Laughing Man by T.M. Wright

and a body that was the promise of pleasure. "Do you know me?" she said.
    "No," he said, grinning obscenely. "Not the way I'd like to."
    "And you are?"
    "Roger," he said.
    "Well, then, Roger," she said, and moved past him, into his room, "I have something for you."
    He watched her move, loved the way she moved, thought she would look good to his lens, and to his weapon, and then to his bawdy instrument.
    She was turned away from him. She was perfectly configured, he thought. Perfectly wrought and conceived. He said, "Oh, what?"
    And she turned as quickly as a snake and plunged her hand deep into his gut, into his colon, and snarled, "Oblivion!"

Chapter Twelve
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    Thirty-seven Years Earlier
    Early August in the Adirondack Mountains
    Near the house on Four Mile Creek
    T his is good here, the woman thought in so many words. She was inclined to such thoughts. She was a poet, and her work had been published in several university journals and small literary reviews. She had even had a nibble of interest from a New York City book publisher, though she had been giving the whole idea of book publication more than a few second thoughts because she wasn't sure that she was quite ready. She did not believe that her work was yet mannered enough. It tended, as well, toward the darkly romantic, and it was filled with unfortunate angst, worry, and despair. She needed to cultivate a lighter attitude, although poetry, she maintained, should not be about love; it should be about hope, which was so much more than love. It was more than sex, too, of course, which was, itself, so much less than love or hope.
    She smiled as these thoughts came to her on this warm and sunlit afternoon. She smiled because she could not remember having had such fanciful thoughts before—perhaps she could work them into a poem before long. She smiled, too, because the birds were gaily chattering at her, and because the squirrels were gamboling playfully among the oaks and tulip trees, and because the honeybees were busily foraging among the wildflowers.
    It was surely a poet's day!
    She was happy there was no one else about. Happy that Thomas had found this secluded place for them to raise their three young daughters. As a family, they could choose when to engage in social relationships, and they could choose when to employ solitude, which was what she had chosen for herself today. She thought that she would like to lie down in the tall, pale green grass. It was something she had never done before, though she had seen it depicted in paintings. She had always been a little leery of doing it herself because meadows such as this were alive with insects and spiders. But she thought that should be of no consequence to her. Insects and spiders were, after all, a part of the natural and benevolent world to which Thomas had brought her and the children. He might not be a kind and benevolent man himself, but Thomas Erthmun was thoughtful enough to put his wife and daughters in a kind and benevolent place.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in a line of trees not far off, as if someone were running. She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. She sighed. Who could be here? It was miles to another house, and besides, their land was posted. Perhaps she had seen a deer, or a fox. Yes, of course. There was no doubt of it. She had seen a deer or a fox. It made her glad, and she smiled again.
    But she did not lie down in the weeds right away. She kept her eyes on the line of trees where she had seen movement until, at last, a chipmunk appeared on the side of a great oak and she sighed again and thought, Well, that is what I saw. A chipmunk. And she lay down in the tall weeds, adjusted herself so her head was comfortably on a clump of earth, spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the warm sunlight play on her face. This was wonderful , she thought. This was heaven . Alone with the works of nature. Alone with what God had wrought. Somewhere in this