

“Thank you,” Ariah said, and could bring out nothing more. Tears washed down her cheeks.

“Never mind, now,” Sally said, “everything’s all right. In a jiffy we’ll have you in nice clean sheets, and maybe a nice bath and your hair brushed—” She talked cheerfully, loudly, her heart slamming. She’d had no idea. Dr. Phelps ought to have told her. Then she wondered the next moment if he knew himself. When had he last been here? There were pill bottles on the tallboy, at least a dozen of them, and on the typed labels stood Dr. Phelps’ name. She took sheets from the drawer — clean-smelling, not ironed — carried them to the foot of the bed and began putting them on. No doubt James wouldn’t call him, as long as he had pills. Two weeks might pass, she might shrivel up to nothing, and James would imagine he was doing all he could; he’d always been a fatalist, drunk or sober, and he’d been doctoring sick animals all his life. Never mind. She was here now. Meanwhile, as she put on new pillowslips and blankets, heated water for a bath, and laid a clean nightie out, Sally chattered, talking of how wonderfully Ariah was holding up, how obedient Ginny was becoming these days — talking of every light and trivial thing that came flitting into her head. Ariah — whispering “Thank you, thank you,” understanding none of it — wept.