October (16 page)

He was not at the bar. He had moved to a table, there was noise all around him. When had that happened? Had Bob moved him?

Someone returned to the table with a beer, sat down, looked into his eyes.

Oh, God.

He remembered now, the crowds coming in, the soft hand on his shoulder. When? A half hour ago? Into the back, a table in the corner where they could talk. Did he buy the first drinks? No, he had not spent any more money. He must have mentioned a scotch sour . . .

"Is your drink all right?"

Henry said, listening intently to himself speak, making sure it was really he who said the words, "Yes, of course it is. . . ."

"My name is James."

"Of course, James."

The long fingers on the hand really were touching his own hand, the eyes really looking into his own.

Didn't he know this man? Didn't he exclaim, when they had first sat down, a play he had seen years before, on television, the year Jeffrey died?

James Weston!

"My Lord," Henry said, taking the other man's hand in his own. "Please forgive me. My old mind, it jumps. Possibly I've had too much to drink. You were wonderful—or have I already said it?—in
Midsummer Night's Dream
. The PBS production. You obviously love the words, or have I already said that?"

"Say it again," Weston said. A beautiful smile, the eyes a little hooded—but of course, he was an actor. . . .

"Why are you here?" Had he asked that, too? And why was James Weston dressed in such a peculiar way? Long, stiff black trousers, suspenders, a white, stiff-looking shirt, sleeves rolled up

"To rest," Weston said. The soft smile. Yes, he had already asked that question. Such patience, in such a beautiful man.

"May I . . . ?" Henry said, caressing James Weston's hand, moving his own fingers, an electric touch, over those cold fingers that needed warming. Perhaps he had asked this, also. . . .

"Would you like to go now?" James Weston said.

"Of course!"

Too quickly, he tried to rise. The afternoon a blur of noise around them, the remains of his drink on the table, James's hand rising from the table with his own in it, as if he had been asked to dance, their hands holding, guiding Henry across the floor, a blur, the blurry face of Bob, the bartender, off behind his bar, sour looking, busy, the noise pushing aside for them, excuse us, please. Out into the air.

Cold. James gently removed Henry's hand from his own, took him diplomatically by the arm. "Come, my friend." Gently, Henry tugged at his raincoat lapels to raise them around his neck.

They walked. Away from the Swan, away from the university. Henry
Beardman's
nearby rooms left behind, the clutter, the small, empty spaces.

"Where—?" Henry asked.

"I have a place," James answered, the faint hand of the actor on his arm, the guiding light,
What light in yonder window breaks—

They crossed the main road. A modest steel bridge led out into the farms on their right. The land rose slightly ahead, up into the hills out of New Polk, the province of apple orchards and roadside stands.

A path. Beside a farm stand, cars angled on gravel, the smell of apples in baskets, fresh-faced people with gourds in hand baskets. To the left, off the highway, a huge pumpkin patch ranked to the foot of the hill. Customers picked among the vines, a pile of dusty fat pumpkins, mountain shaped, between farm stand and patch, small, picked rows of pumpkins beside it, toddlers squatting to lift small ones, trotting back to mother . . .

"This way," James said.

The path, thin, dusty, rock strewn, beyond the stand and field, up the soft slope of the hill. The sky overhead like a blue canvas. He used to love these days when he was younger, the dying days of the year, before sex was an issue, his childhood. His father's strong hands lifting him, his mother's close embrace under a sky like this, this end-of-year, cold harvest

"Nearly there," James said. Henry stumbled, looking at the suddenly blurry ground. James helped him up, held his arm in a firmer embrace. The sky again, he looked up, but now it was today and he turned to see James' face.

"I could easily love you, dear boy," he said.

James smiled.

They topped the hill, a spreading plateau to the left blocked with apple trees. They descended, a farmhouse visible below.

"This is where I'm staying," James said. A nice place, tidy, recently tilled garden, clean porch, the homey creak of an opening door. Henry went in, stumbled over the sill, put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. The interior partly visible in the blur: country furniture, a stone-framed fireplace, hearth rugs over a wide-planked, clean oak floor.

"Where is the bedroom, James?" He tried to sound tender, but the words, to his regret, were slurred.

A firm hand took his arm. A guide. Kitchen ahead, small, white tiled. An abrupt left. A short hallway, pine paneling on the walls. Three doors. Bathroom on the right. A larger room straight ahead, door open, to the left another room. He stopped here. A pine bed, unmade, sheets tousled. Once a boy's room, a short line of trophies on a small desk next to the bed.

In Henry, a wellspring of tenderness rose.

"Dear boy," he said. He turned to disengage himself from the firm arm, to reach and touch the smooth cheek of the actor. But the firm arm would not let him turn. It tightened on his arm, propelled him forward.

"Ah," he said. The world became blurry again.

He felt the bed under him, a cold hand turning him over, pulling roughly at his raincoat.

"You needn't be so impatient," Henry said. "You shall have what you want."

The blurriness steadied. James Weston was astride him, face bent back away, reaching for something on the desk. Henry raised his head slightly. He saw James lift a large trophy, a football player in gold plate, arm cocked to pass.

"Dear boy," Henry said, the blurriness returning, letting his head fall back.

Something hit his face. There came a moment of disconnection. The alcohol tried to tell him that this was merely prelude, not real pain.

A second blow came, pushing the alcohol aside. As he tried to focus his eyes, a third blow closed them.

He cried out, hearing himself, and then the world closed its curtain around him, and darkness came.

Davey was awakened by the dog. He turned on his back, threw his hand out, felt it hit something. An apple. When he opened his eyes, the dog was standing over him.

"Jeez, let me sleep," he said, closing his eyes again, turning back on his side.

The dog huffed once, pushed at his back with its nose. "All right, I'll get up." He dropped onto his back again, did a sit-up to raise himself, yawned.

"What time is it?"

The sun was well up through the trees. Late morning, maybe early afternoon. The day was chilly. Davey shivered inside his jacket, drew the wide zipper up under his chin.

"What's to eat?" he asked.

The dog huffed, sat down beside him.

Davey drew a bunch of apples close by, examined them, picked three that weren't worm-eaten, and ate them. "What do we do for water?"

The dog huffed again, looked up at him expectantly.

He stood, brushed himself off, walked to the edge of the tree line. He looked down into the flatland below. Ben Meyer's farmhouse appeared quiet, deserted.

The dog growled behind him, continued to growl until Davey moved back into the trees.

"Fine," he said, "I know another place where we can get water."

They backed through the orchard, exiting the far side. Davey climbed the rock wall, watched the dog jump, easily clear it.

"Not bad."

They circled widely away from the Meyer orchards, cutting back toward the road. As Davey remembered, there was a path they hooked up with that brought them down near Packer's Farm Stand, off Route 33. It looked as if Packer's had just opened; a few cars were parked in the gray gravel lot in front; what shelving he could see under the awning was being lined with quart baskets of apples and trays of vegetables.

"Be quiet," he said to the dog, angling toward the flat back of the building, through a picked-clean pumpkin patch. There, next to a rack of shovels and rakes, was a water spout used to clean vegetables.

In his peripheral vision to the right and behind them, someone was coming down the path from Meyer's orchard.

"Down, boy," he said. The two of them crouched flat into a rut, hidden by dry, twisted pumpkin vines.

The tall man Davey had seen the night before at Meyer's farm made his way stiffly and purposefully toward Route 33, away from the farm stand toward town.

Davey felt the dog tense beside him. He dug his splayed fingers into the dog's deep coat behind his ears.

"Easy," he whispered.

The dog began to growl, let it die out, until the tall figure had passed out of sight.

"Hell with the farm stand," Davey said. "Ben Meyer will give us water and food."

They took the path's direct route, until they soon stood on the hill, the farmhouse visible below.

Davey began to descend the hill.

The dog stayed where it was, huffing, whining in the back of its throat.

Davey said, "You saw him go into town. Come on."

The dog pawed at the ground, growled, refused to move.

"Stay then," Davey said. He continued down the slope.

When he got to the bottom, he looked back. The dog was trailing reluctantly behind.

Davey examined the quiet front of the house. "Mr. Meyer!" he called out.

He mounted the porch, banged loudly on the screen door.

"Mr. Meyer! Mrs. Meyer!"

He was met with silence.

He turned to the dog, who had stopped warily behind him. "What do you think? Should we check it out?" The dog whined unhappily.

"We'll check it out."

Davey opened the screen door and went in.

He noticed the clean floor just inside the door, where he had seen the tall man working last night. The dog sniffed around it, made a mournful sound.

Davey walked back to the kitchen. Dishes were soaking in the sink; the cleanser bubbles had gone flat, leaving a grayish soapy film on top of the water. A wash towel was crumpled on the washboard next to the drying rack.

“Someone left what they were doing,” Davey said.

He opened the cabinets over the kitchen
counter.They
were filled with plates and glasses, pots and pans. Underneath the counter was a double door. He opened it, uncovering a storehouse of food—cereals, canned peaches, cans of pork and beans. There was a bag of dog food.

“I feel bad about doing this,” he said.
 
“But I bet Ben Meyer would help us if he were here.”

Under the sink was another double door, shelves with cleansers, scrub brushes, a brown grocery bag stuffed with other folded grocery bags. He drew a bag out and packed it with supplies from the other cabinet. He took from the back, moving cans and boxes forward, leaving a false line of food rowed along the front. With luck, no one would know he had been here.

He searched through the pull-out drawers above the double doors, finally locating a can opener. He searched farther back until he found another one, much older but unlikely to be missed. He threw it in the bag with the food.

"Let's go."

As they passed the door to the cellar, Davey remembered Ben Meyer's gun collection. The old man had showed it to him and Buddy once, crowing over a historical rifle.

"Hold on, boy."

Davey descended the stairs.

It was dark and musty in the basement. There was a pull chain at the bottom of the steps. Davey snapped the light on, revealing the room as he remembered it—damp, stone walled, square, an oil burner in one corner, bucket under its drip spout. There were stacks of yellowing newspapers under one mossy window, an unplugged freezer, red enameled, in the center of the floor, its top piled with boxes and a string-tied stack of
Life
magazines, John Kennedy's face on the top issue.

Against the wall directly opposite him, under its own pull-chained light, was the well-maintained gun case, head height, glass doors. It showed off four rifles inside, as well as a single handgun, trigger guard hung on a peg.

Davey circled the freezer, pulled the chain in front of the gun case. The bulb didn't light. He reached up, nearly on tiptoe, and flicked it with his finger. It blinked, then went out again. He turned it in its socket.
 
It went on and stayed on.

There was no lock on the case. Davey snapped the door open, angled it back on its hinges. The glass rattled in its frame.

As he studied the rifles, it occurred to him that Ben Meyer would certainly report the theft of a missing rifle.

He closed the gun case, switched off the light. "Can't do it."

The dog looked up at him, sniffed at the air, huffed.