All the Voices Cry by Alice Petersen Page B

moved his hand as if to wave the thought away, and the glass flew onto the floor, where it shattered, discharging its cargo of blueberries across the tiles.
    â€œOh dear,” he said.
    He thought about returning to the dock to confess to Myrna/Myra that he had broken one of her champagne flutes. But that would necessitate apologies and muddled groping on the floor with paper towels and the creation of shared memory—
    â€œDo you remember the first time that I met you, you broke one of my grandmother’s—”
    â€œAnd you thought you would never forgive me—”
    â€œBut I did. And then one day you brought round to the house, a complete—”
    Bathos in blueberries. Colin did not want shared memories with Myrna/Myra.
    He ignored the broken glass on the floor and leaned back, staring upwards to where bright spots jiggled and swayed in the angles of the ceiling. Sam was down there stirring up
the bay, and the jittery light on the ceiling was caused by the movement of her body in the water, but Sam was unaware of his regard; neither subject could see the other, and yet between them they had created this flickering object. Could the thing itself be some kind of charged space between two blind subjects? One of the greats must have already phrased the thought memorably, elegantly, in a couplet. He sent a shadowy messenger off into the archives to look for the reference.
    Colin sighed. Adrift on his raft made of copper-bottomed pots and Beethoven string quartets, he became aware that he would much rather be in his office than here, risking it all in the forest, for the sake of Sam and a flicker of hope.
    Fool. A monosyllable, Shakespearean, holding at once the carnal capital F, the L of a love that dithered about like light on the ceiling, and in between the puckered mouths of the supplicants. He would not be a fool.
    Coward. A word of two syllables with which he could be satisfied. Associate Professor Colin Pilchard, Coward. He patted his waistcoat pocket for his keys, picked up the pigskin bag from beside the screen door, slipped outside and crept up the path towards the car, giving thanks for the uncaring silky whisper of the pine needles beneath his feet.

Vandals in Sandals
    M AX WAS STILL ANNOYED with Bea for having clipped the wing mirror on the way out of the garage. The mirror hung limply, broken at the bone. Bea felt bad about it, since the van was new. She looked out at the poplar leaves spinning on their stems. She knew without hearing them that the lush sound of well-waxed summer leaves had been replaced with a clattering like rice wafers. Fall was coming and after that, nothing but snow.
    â€œCan’t we open the windows?” Bea asked, “I’d like to hear the leaves.”
    â€œAir conditioning. Better to keep them shut,” said Max.
    From the back seat Cammy’s little brown hand appeared with an apple core.
    â€œYou can throw it out the window here, sweetie,” Bea said. “It’s the country.”
    â€œDon’t encourage her to litter, Bea. It’s all someone’s frontage,” said Max.
    Bea looked at the maple seedlings and the crooked fence and the darkness of the firs behind.
    â€œOkay.” Bea took Cammy’s applecore. “I’ll save it for the compost. Where’s the trash container?”

    â€œHere.” Max pressed a button and a compartment slid open. “Don’t forget to get it out later,” he said.
    â€œAre we there yet?” asked Cammy.
    â€œThe agent said it was around here somewhere.” Bea looked at the map again. “So we’ve passed Lac Perdu, right?”
    â€œThought you were doing the map.” Max was unsmiling.
    Oh give it up, she thought. Get a grip. It’s only the wing mirror. She looked out the window again. The road curved past a stand of beeches. The layered quality of their branches seemed familiar, like hands outspread, pleading for calm.
    â€œSlow