knees. I looked up and saw the shadows standing under the trees. I looked down and saw white bone gleaming through my skin.
Then I pushed the corner again, just enough to see that the wood block was hollow.
And I heard myself screaming as I leaned over, and looked in.
I don’t care for the dark, but I think now it protects me.
Just as I think that whatever lives in the orchard has turned everything around, and somehow filled me the day I ran through it so I couldn’t take any more—Mike’s worries about Amy, Stick’s rotten home, even Rich’s silent gloating over the prize he thought he’d won.
And my own troubles, most of them minor though I wouldn’t believe it.
Whatever it is, it filled me with emptiness, and I cast emptiness back.
They’ll never find the car that killed Richard, or learn why Mike lost control and Stick Bed a razor.
I pretended to care, and they knew I was lying and couldn’t escape the cold I gave them in return.
And Mary, my Mary with the flaming red hair, would probably run if I tried to explain and showed her the tomb and all the letters I never sent her that I keep in my drawer.
She would run, she would hate me … unless Aunt May is wrong and there are real miracles after all, and Mary, my Mary, would see how much I hurt and know how to save me from the dark in the orchard.
I can only wait to find out.
I can only lie beneath her image to stay away from the cold, out there, in the shadows, and pray that my clothes aren’t more baggy still, that I really can feel flesh still clinging to my bones … and pray even harder that the darkform in my arms that I use for a bed and pillow is only a dream slowly rotting to nightmare.
I can only wait, and be patient.
For my Mary’s asleep.
I know.
I hear her breathing.
Part Two
I See Her Sweet and Fair
R ising like a nightflower against the full of the moon, lifting slowly to a grey silhouette . . .
Brett saw the light from the living room window and almost jumped from the chair in his haste to avoid it. Ice spiderwalked his spine, his palms grew moist, and when he licked at his lips, he felt them dry and cracking.
It’s only the moon, idiot, he told himself harshly; it’s only the damned moon.
But he pulled the shade down so quickly it snapped up again, rattled around the roller, cord and grip cracking sharp against the pane. He grabbed for the woven loop, cursed when it rapped his knuckle, and finally trapped it in both hands. A deep breath. A sigh. He lowered the shade a second time and held it until he was sure it wouldn’t fly free again.
He knew he was being foolish, but it was increasingly something he couldn’t fight off. The light the moon dropped on the carpet unnerved him, and though he ordered himself to stop behaving like a child, he couldn’t help a glance into each of the corners. His eyes closed briefly; his lungs filled with a breath that he held until his hands finally stopped their trembling. Then he turned away from the window, took his chair by the hearth, and picked up the newspaper where he’d dropped it just before.
The headlines were familiar, as were the stories below them. He looked for the comics, but they didn’t amuse him; he scanned the sports section, but knew none of the teams; he tried to decipher the stock market for nearly ten minutes, giving up with a grunt when his eyes started to water.
A book was next, jammed between the cushion and the armrest. He couldn’t remember where he’d left off, so he skimmed until he discovered something unfamiliar. After three pages he put it back down—the names meant nothing, and he had no idea why they were saying those things about one another.
The television was broken.
The radio was in the kitchen.
And his son was out with Evelyn Zayer, a girl who spent more time on the telephone than any forty he had ever known. Leslie, when he wasn’t complaining about Brett’s refusal to let him have an apartment
Then I pushed the corner again, just enough to see that the wood block was hollow.
And I heard myself screaming as I leaned over, and looked in.
I don’t care for the dark, but I think now it protects me.
Just as I think that whatever lives in the orchard has turned everything around, and somehow filled me the day I ran through it so I couldn’t take any more—Mike’s worries about Amy, Stick’s rotten home, even Rich’s silent gloating over the prize he thought he’d won.
And my own troubles, most of them minor though I wouldn’t believe it.
Whatever it is, it filled me with emptiness, and I cast emptiness back.
They’ll never find the car that killed Richard, or learn why Mike lost control and Stick Bed a razor.
I pretended to care, and they knew I was lying and couldn’t escape the cold I gave them in return.
And Mary, my Mary with the flaming red hair, would probably run if I tried to explain and showed her the tomb and all the letters I never sent her that I keep in my drawer.
She would run, she would hate me … unless Aunt May is wrong and there are real miracles after all, and Mary, my Mary, would see how much I hurt and know how to save me from the dark in the orchard.
I can only wait to find out.
I can only lie beneath her image to stay away from the cold, out there, in the shadows, and pray that my clothes aren’t more baggy still, that I really can feel flesh still clinging to my bones … and pray even harder that the darkform in my arms that I use for a bed and pillow is only a dream slowly rotting to nightmare.
I can only wait, and be patient.
For my Mary’s asleep.
I know.
I hear her breathing.
Part Two
I See Her Sweet and Fair
R ising like a nightflower against the full of the moon, lifting slowly to a grey silhouette . . .
Brett saw the light from the living room window and almost jumped from the chair in his haste to avoid it. Ice spiderwalked his spine, his palms grew moist, and when he licked at his lips, he felt them dry and cracking.
It’s only the moon, idiot, he told himself harshly; it’s only the damned moon.
But he pulled the shade down so quickly it snapped up again, rattled around the roller, cord and grip cracking sharp against the pane. He grabbed for the woven loop, cursed when it rapped his knuckle, and finally trapped it in both hands. A deep breath. A sigh. He lowered the shade a second time and held it until he was sure it wouldn’t fly free again.
He knew he was being foolish, but it was increasingly something he couldn’t fight off. The light the moon dropped on the carpet unnerved him, and though he ordered himself to stop behaving like a child, he couldn’t help a glance into each of the corners. His eyes closed briefly; his lungs filled with a breath that he held until his hands finally stopped their trembling. Then he turned away from the window, took his chair by the hearth, and picked up the newspaper where he’d dropped it just before.
The headlines were familiar, as were the stories below them. He looked for the comics, but they didn’t amuse him; he scanned the sports section, but knew none of the teams; he tried to decipher the stock market for nearly ten minutes, giving up with a grunt when his eyes started to water.
A book was next, jammed between the cushion and the armrest. He couldn’t remember where he’d left off, so he skimmed until he discovered something unfamiliar. After three pages he put it back down—the names meant nothing, and he had no idea why they were saying those things about one another.
The television was broken.
The radio was in the kitchen.
And his son was out with Evelyn Zayer, a girl who spent more time on the telephone than any forty he had ever known. Leslie, when he wasn’t complaining about Brett’s refusal to let him have an apartment
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