warm with his generosity. “I’m bringing food.”
The woman opened her eyes, sat up—he could see it was an effort to do so. She looked like she might flee but couldn’t get her legs to move.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I won’t hurt you.” He put the tray on a flat rock, stood with his hands at his sides to reinforce his words. She reached for the muffin, crammed it into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten for days. Swallowed it down with the orange juice. She seemed to realize then she was wearing only a nightgown—she hugged her chest with her thin arms.
“I’ll bring you something to wear,” he said. “You can’t go around like that. Where did you come from, anyway?”
The woman looked at him with huge violet eyes that seemed to consume her face. She didn’t answer, just put a hand to her head. He saw a purple swelling on the temple, like she’d hit it on something—a little dry blood. It occurred to him that she might be running from someone. There was a place he knew in Bran-bury, the Healing House. He should take the woman there.
But not in a nightgown. “Wait,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”
Upstairs he pulled an old house dress of Maureen’s out of a back closet, a pair of hipster panties their adult daughter had left in a drawer, and ran back with them. The woman was up on her feet when he arrived—head arched back like she was challenging him. Challenging him to do what? He squinted into the sun and studied her. She lowered her eyes, stood absolutely still. He held out the clothing. When she didn’t come forward to take it, he laid it on the rock beside the empty tray.
The dress and panties lay between them, spread out on the rock. He had that sensation again in his genitals. She saw him looking at the clothing and took a step back.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll go away while you put them on.” He turned and started back toward the house. “I’ve coffee if you want any,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s hot. Then I can drive you to a safe place.” He had business at the Healing House, in fact, a client to bring over in a day or two. She’d come from a threatening husband. He hated that kind of man. Himself, he’d never strike a woman—some fool reporter put false information about “brutality” along with his photo, and he was sick, sick at heart, sick to his stomach reading it.
“They’ll take you in, it’s a kind of shelter,” he shouted back, already halfway to the house. He would definitely take her there. She’d be off his hands.
She didn’t answer and he kept on walking. Then turned when he reached the porch. He was cooling down. He felt triumphant, like he’d walked a tightrope to safety. He couldn’t see the woman at all now, assumed she was behind a tree, changing her clothes. He’d give her time to come round. He went into the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of coffee, then turned on the radio for the eight o’clock news. The White House defending war again, Dow dropping 120 points. Something about a missing Irish traveller woman, believed to be wearing a white nightgown. Wanted by a hospital in Canada—she’d left before being dismissed. A hospital, James recalled now, where another patient had been diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. “A fatal brain condition,” the newscaster said, sounding excited, “a spongiform encephalitis, a form of Mad Cow disease.” The announcer gave a number to call if anyone had information about the woman.
He slapped a hand to his chest, massaged it. He had a terrible case of heartburn, his chest on fire. He thought of his sheep. Had he touched that woman? Oh, God—he’d picked her up. But he couldn’t have her coming into the house. And Christ, here she was! Coming up the path, in his ex-wife’s house dress, carrying her nightgown.
“No, no,” he called out, “you can’t come in. I’m sorry but you can’t. I have sheep, I have a daughter—” Well, he didn’t know
The woman opened her eyes, sat up—he could see it was an effort to do so. She looked like she might flee but couldn’t get her legs to move.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I won’t hurt you.” He put the tray on a flat rock, stood with his hands at his sides to reinforce his words. She reached for the muffin, crammed it into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten for days. Swallowed it down with the orange juice. She seemed to realize then she was wearing only a nightgown—she hugged her chest with her thin arms.
“I’ll bring you something to wear,” he said. “You can’t go around like that. Where did you come from, anyway?”
The woman looked at him with huge violet eyes that seemed to consume her face. She didn’t answer, just put a hand to her head. He saw a purple swelling on the temple, like she’d hit it on something—a little dry blood. It occurred to him that she might be running from someone. There was a place he knew in Bran-bury, the Healing House. He should take the woman there.
But not in a nightgown. “Wait,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”
Upstairs he pulled an old house dress of Maureen’s out of a back closet, a pair of hipster panties their adult daughter had left in a drawer, and ran back with them. The woman was up on her feet when he arrived—head arched back like she was challenging him. Challenging him to do what? He squinted into the sun and studied her. She lowered her eyes, stood absolutely still. He held out the clothing. When she didn’t come forward to take it, he laid it on the rock beside the empty tray.
The dress and panties lay between them, spread out on the rock. He had that sensation again in his genitals. She saw him looking at the clothing and took a step back.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll go away while you put them on.” He turned and started back toward the house. “I’ve coffee if you want any,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s hot. Then I can drive you to a safe place.” He had business at the Healing House, in fact, a client to bring over in a day or two. She’d come from a threatening husband. He hated that kind of man. Himself, he’d never strike a woman—some fool reporter put false information about “brutality” along with his photo, and he was sick, sick at heart, sick to his stomach reading it.
“They’ll take you in, it’s a kind of shelter,” he shouted back, already halfway to the house. He would definitely take her there. She’d be off his hands.
She didn’t answer and he kept on walking. Then turned when he reached the porch. He was cooling down. He felt triumphant, like he’d walked a tightrope to safety. He couldn’t see the woman at all now, assumed she was behind a tree, changing her clothes. He’d give her time to come round. He went into the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of coffee, then turned on the radio for the eight o’clock news. The White House defending war again, Dow dropping 120 points. Something about a missing Irish traveller woman, believed to be wearing a white nightgown. Wanted by a hospital in Canada—she’d left before being dismissed. A hospital, James recalled now, where another patient had been diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. “A fatal brain condition,” the newscaster said, sounding excited, “a spongiform encephalitis, a form of Mad Cow disease.” The announcer gave a number to call if anyone had information about the woman.
He slapped a hand to his chest, massaged it. He had a terrible case of heartburn, his chest on fire. He thought of his sheep. Had he touched that woman? Oh, God—he’d picked her up. But he couldn’t have her coming into the house. And Christ, here she was! Coming up the path, in his ex-wife’s house dress, carrying her nightgown.
“No, no,” he called out, “you can’t come in. I’m sorry but you can’t. I have sheep, I have a daughter—” Well, he didn’t know
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