crunchy gravel, and switched off the headlights. She got out and walked toward him—cautiously, her eyes adjusting to the semidarkness.
“What are you doing?” Her question sounded soft, friendly.
“Couldn’t sleep. Mind racing. Thought I’d take a walk around the pond.”
“Feels like rain.” A rumble in the sky punctuated her observation.
He nodded.
She stood next to him on the path and inhaled deeply.
“Wonderful smell. Come on, let’s walk,” she said, taking his arm.
As they reached the pond, the path broadened into a mowed swath. Somewhere in the woods, an owl screeched—or, more precisely, there was a familiar screech they thought might be an owl when they first heard it that summer, and each time after that they became more certain it was an owl. It was in the nature of Gurney’s intellect to realize that this process of increasing conviction made no logical sense, but he also knew that pointing it out, interesting though this trick of the mind might be to him, would bore and annoy her. So he said nothing, happy that he knew her well enough to know when to be quiet, and they ambled on to the far side of the pond in amiable silence. She was right about the smell—a wonderful sweetness in the air.
They had moments like this from time to time, moments of easy affection and quiet closeness, that reminded him of the early years of their marriage, the years before the accident. “The Accident”—that dense, generic label with which he wrapped the event in his memory to keep its razor-wire details from slicing his heart. The accident—the death—that eclipsed the sun, turning their marriage into a shifting mixture of habit, duty, edgy companionship, and rare moments of hope—rare moments when something bright and clear as a diamond would shoot back and forth between them, reminding him of what once was and might again be possible.
“You always seem to be wrestling with something,” she said, curling her fingers around the inside of his arm, just above his elbow.
Right again.
“How was the concert?” he finally asked.
“First half was baroque, lovely. Second half was twentieth century, not so lovely.”
He was about to chime in with his own low opinion of modern music but thought better of it.
“What kept you awake?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure.”
He sensed her skepticism. She let go of his arm. Something splashed into the pond a few yards ahead of them.
“I couldn’t get the Mellery business out of my mind,” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“Bits and pieces of it kept running around in my head—not getting anywhere—just making me uncomfortable—too tired to think straight.”
Again she offered nothing but a thoughtful silence.
“I kept thinking about that name on the note.”
“X. Arybdis?”
“How did you …? You heard us mention it?”
“I have good hearing.”
“I know, but it always surprises me.”
“It might not really be X. Arybdis, you know,” she said in that offhand way that he knew was anything but offhand.
“What?” he said, stopping.
“It might not be X. Arybdis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was suffering through one of the atonal atrocities in the second half of the concert, thinking that some modern composers must really hate the cello. Why would you force a beautiful instrument to make such painful noises? Horrible scraping and whining.”
“And …?” he said gently, trying to keep his curiosity from sounding edgy.
“And I’d have left at that point, but I couldn’t because I’d given Ellie a ride there.”
“Ellie?”
“Ellie from the bottom of the hill—rather than take two cars? But she seemed to be enjoying it, God knows why.”
“Yes?”
“So I asked myself, what can I do to pass the time and keep from killing the musicians?”
There was another splash in the pond, and she stopped to listen. He half saw, half sensed her smile. Madeleine was fond of frogs.
“And?”
“And I thought to myself I
“What are you doing?” Her question sounded soft, friendly.
“Couldn’t sleep. Mind racing. Thought I’d take a walk around the pond.”
“Feels like rain.” A rumble in the sky punctuated her observation.
He nodded.
She stood next to him on the path and inhaled deeply.
“Wonderful smell. Come on, let’s walk,” she said, taking his arm.
As they reached the pond, the path broadened into a mowed swath. Somewhere in the woods, an owl screeched—or, more precisely, there was a familiar screech they thought might be an owl when they first heard it that summer, and each time after that they became more certain it was an owl. It was in the nature of Gurney’s intellect to realize that this process of increasing conviction made no logical sense, but he also knew that pointing it out, interesting though this trick of the mind might be to him, would bore and annoy her. So he said nothing, happy that he knew her well enough to know when to be quiet, and they ambled on to the far side of the pond in amiable silence. She was right about the smell—a wonderful sweetness in the air.
They had moments like this from time to time, moments of easy affection and quiet closeness, that reminded him of the early years of their marriage, the years before the accident. “The Accident”—that dense, generic label with which he wrapped the event in his memory to keep its razor-wire details from slicing his heart. The accident—the death—that eclipsed the sun, turning their marriage into a shifting mixture of habit, duty, edgy companionship, and rare moments of hope—rare moments when something bright and clear as a diamond would shoot back and forth between them, reminding him of what once was and might again be possible.
“You always seem to be wrestling with something,” she said, curling her fingers around the inside of his arm, just above his elbow.
Right again.
“How was the concert?” he finally asked.
“First half was baroque, lovely. Second half was twentieth century, not so lovely.”
He was about to chime in with his own low opinion of modern music but thought better of it.
“What kept you awake?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure.”
He sensed her skepticism. She let go of his arm. Something splashed into the pond a few yards ahead of them.
“I couldn’t get the Mellery business out of my mind,” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“Bits and pieces of it kept running around in my head—not getting anywhere—just making me uncomfortable—too tired to think straight.”
Again she offered nothing but a thoughtful silence.
“I kept thinking about that name on the note.”
“X. Arybdis?”
“How did you …? You heard us mention it?”
“I have good hearing.”
“I know, but it always surprises me.”
“It might not really be X. Arybdis, you know,” she said in that offhand way that he knew was anything but offhand.
“What?” he said, stopping.
“It might not be X. Arybdis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was suffering through one of the atonal atrocities in the second half of the concert, thinking that some modern composers must really hate the cello. Why would you force a beautiful instrument to make such painful noises? Horrible scraping and whining.”
“And …?” he said gently, trying to keep his curiosity from sounding edgy.
“And I’d have left at that point, but I couldn’t because I’d given Ellie a ride there.”
“Ellie?”
“Ellie from the bottom of the hill—rather than take two cars? But she seemed to be enjoying it, God knows why.”
“Yes?”
“So I asked myself, what can I do to pass the time and keep from killing the musicians?”
There was another splash in the pond, and she stopped to listen. He half saw, half sensed her smile. Madeleine was fond of frogs.
“And?”
“And I thought to myself I
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