where the daughter was now. She and her boyfriend had split up. She was somewhere out west.
He locked the kitchen door and yanked the shade. Waited. The knocking came once more and then stopped. When he peered out again through the window he saw her leaving. Oh, Christ, not into the sheep pasture!
But no, she was moving on down the road in that green print dress. She was sticking out her thumb. A beat-up car skidded to a stop, a man beckoned her in. He was sorry now for closing the door on her. She’d be better off with him, James Perlman. “Stop! Wait! Come back!” he shouted and ran toward the car.
But it started up again, churning up the roadside gravel, tires chirping. He saw the woman’s head snap back.
He picked up the phone to call the police—then hesitated. The police would ask him questions, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want them drumming up his past. Though why should they? He was getting paranoid. He was just a good Samaritan, trying to help the woman. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. But Christ, she’d left the nightgown on his porch—what was he to do with that? Burn it? He stood there, confused.
No, he should leave it for the police. Someone would want to examine it, take samples or whatever they did.
He suddenly despised the woman. Bad luck that she’d picked his place, of all places, to land on. Where had she come from anyway?
Then he remembered. The newscaster had mentioned the Willmarth farm. The woman had been camping on the Willmarth farm. He was trying to remember where it was. Not far—on Cow Hill Road, yes. A mile away as the crow flies. The woman had walked that mile, probably through the woods, to get to his road. Why had she done that? Why wouldn’t she just give herself up, let them take her back to that hospital? Unless she already had some kind of dementia. The disease did that to people, he knew, made them unreasonable, confused. Crazy, running in circles.
He’d call the Willmarth woman, that’s what he’d do. He’d heard about her taking on problems, resolving them. He had sheep, he’d tell her, he’d found his Eden. Life was suddenly precious to him, even without his wife. More so maybe without his wife, damn her. The Willmarth woman had to find the sick traveller, he’d make that clear. James had work to do in the barn, a sick lamb to look after—it was his first responsibility. He’d finish his morning’s work and then he’d make the call.
* * * *
Franny Gates was feeling more upbeat after the call to Ruth Willmarth. This was usually the case after she’d vented all her concerns and got the other person harried and sweating. It was like the Aristotelian theory she’d studied in theater school. You poured all your pity onto the tragic person and then you felt better, you felt purged, it was a catharsis. You looked at the post-theater world with fresh eyes, and even in November the trees were green. Franny had spent a summer understudying at the Stratford, Ontario, Shakespeare festival; she’d lived through Macbeth night after night, and by the end of summer, even though she never got to perform the role, she felt she had been Lady Macbeth. She knew every line, every nuance, every twist of the heart and body. And always the grass was emerald green when she left the theater. Even afterward in the dark she could see the green in her mind’s eye.
So Franny wasn’t at all surprised when the phone rang and it was the woman who had broken the agreement to breed her government Morgan stud with Franny’s prize Lippitt mare. And lo! the woman had changed her mind. “I want her,” she gurgled, “she’s a gorgeous creature, looks healthy as a newborn. The foal will be mine and I’m thrilled.”
“I should imagine so,” Franny said.
“But I want to wait a little, don’t you know. I mean till they find that missing woman, give her a clean bill of health. Because the woman was on that farm up the road from yours, right?”
“Oh, really,” Franny
He locked the kitchen door and yanked the shade. Waited. The knocking came once more and then stopped. When he peered out again through the window he saw her leaving. Oh, Christ, not into the sheep pasture!
But no, she was moving on down the road in that green print dress. She was sticking out her thumb. A beat-up car skidded to a stop, a man beckoned her in. He was sorry now for closing the door on her. She’d be better off with him, James Perlman. “Stop! Wait! Come back!” he shouted and ran toward the car.
But it started up again, churning up the roadside gravel, tires chirping. He saw the woman’s head snap back.
He picked up the phone to call the police—then hesitated. The police would ask him questions, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want them drumming up his past. Though why should they? He was getting paranoid. He was just a good Samaritan, trying to help the woman. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. But Christ, she’d left the nightgown on his porch—what was he to do with that? Burn it? He stood there, confused.
No, he should leave it for the police. Someone would want to examine it, take samples or whatever they did.
He suddenly despised the woman. Bad luck that she’d picked his place, of all places, to land on. Where had she come from anyway?
Then he remembered. The newscaster had mentioned the Willmarth farm. The woman had been camping on the Willmarth farm. He was trying to remember where it was. Not far—on Cow Hill Road, yes. A mile away as the crow flies. The woman had walked that mile, probably through the woods, to get to his road. Why had she done that? Why wouldn’t she just give herself up, let them take her back to that hospital? Unless she already had some kind of dementia. The disease did that to people, he knew, made them unreasonable, confused. Crazy, running in circles.
He’d call the Willmarth woman, that’s what he’d do. He’d heard about her taking on problems, resolving them. He had sheep, he’d tell her, he’d found his Eden. Life was suddenly precious to him, even without his wife. More so maybe without his wife, damn her. The Willmarth woman had to find the sick traveller, he’d make that clear. James had work to do in the barn, a sick lamb to look after—it was his first responsibility. He’d finish his morning’s work and then he’d make the call.
* * * *
Franny Gates was feeling more upbeat after the call to Ruth Willmarth. This was usually the case after she’d vented all her concerns and got the other person harried and sweating. It was like the Aristotelian theory she’d studied in theater school. You poured all your pity onto the tragic person and then you felt better, you felt purged, it was a catharsis. You looked at the post-theater world with fresh eyes, and even in November the trees were green. Franny had spent a summer understudying at the Stratford, Ontario, Shakespeare festival; she’d lived through Macbeth night after night, and by the end of summer, even though she never got to perform the role, she felt she had been Lady Macbeth. She knew every line, every nuance, every twist of the heart and body. And always the grass was emerald green when she left the theater. Even afterward in the dark she could see the green in her mind’s eye.
So Franny wasn’t at all surprised when the phone rang and it was the woman who had broken the agreement to breed her government Morgan stud with Franny’s prize Lippitt mare. And lo! the woman had changed her mind. “I want her,” she gurgled, “she’s a gorgeous creature, looks healthy as a newborn. The foal will be mine and I’m thrilled.”
“I should imagine so,” Franny said.
“But I want to wait a little, don’t you know. I mean till they find that missing woman, give her a clean bill of health. Because the woman was on that farm up the road from yours, right?”
“Oh, really,” Franny
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