October (6 page)

"Kevin," his father had said on the edge of that great darkness. He had gripped Kevin's wrist with fingers sharp and hard as knives. "She knows, Kevin. She knows but she wouldn't tell me." The grip tightened; he strained to lift his head, his eyes widening, staring at something approaching. "Ask her!"

And then he went over, and only the breath left him, an unanswered question frozen in his unseeing eyes.

Oh, Father.

Kevin saw Theodore Michaels as a young man, the great, wise eyes that even then had begun to fill with haunting. The strong hands held out to him. "Kevin, five years old, broke into a smile, running from the doorway of his father's office where he had waited to be noticed, over the tasseled, deep blue-and-red Persian rug, into the dim, dark-wooded, book-lined recesses of that sanctuary, into his father's arms.

"Kevin!" his father shouted happily, hoisting him up into his lap, smelling of pipe tobacco and gray wool, swiveling his chair back to the desk—that great expanse of leather-edged blotter, scattered papers, a globe of the world on its oak base, the looming gray typewriter. The large hands held him tight around the middle, hugging him.

"Can I use it now?" Kevin said eagerly, reaching out to the flat, round keys of the machine.

"Yes!" his father said, rolling a fresh white sheet of paper into the platen. "Type away!"

"And can I read all your books," Kevin asked, fingers poised over the keys, looking up into those eyes, that mirror of love, "and do everything you do? Can I know what you know?"

The briefest cloud passed across his father's face, then he smiled and said, "Of course!"

"Hurray!"

Then his father lifted him so gently, rose and set him down, giving Kevin the swivel chair.

And sometime later, when Kevin had finished his wild, incoherent lines of typing, he looked up to see his father standing at the window, hands behind his back, a tiny curl of new smoke hovering over the bowl of his pipe, staring out into the darkening world . . .

Oh God . . .

Kevin wept for himself, for his father, for his mother, whom he never knew, and for Lydia, and for the girl who had made her way across the quadrangle but would still suffer cold, wrapping herself with her books to fight it off, until she reached her room. He could not stop crying. Perhaps there would be no heat, and the blankets the girl covered herself with would not stem the cold that had climbed into her body. She would sit in the corner of her room on the floor alone, shivering, begging for help from someone who wouldn't listen. Perhaps the world would grow colder around her, cutting her off even more completely. The aloneness she felt would find equality in her chill, and would freeze her. She would cry ice, the tears of the dead. They would freeze to her cheeks, which had been beautiful, and which had been kissed by her own mother, and now were hard and smooth. Such was the whole world around her, each man in his corner shivering, waiting for ice, the inevitable, unstoppable end

There was a loud click as the cassette player turned itself off.

Kevin took his hands from his face. He gulped in a deep breath of air, shivered, wiped tears from his eyes. The symphony had ended, meaning he had been standing here for perhaps a half hour

One of us knows

He shivered again, straightening his body. He wiped the remaining shimmer of tears from his eyes. He had not cried like that for a long time. He felt embarrassed, as if someone had seen him and disapproved.

Ask her . . .

He took a long breath and looked out through the window.

Yes.

I'm back, Eileen.

A leaf danced down outside the pane, mere inches away.

He looked down; it had landed on the sill. As before, the chill breath outside blew it in, threatened to topple it from its perch. Kevin reached and grabbed it. It felt wet and full. He lifted it to his eyes, turning his head slightly to use the outside light, and studied the leaf.

It was green and full and, up until a few moments ago, had been alive.

Sleeping.

He dreamed of apples. In his dream, a canopy of apple trees hung over him, a shroud of sweet, red fruit, bobbing, ripe, heavy spheres dancing to some hidden melody. Above, the sky was very black, but his orchard was suffused with light, as if the fruit itself glowed with fecundity, the trees, still green-leaved, healthy as
madonnas
.

He rose from where he lay and tried to reach one of the apples to eat, but the fruit was too far above him. He was very hungry. He wore his Lincoln costume, his tall hat and beard, and he found that when he tried to remove the beard it would not come off. The hat was stuck tight to his head.

Beneath the hat, he felt something move against his scalp, wet and uncomfortable. He struggled to remove the hat from his head. Above him, the apples danced to their own wind. He could almost hear their song: a high, thin keening like a choir of angels.

The thing beneath his hat became more insistent. He felt it curling around his scalp, trying to find entrance. He became desperate, pulling feverishly at the hat.

The apples continued to sway and dance and sing.

He screamed, and suddenly the hat came free. He threw it away from himself; shivering, and felt desperately around his head. His hair was gone; he felt only scalp.

The hat lay bottom side toward him. Something crawled from within it, a long, thin snake with legs, and as it left the hat, it broke into segments, and the segments went in groups to each tree and began to inch up them.

Desperate, he removed his heavy coat and struck at the snakelike creatures as they came from the hat. But he was unable to damage them. They continued their movement to the trees. He looked up to see creatures inch along the tree branches, out onto the farthest, thinnest limbs, and crawl down, one to each apple. The apples still swayed, and the singing continued, until the creatures began to bore their way into the fruit, with a faint rasping sound.

The apples jerked on their branches, and the angelic keening changed to a whispery scream. The apples turned black and began to fall from the trees. He screamed himself as the orchard shimmered away, and he was in a carnival in a wide cut field of corn at horrible night

James Weston gasped and sat up. Disorientation assaulted him; for a moment he saw black sky and the bole of a nearby tree and felt something wet near his skin. Then the dream returned to mist in his head and the sky cleared to early morning, a purple-red dawn coming up in the east.

Rusty panted beside him, raising his head questioningly.

Weston sat still for a few moments, arms straight back, hands flat against the ground. He let the rising dawn, a beautiful shaded line of color, bleed the dream out of him.

His breathing steadied. He felt at his face; there was, to his relief, no beard, only a day's stubble to shave off. There was no hat on his head. His hair was in place.

"Okay, Rusty," he said. "Okay."

Above, through the spreading arms of an apple tree, he saw the stars of Orion fading into morning light.

The dog nuzzled at his arm, lay down, and put his head on his paw.

A tiredness still in him, Weston lay back on the dewed grass. Quickly, he sat up. There was still a chill in him. He raised himself up on his long legs and stretched. His up-raised hand brushed the hard skin of a ripe apple and he recoiled, then relaxed. He laughed nervously.

"Bad dream, Rusty," he said, perplexed at the continuing vividness of what he had experienced in sleep. Only now did he feel his feet back firmly on the earth, his mind back in this world.

Rusty huffed, looked up, rested his head once more. Down the hillside, someone was approaching the sharp tree line of the orchard.

Weston stretched again, brushed himself off Rusty sat on his haunches next to him, and James bent to pat the dog's head.

As the stranger broke through the line of trees before him, Rusty gave a huff.

The stranger came to an abrupt halt. "What the—"

"Sorry if we startled you," Weston said. "I'm afraid we spent the night in your orchard. I hope we weren't trespassing."

The stranger came closer. Weston could make out a red plaid jacket, a weathered face under a beaten tweed cap, tan pants, heavy boots.

"Actually," the stranger said gruffly, "you
were
trespassing." He eyes Weston solemnly. "Eat any apples?”

“Yes . . ."

The stranger turned his gaze on Rusty. "That dog eat any apples?"

"Yes, he did."

The stranger cleared his throat, spit to one side. "I guess you like apples, then." He stepped closer, held a hand out. "I'm Ben Meyer. You've been eating Meyer apples, the best goddamn apples in the Hudson Valley."

Weston smiled, took Meyer's hand, shook it. "I'm James Weston, and this is Rusty."

"Glad to meet you, Rusty," Meyer said. "You, too, Weston. You hungry for something other than apples?”

“Why, yes—"

"Then help me out up here, and we'll go down and get some breakfast."

Without another word, Meyer tramped past them into the forest of trees.

Following solemnly behind, James and Rusty watched Ben Meyer stop at each block of trees, reach up, yank one apple from its stem, taste it, throw it aside. He moved deftly, stepping around occasional stones and once over a stone fence into another section of the orchard.

In twenty minutes they had covered the entire property. The sun had risen. The day would be cold and crisp. James noted that there were no clouds today coming from Vancouver; the air was clear and high.

"
Romes
need a little more time. Good day for Ida Reds," Meyer said finally, succinctly.

James and Rusty followed his brisk walk down the hillside, across a small front yard to a tidy farmhouse near a dirt road. The house had white siding and trim windows, a neat fence and tended garden. Nearby,
autumned
shade trees hung protectively over a lovers' swing. A stone walk curled up to the front porch. Next to the house stood a red barn.

"Martha! Guests!" Meyer called as they entered.

A small, tidy woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was neat as a porcelain doll, in her early seventies, aproned. A black terrier scooted past her and halted, its eyes going wide with surprise at the sight of Rusty. The terrier gave a high bark and chased Rusty back to the doorway, where the two dogs examined one another.

"Fast friends," Martha said, turning abruptly into the kitchen.

Ben led James into the kitchen. Meyer pulled off his plaid jacket, folded it over the back of a chair. He sat at the long kitchen table, pointed James to another setting his wife was making. Only when they were both seated with coffee before them did he turn his gaze to Weston again.

"So, you had yourself a sleep in my orchard last night. Mind if I guess the rest?"

James tasted the coffee, which was good, then smiled mildly. "Sure."

"Let's see." Meyer scratched at his chin, which had not been shaved. "You didn't come from New York City. That's for sure. Would have chased you straight off if you had. Don't like that place. But maybe you live in a big city."

Weston smiled. "So far, so good."

"I can't quite figure your accent. Mix of things. Good portion of upstate New York. California, maybe. I figure you live out there, now. Some other places, also. Maybe you traveled the country, picked some things up as you went."

Weston nodded, enjoying his coffee.

"And one other place, sort of like Canada, but not quite."

"Vancouver."

"Ah. Okay. Now your clothes, I can't figure. You didn't steal 'em, your frame's too tall and I didn't peg you for a thief. Except for apples, which is food to feed a belly. The clothes mystify me. That how they dress in Vancouver?”

“Not exactly—"

"Don't tell me, let me guess." He rubbed his chin, turned to his wife, who was opening eggs into a large skillet. "Martha, care to have a try?"

Martha turned around, leveled her gaze on James like a shotgun, and said, "He's an actor, Ben."

"Actor!" Meyer made a dismissive sound. "I never heard such foolishness—"

"She's right," Weston said.

"What!" Meyer turned with astonishment to his wife, who paused from scrambling the eggs in the skillet to give him a mild look. "It's no mystery, Ben. I saw him on TV."

"Well, I'll be damned," Ben said. Then suddenly Weston and Martha were laughing, and Ben joined in, too.

Their conversation halted while Martha served the eggs, with big slabs of Canadian bacon, slices of toast. She took off her apron and sat at her own place.

"You have to tell me how you guessed so much about me," James said.

"Tell him how, Ben," she said.

Ben waved his hand. "It's nothing. I traveled a lot, when I was younger. Army man for a while, then I sold things. Aircraft parts, oil-rig machinery, hydroelectric power plant fittings. When you spend a lot of time on the road, you listen to people. You observe. That's all there is to it." He turned to Martha. "And I observe this young man, who likes the way you cook, could use some more coffee."